Page 39 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

Brodie froze mid-sip, evidently surprised at the question. “A monster, me laird?” he echoed, disbelief clear in his tone.

Michael’s gaze remained fixed on the fire. “Aye. I’ve ruled with a strong hand, sometimes harsher than I might have wished. There are those who might say I’ve done more harm than good.”

Brodie leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I’ve served ye a long time, me laird. Seen what ye’ve done, the choices ye had to make. Nae once have I thought ye a monster.”

That was when Michael turned his head slightly. His eyes narrowed in search of any hint of dishonesty. “Even when I’ve had to raise me hand against me own? Against those who wouldnae follow?”

Brodie’s gaze was unwavering. “Ye’ve always done what needed doin’. A laird who cannae lead with strength is nay laird at all. But strength without justice? That’s what makes a man a monster. And ye’ve never crossed that line.”

Michael took a long sip of whiskey, the burn doing little to dull the edge of his doubts. “Justice…” he repeated, almost to himself. “Sometimes I wonder if me justice hasnae been too sharp.”

“Aye, yer justice is sharp,” Brodie agreed. “But it’s fair. Ye daenae take a life or make a choice without weighin’ the cost first. That’s what sets ye apart.”

Although Brodie’s words didn’t erase the guilt Michael carried, it eased the burden, if only a little.

“Thank ye, Brodie,” Michael said. “For yer honesty, and for standin’ by me side all these years.”

Brodie smiled. “It’s been me honor, me laird. And it’ll continue to be as long as ye’ll have me.”

The two men continued to drink well into the night, after which Michael felt he would finally go to sleep, but it wasn’t restful slumber. When the first light appeared, he rose, splashing cold water on his face from the basin and dressing quickly. The household was still quiet, everyone likely just stirring, but Michael’s mind was already churning with purpose.

He made his way to the main hall, the sound of his boots echoing in the empty stone corridors. Brodie was at the hearth, stoking the fire. The man straightened at the sight of Michael, inclining his head.

“Me laird,” Brodie greeted.

“Gather the men,” Michael ordered, his voice low but firm. “I want every inch of this estate searched. The woods, the grounds, the cliffs—everythin’. Look for anythin’ out of place. Tracks, remnants of campfires, discarded belongings.”

Brodie frowned but nodded. “Ye think there’s still danger, me laird?”

Michael’s jaw tightened. “Aye. And I’ll nae be caught off guard again. This will become a regular mornin’ routine until I find the person responsible.”

Brodie hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’ll see to it, me laird. The men’ll be ready within the hour.”

Michael gave a curt nod before turning toward the kitchens, his thoughts still a storm of unease. He was preparing for the meeting with the council, who should be arriving at some point in the afternoon. If things went as usual, it would be a meeting that would take hours of their time, but he didn’t mind. There were matters that needed to be tended to, and he was impatient to sort everything out.

As he passed through the hallways, his steps slowed when he heard the soft lilt of voices coming from the small library. Peering in, he found Freya with her sisters, seated close together at one of the long oak tables. Freya’s dark hair was braided back, her fingers gently brushing over a page of notes in her lap. Hervoice carried a calm authority as she spoke to her sisters, her tone warm but deliberate.

He remembered the previous night, his entire body shuddering barely perceptibly upon the memory of her hands on his bare chest, of her eyes, so dark and unfathomable, of her trembling lips just waiting to be taken.

He swallowed heavily, lingering there, unnoticed. He wanted to keep it that way, so he turned around silently and continued to his study, where he remained concealed from everyone else.

By midday, the men had returned from their search and he met them in the grand hallway. Brodie reported no signs of intruders, no tracks or disturbances beyond what the storm had left behind. Michael stood on the front steps of the mansion, his arms crossed as he listened to the report.

“I daenae like it,” Michael muttered, his gaze sweeping over the sprawling estate. The woods loomed in the distance, bare and skeletal under the pale winter sun. “Whoever aimed that arrow, they were skilled enough to strike near us without bein’ seen. It’s nae a mistake.”

“Perhaps they’ve moved on,” Brodie offered, though his tone was uncertain.

“Perhaps,” Michael replied, though he didn’t believe it.

As the men dispersed, Michael remained on the steps, his mind churning. He could sense that the danger was far from over.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Ye’ve summoned us, Laird McEwan,” Councilman Henry Ross said, stepping forward with his usual smugness. His tone carried a veneer of respect, but Michael knew better.

“Aye,” Michael growled, his voice low and gravelly, like distant thunder. “I summoned ye to speak on matters of import to the clan.”

Those were the words he had started with, and their conversation, just as he had predicated, lasted for two hours.