Page 1 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

CHAPTER ONE

“Another day, another soul’s pain alleviated.”Freya Lawson mused in a satisfied manner as she tugged her shawl tightly around her shoulders. The cobblestone path beneath her feet was uneven, but she moved with the surety of someone who had walked it countless times. A healer by trade, she had spent the last few hours tending to old Mrs. McAllister’s rheumatic joints, mixing poultices and soothing aches with gentle hands and soft words.

But now, as twilight deepened and the first stars began to peek through the heavens, her thoughts were not on her patient, but on the two girls waiting for her at home.

Marissa and Abigail.

Freya’s lips curved into a faint smile as she imagined them. Freya quickened her pace, her boots crunching against the gravel as she neared the edge of the village. The thought of Abigail’s bright eyes lighting up when she walked through thedoor, or Marissa’s habitual teasing over how late she always seemed to be, spurred her on.

Suddenly, a figure stepped into her path.

“Freya,” the man called out, his voice rough and too familiar.

“Good evenin’, Mr. MacTavish,” she greeted him cautiously, nodding in acknowledgement, and making a move around him to continue her way home.

Although it can hardly be a good one now that our paths have crossed.

Gregory MacTavish was one of her more persistent suitors, a burly man with a sharp tongue and a stubborn streak. He had been courting her attention for months, ignoring every polite refusal she offered.

“Lass,” he said, stepping closer and blocking her way. “Ye cannae keep ignorin’ me. I’ve offered ye a good life—a home, security. Ye’d never have to work yerself to the bone again.”

Freya stiffened, her grip tightening on her shawl. “I’ve told ye before that me place is with me sisters. They need me.”

“Yer sisters are old enough to fend for themselves,” he snapped, his tone growing harsh. “Ye waste yer life on them when ye could be with me. Leave them be, Freya. Come live with me, as me wife.”

Her stomach churned at the audacity of his words. “They’re children,” she said firmly, her voice steady despite the anger rising within her. “And they’remeresponsibility. Ye’ve nay right to tell me otherwise.”

MacTavish’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. “Yer stubbornness does ye nay favors, lass. Ye think ye can keep this up forever? Ye’ll end up an old spinster, bitter and alone.”

Freya took a step back, her heart pounding. “I’d rather be alone than with someone who disrespects me and me family.”

As she turned to walk away, his hand shot out, gripping her arm. The force of it made her gasp, and she stumbled slightly, her eyes flashing with shock and fury.

“Let me go,Gregory,” she said, her voice sharp and unwavering.

“Nay,” he growled, pulling her closer. “Ye’ll listen to me for once.”

Her free hand moved before she even realized it, the sound of her palm connecting with his cheek ringing out in the still night. He recoiled, his grip loosening just enough for her to wrench herself free.

“How dare ye,” she hissed, her eyes blazing. “If I ever had even the slightest interest in ye, it’s gone now. Ye’ll never be anythin’ to me but a bad memory.”

MacTavish stared at her, stunned and red-faced, as she took a step back. Her heart thundered in her chest, but she kept her chin high.

“Stay away from me,” she said, her voice low and cold. “And from me family.”

Without waiting for his response, she turned and hurried down the path, her shawl fluttering behind her. Her legs felt like jelly, but she pushed forward, each step taking her closer to home.

By the time she reached the cottage, her breath was ragged, her cheeks still burning. Inside, she could hear Marissa’s voice scolding Abigail over something, and the familiar sounds wrapped around her like a balm.

Freya pushed the door open, the familiar scent of their cottage greeting her—a mix of peat smoke and herbs drying by the hearth. The warmth of the room melted away the tension coiled in her chest as her eyes landed on her younger sister, Marissa, sitting at the table.

Whatever she was doing before, the fourteen-year-old was now hunched over a sheet of paper, her quill scratching furiously as she wrote. A small furrow creased her brow, her lips moving silently as though tasting the words she poured onto the page.

“Still at it?” Freya asked softly, slipping off her shawl and hanging it by the door.

Marissa glanced up, startled, then quickly tried to hide the pages beneath her elbow. “Freya! Ye’re home late.”

Freya arched a brow, crossing the room to peer over her sister’s shoulder. “What’s this one about, then? Another tale of daring heroes and clever heroines?”