Page 12 of Deceived by the Highlander (Daughters of the Isle #2)

I t was still dark the following morning when Freyja and Roisin left their bed. Yesterday evening, Freyja had sent a message to Laoise, informing her of what had happened, so the young woman knew she would be tending patients on her own until Freyja’s return.

As Grear combed Roisin’s hair, Freyja went through the supplies in her medical satchel, even though she’d checked it last night before going to bed, to make sure she had everything she might need to make Afi more comfortable.

How she wished she could be confident that she could cure him of what ailed him, but some things were simply beyond her ken.

Kneeling on the rug before the hearth, she heaved a great sigh.

If only Afi had agreed to stay at Sgur when he’d first suffered his fall.

Would it have made any difference if she’d been able to see him every day?

Maybe not. Alasdair had said her grandfather had simply faded, for no discernable reason.

But that didn’t mean he was at death’s door.

Her thoughts lingered on Alasdair and a shaft of warmth pierced through the gloom that wrapped around her heart. He was so thoughtful, to come and tell her of Afi’s decline himself. And he seemed so genuinely concerned for her grandfather’s health, even though he barely knew him.

If only he were a MacDonald from the Isles.

The foolish wish slid through her mind, and she mocked herself for it, even though the notion was so tantalizingly alluring.

And although she’d never admit it out loud, he was the first man she’d met who had ever made her think that, just maybe, there was a man worth compromising her beloved freedom for.

But it would never happen. Alasdair, as she had known from the moment she’d met him, possessed an enchanting way with words.

She wasn’t so na?ve as to imagine he meant anything more than simple flirting with his enthralling interest in her conviction to remain on Eigg, even if she fell for a Highlander.

It certainly didn’t mean he wanted anything more than a fleeting dalliance with her. And even if he did, it could lead nowhere.

She wasn’t sure which outcome caused her heart to ache the most. The only thing she was certain of was that Alasdair Campbell had addled her brains more surely than the finest French wine.

“Shall I do yer hair, milady?” Grear asked, pulling her from her meandering contemplation, as Roisin pulled on her boots.

“Oh, ’tis all right, Grear, thank ye, but I’ll do.

” She ran her hand along her messy plait.

To be sure, it needed a good comb, especially after her restless night, but she was filled with an apprehensive energy and wasn’t sure she could sit still for long enough while Grear re-braided it.

“We’d best get going,” she added to her sister who nodded, worry etching her face.

Their grandmother was already in the hall with Alasdair when they arrived, and his smile of greeting sent a now familiar warmth spiraling through her blood. As Amma spoke with the warriors who would be accompanying them, she went over to him.

“I trust ye slept well?”

“Well enough. How are ye, Freyja?”

His voice was low, for her ears only, and it was most absurd how much she enjoyed hearing him say her name so informally.

“I’ll feel better once I’ve seen Afi. It’s not knowing that is the worst.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Maybe yer willow tea he likes so much will help him.”

She had something far stronger than willow tea in mind to aid her beloved Afi if he needed it.

But it wasn’t something she was comfortable sharing with Alasdair.

Because, for all his charm, he was a Campbell, and there was no telling if he’d be shocked by her understanding of the hidden benefits of the poppy.

“Come.” Her grandmother’s commanding voice cut through her thoughts, and they left the castle and trudged across the moorland, as the sun rose beyond the horizon, casting ribbons of pink and purple over the gently lapping sea.

They didn’t take the rowing boat today. There were too many of them, including Amma’s serving women and half a dozen warriors.

Instead, they went to the sheltered canal where her grandmother kept her ship.

It took several trips in the small rowing boat before they were all aboard, but finally they were on their way and the rugged coastline of Rum grew ever closer.

Freyja stood at the prow, gripping the gunwale, Dubh at her feet and her precious satchel secure over her shoulder. Sea spray spattered her cheeks, and the early morning sun warmed her skin, but all she could see was Afi’s smile as he bid her farewell just days ago.

Blessed Eir, please don’t let me be too late.

Alasdair came to her side and grasped the gunwale. Distracted, she gazed at his strong, tanned fingers, so close to her own it would take little effort to shift her hand until they touched.

She exhaled a shaky breath; thankful it went unheard beneath the creaking of the ship and the splashing of the waves. It was all very well for Alasdair to know she enjoyed his company. But it was something else altogether if he guessed just how much his presence affected her.

Soon he’d be gone from the Small Isles, back to his castle in the Highlands.

Not that he’d ever spoken of his castle, but he was the favored half-brother of the earl, so doubtless he possessed one.

Or two. It was not an unusual circumstance for acknowledged bastards of the nobility to be elevated and enjoy all the privileges of their legitimate half-siblings.

It was likely Alasdair was even welcomed at court, considering the cordial relationship the Earl of Argyll had with the queen.

There wasn’t the slightest chance he’d consider remaining on Eigg with her.

As if I even want him to stay.

But it was a hollow rebuttal. She might be able to fool Alasdair that she hadn’t fallen for his undoubted charms, but alas, she couldn’t fool herself.

*

Despite his best efforts, Alasdair couldn’t help but steal a sideways glance at Freyja. She gazed into the distance, her cheeks flushed a becoming rose by the brisk breeze, and it took more willpower than he cared to admit to stop himself from entwining his fingers through hers.

If he hadn’t kissed her, if the memory of how her lips tasted hadn’t haunted him ever since, would he still find it so hard to resist her?

He had the feeling he would.

Resolutely, he tightened his grip on the gunwale as though that might somehow help shore up his resolve to keep his hands to himself.

Freyja was a noblewoman, and despite his connection to the earl, he was merely a commoner.

Lady Helga would be well within her rights to have him slung overboard if she saw him take such liberties with her granddaughter.

God, what was wrong with him? He had never found it so hard to keep his mind on a task before. The only reason he was here was because of the earl and his need to claim Kilvenie through Alasdair’s marriage to Freyja.

It was a straightforward mission. But he hadn’t envisaged becoming attached to Ranulph. And it certainly hadn’t occurred to him that Freyja herself would have him questioning the ethics of his assignment.

He sucked in a deep breath, the fresh salty air filling his lungs as he tried to clear his mind of his troubling thoughts.

One step at a time.

If Ranulph had kept his counsel, no one else knew the real reason why he’d gone to Rum.

When the inevitable occurred, he’d be there for Freyja, and when he asked for her hand, she’d overcome her reluctance to leave her isle in favor of a life with a Highlander.

Leaving their homes to be with their husbands was, after all, what women did.

His brow furrowed, and he wasn’t certain it was only because of the wind buffeting his face.

“Alasdair.”

He thrust his uncomfortable notions aside and turned to smile at her. “Aye?”

“I’m glad ye’re here.”

Before he could stop himself, he laced his fingers through hers where she still grasped the gunwale. Her hand was cold, but her responding smile was warm, and his momentary doubts on her willingness to leave Sgur Castle when the time came vanished.

“So am I, Freyja.”

*

The steward, Miles, met them as they entered Kilvenie’s courtyard, a grim expression on his face.

Alasdair stood back as the family gathered around him where, doubtless, he updated them on Ranulph’s condition.

From Freyja’s reaction to what Miles was saying, at least the old man hadn’t died yet, which was something to be thankful for.

When Lady Helga led her entourage into the hall, Freyja came back to him. “It seems after ye left yesterday my grandfather had another setback.” She drew in a ragged breath and once again he took her hand, a silent gesture to remind her that he was there for her.

“I’m grieved to hear that. I had hoped for better news.”

She gave him a sad smile. “My grandmother, sister and I are going to see him now, but Miles said Afi requested that if ye accompanied us, ye should join us.”

“Of course.” With reluctance he released her hand, but as they followed her family across the hall, unease stirred. Was Ranulph going to denounce him in front of Freyja?

When they entered the old man’s bedchamber, the odor of sickness and blood hit him, as the physician hovered over Ranulph like a specter of death.

Freyja shuddered beside him, and concern tightened in his chest as he glanced at her, but she didn’t look on the verge of breaking down in tears. She looked enraged.

“Ranulph.” Lady Helga went to his side and placed her hand on his shoulder as Freyja and her sister took their places beside her. At an unobtrusive gesture from Miles, the servants silently left.