Page 12 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
She needed to leave, now. Doughall was a large man, and his presence alone made the space feel smaller. She drew in a breath and stepped to the side, trying to push past him in the narrow hallway. His arm shot out, blocking her path. Freya’s chest tightened, and she stepped back without a thought, her body twisting, her back finding the cold stone wall behind her.
Doughall moved forward, closing the space between them. “Ye will. Ye owe me. Consider yerself lucky—after the trouble ye caused me, I could have asked for more.”
Her heart was pounding so loud in her chest that she was certain the Devil could hear it as well. He was close, too close, and she could not pretend that it did not frighten her. But there was something more, something she couldn’t quite explain.
Freya forced herself to meet his eyes. “Ye are too close.”
“I was tasked with keepin’ ye safe, Freya. I will do whatever I see fit to ensure that ye remain unharmed.” Doughall’s voice dropped, a growl that made her toes curl and her body tremble. “Ye need nae accept it, but ye will obey.”
Obey?
Her blood boiled at his words, but she could not seem to find her voice. Doughall was so close, his face inches from her own, she could feel his warm breath against her cheeks and smell the hint of whiskey on his tongue.
Why is he doin’ this?
Freya swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why?”
His eyes darkened. “Nay one would dare touch the Devil’s bride.”
4
How much longer?
The silence inside the carriage was suffocating, broken only by the creaking of the wheels over the uneven ground. Freya could do little more than stare blankly out the window, her stomach in knots and her head pounding with each passing moment.
It had been a day since Doughall had returned her to MacNiall Castle. Now, they were on the road, bound for MacGordon lands—unfamiliar to her, a territory that she had never intended to step foot into. But she had been given little choice, and her mother seemed all too pleased to leave.
Moira sat across from her, her eyes closed, but Freya knew better. She wasn’t sleeping. Her silence had been as constant as the road beneath them, winding and certain—she had barely acknowledged her daughter’s presence.
Freya opened her mouth to break that silence, but what could she possibly say?
She let out a small breath, turning back to the passing landscape beyond the glass.
They had never been close, she and her mother. Freya had always been quiet, the shadow among her siblings—the one who wasn’t chastised, the one who didn’t cause them to worry. She was a good lass, the dutiful perfect daughter.
If only her mother knew the truth.
Freya wasn’t sure how her mother would react if she told her what had happened, what she had done… Would she even believe her?
It was clear that Doughall had not mentioned how he had found her, but for how long? When would he reveal it? Was he waiting for something? Or perhaps he did not care enough to mention it.
The carriage began to slow down, and Freya’s heart rate quickened. She did not hesitate, her hand already on the door. She pushed it open the instant they came to a stop. The cool autumn air hit her like a splash of water, but it did nothing to clear her mind.
As she started toward the front, she could almost swear that she had heard her mother’s voice calling after her, but she did not dare stop.
Ahead of her, Doughall dismounted in one fluid, effortless motion. At his side was his man-at-arms, and she realized that she did not even know the other man’s name as she approached the two. She was about to ask when Doughall turned to face her, his eyes cold and his expression as hard as stone. That ice wall built around him, unmoved by any force, greeted her as if she were nothing more than an obligation.
Isnae that just what I am?
Still, she squared her shoulders and stepped forward. “Are we close?”
Doughall frowned and glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, rolling hills sat before a mountain, its snow-kissed peak almost blending with the sky. At its base, a loch stretched out like a polished mirror. It was a beautiful sight to see, the mountainside blanketed in deep shades of green and speckles of auburn. A thin mist curled upwards from the loch’s shore.
“Just beyond the mountain,” Doughall answered curtly. “Half a day.”
Freya nodded, her heart sinking as she followed his gaze. She wished she were anywhere else—back at MacNiall Castle, anywhere not under the cruelly cold gaze of Laird MacGordon. She could not stand the thought of being so close to him, and yet she knew she had little choice.
Her gaze shifted as the man-at-arms moved, pulling down his hood. Freya blinked, struggling and failing to mask her surprise.It was no man at all, but a woman. A beautiful woman. Her blonde hair was tightly bound in a thick braid that fell over her shoulder, but it was her eyes that were most striking—emerald green, sharp and clever.
