Page 18 of Sinbound to the Highlander
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Her mother’s slap to her hand stopped Freya from plucking at her dress. It was the only proper dress she owned, a deep-green dress with a simple square neck, and a sash around her waist. It was one she wore at church at Michaelmas,Yuletide, and Easter, and now she was going to meet a Laird and his wife in it.
Freya was not the only one dressed in her best. Her mother had the precious silk dress that she had married in, and her father had on his family great plaid tied at his shoulder. They were all waiting for Laird Ruthven to come along and carry them to the Lobhdain Castle.
She still had grave reservations about being the sister of this Lady. Even if she had come from wealth, Balthair and Caitlin Crushom were the only ones she would call her parents. They were the ones who nursed her, raised her, and placed God-fearing morals inside her heart. If these people were her birth parents, she hoped they could have a loving relationship, but Freya felt that was going to be a loss if they wanted to groom her into a city lady.
What she knew was sorting out the wheat from the chaff, finding healing plants in wild bushes, and dreaming beside the water’s edge. It was a simple life, one she loved.
And thank ye Maither and Faither for loving me.
All her years in the church, Freya had found an appreciation for knowing more things, and wanted to learn the language the preachers used in church. She knew churchmen knew Latin by the rites they would read out. She would like to learn some, adding to her essential skill of reading, writing, some basic arithmetic, and knowing the healing arts.
Her eyes drifted to the sky to where the clouds were still slowly chasing each other across the sky. What was it like to live in a castle with servants and sleep in a bed that one wouldn’t have to roll into a ball or had to put into the sun if rain and cold made it musty? Did they eat fancy foods from all over England and France? How did they dress?
“Freya?”
“Hm?” she asked, slightly unhappy that she had been pulled away from her wonderings.
“Laird Ruthven is comin’ with a carriage,” her mother said, with a crinkle of worry set in her brows. “Are ye all worried?”
Seeing the carriage coming near, she muttered, “Somewhat. What if he’s wrong, Maither? What if we are goin’ to be humiliated?”
Her father rested his hand on her shoulder, and she turned to him. “Freya, I ken ye are worried, but the Laird is a smart man. He took control of our land at a very young age and made it into a very prosperous one. I do have me own reservations about this, but I hardly ken he’d risk his competence in front of the family he is about to marry into.”
Slightly mollified, Freya took in a deep breath and held it in until the Laird came around the carriage. Seated on that massive horse of his, she got a glimpse of the old warrior kings her father had told her about—Robert the Bruce, Macbeth, and Malcolm the First. In his great kilt of red and green, pinned at his shoulder by a gold pin, emphasizing his broad shoulders and chest, he had an air of royalty.
He alighted from his horse smoothly and dropped to the ground with his heavy boots making a hard thud on the ground. He came and bowed.
“Good mornin’, Mister, Missus, and Miss Crushom. I hope ye all had a pleasant night,” Evan said to them, but Freya saw his eyes flicker to her more than her parents.
“Aye,” her father bowed in return. “Aside from jitters, we did have a good night. I hope ye did as well.” He then gestured to the carriage. “We should be on our way, I suppose.”
“Aye,” the Laird said. “I sent a message to the Laird this mornin’ to expect company and me today.” He held out a hand to Freya, “May I assist ye, Miss Crushom?”
Self-conscious, Freya looked at her mother for help as chivalry was not something she had ever experienced before. Her mother nodded quickly, and she reached out. “Thank ye, Me Laird.”
Gingerly, she walked with him to the carriage, and he helped her in. While spinning to thank him again, she saw her mother whispering into her father’s ear, and he, looking at the Laird’s back, nodded.
What are they whisperin’ about?
Soon, her father helped her mother into the carriage before taking his seat and closing the door. Having never ridden in such a vehicle before, Freya felt her nerves cramp her stomach. Her mother, seated beside her, leaned in, and took her hand.
“I ken ye’ve never been in a carriage before, but there is nothin’ to be afraid off, it is safe, Darlin’,” her mother said.
“Have ye ever been in one before?” Freya asked.
“A few times,” her mother noted as the carriage moved off. “I passed the time by lookin’ out the window. Ye’ve never been past this village, and I want ye to look out and see the scenery we pass by. I—we—dinnae ken when again ye might be travelin’, so try to memorize the lovely scenes.”
“Aye, Maither,” she replied.
What if she did come from wealth? Would her parents want her to live with them? To have a life that many dreamed of but one she was sure she would never fit into. A good portion of her heart wanted this to be a lie, for the Laird to be mistaken and that the Laird and his Lady would let them go with little humiliation.
To distract herself, Freya kept her eyes to the window. After they had passed the crossroad, the farthest point from the village that she had ever been to, Freya looked and soaked it all in. They were on a wide road that had extensive lands at each side, but the hills she saw beyond the vast grounds were ones she had never seen before.
The carriage took a road deep into a forest, where the trees blocked most of the sun, and the beams that did fall rested on thick bushes and wildflowers. But the rest was mainly shadows around them. It was cooler in the woods, and she watched as they moved from it to a sloping valley.
The land dipping to the valley was filled with rows and rows of wheat, oilseed, and another plants with broad leaves that she could not identify. Long lines of men, clad mostly in plain trews or breeches, naked from the waist up, were bent over and reaping the ripe crops.
