Page 110 of Taming the Highland Misfits

The possibility of visiting him had crossed her mind a few times, but she knew that the sight of him in that place would only keep her awake at night. Was she being selfish?

No, she was not, she decided. Alex had said nothing in his own defence; indeed, he had offered her no explanations at all as to why her father, brothers, and the steward had made their accusations. If it had all been a heinous plot to incriminate him and smear his name, then why had he not said so? It made no sense at all.

Freya had a headache caused by hunger and stress. She was ravenous, having eaten nothing but a slice of bread that morning, yet the thought of food made her stomach churn.

“Freya,” Caitrin said gently, “come, you must eat.”

“I am not hungry,” Freya said firmly, although she was proved to be a liar a few moments later as her stomach rumbled loudly.

“I think you are,” Caitrin countered, taking her arm in a tight grasp. Freya tried to shake her off, but the other woman’s grip was too strong. “At least drink some milk and eat some porridge. Truly, it will make you feel better.”

Freya sighed irritably and sat down at her little table to eat. The porridge was flavoured with honey and would have been delicious if she had had any appetite for it, but she had none.

She thought of the one time she had eaten breakfast with Alex. It was at Cairnheugh, when her father had taken them all with him to view a horse Laird MacNeill was selling. They had stayed overnight, and even the reclusive Lady MacNeill had come out to eat with them.

Freya had been very impressed with the way Alex treated his painfully shy aunt. He pulled her chair out for her, asked her how she had slept, and made the kind of light, general conversation that put her at ease and even prompted her to say a few words to Freya.

She had been seated next to Alex while eating her breakfast, and the taste of the honey-flavoured oats always made her think of him, as she did now. He would certainly not be eating honey. She wondered if her father was giving him the same food as he gave every other prisoner, but she knew the Laird to be a decent man, and she did not think that Alex was starving.

Freya dutifully swallowed as much as she could of the porridge then pushed the plate away.

Realizing that it would be fruitless to argue, Caitrin and Mhairi left her alone to drink her milk.

She thought about her father for a while. Laird Douglas Murdaugh had a reputation for being fair and generous, but she wondered if he had really thought through what he was about to do. He was about to hang Alex MacNeill on the strength of a few documents which he had only seen once, and the word of two men whom he could not trust.

Why was he delaying it though? Surely, it was just prolonging the torture for everyone. The last thing she wanted was for Alex to die, though, so she supposed she should be grateful. Even if he was a traitor and a liar, she still loved him. How could you fall out of love with someone you had adored for almost half your life?

Her anger flared again. She stood up and paced across the room, then decided that if her father would not come to her, then she would go to him. She flung open her bedroom door and ran down the stairs to the Laird’s study, then tried to open the door, only to find that it would not budge.

“The Laird has gone tae see a tenant, Mistress,” the guard at the door said.

“Thank you,” Freya replied politely. She stood still for a moment, contemplating what to do next, then she slowly walked away, intending to go back to her own room before abruptly changing her mind. She had not been outside for over a week, and desperately needed to breathe fresh air and feel it blowing through her hair.

The thought cheered her somewhat until she saw Aidan and Gerald Patterson coming the other way. There was no way to hide her anger, not that she wanted to, but Freya had no wish to indulge in a heated argument in the most public part of the castle. She put her head down and barged in between them, then ran to the stables. She was not wearing her riding habit, but decided that she did not care.

As soon as he saw her, Lance, who had been cooped up for days, began to dance around in his stall, kicking the doors as he strove to get out.

Freya laughed as she saw him. “Come on, boy,” she said fondly. “Let us escape for a while.”

* * *

Laird Murdaugh was returning from visiting one of his tenants on the far-flung reaches of his estate, and was very weary. The tenant farmers enjoyed seeing him from time to time, particularly as he often brought little gifts of delicacies from the kitchen with him. This endeared them to him and was good for smooth relations between them, particularly when there were children involved, because he gave off an avuncular air that made them feel special. He loved children, and would have had half-a-dozen more if it had been possible.

It was a long ride back to the castle, and now all he wanted was a hot meal, a bath, and his bed, but it was not to be. As soon as he left the stables, Aidan and Gerald bore down on him, and he groaned inwardly; the look on both their faces promised trouble that he did not need.

“I need to speak to you, Father.” Aidan’s tone was firm and aggressive as he reached the Laird.

“Can it wait till tomorrow?” his father asked. “I am very tired. It has been a long day.”

“No, it cannot,” Aidan replied. “We must talk now.”

The Laird did not like the tone of his voice. “I see. And if I refuse?”

Aidan was lost for words.

Gerald stepped in to rescue him. “What Aidan means is that we wouldpreferto speak to you now, M’Laird,” he said, with a touch more respect.

The Laird sighed, and with a malevolent glance at his son, he said, “Very well, but make it quick.” He led the way to his study and when they were seated, he raised his eyebrows and looked at them enquiringly. “Well?” he asked.