Page 56 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Ye’ve nae seen her at all?” Michael asked, as his voice carried through the dining hall, much sharper than he had intended it to.

The scent of fresh bannocks and smoked ham did little to soothe his already frayed temper. Abigail and Marissa sat close together, speaking in hushed tones, while Cody tore into his meal with the enthusiasm of a boy who’d not eaten in days.

Marissa shook her head first. “Nay. We woke up and she was nae in her bed. But she’s likely in the garden, rootin’ for herbs.”

“Like a wee forest sprite,” Abigail added, much to Cody’s amusement. The children all chuckled, but for some reason, Michael was not amused.

His jaw tightened. He had half a mind to upend the table in frustration. “Aye, and I told her clear as day—nay one leaves the keep alone.”

Marissa exchanged a glance with her sister. “Freya’s got a mind of her own, me laird. She did mention yesterday that she needed more yarrow before the frost sets in. I daenae think she meant to cause any trouble.”

“Maybe she dinnae think she’d be long,” Cody added, with his mouth half-full. “If I ken anythin’ about Mistress Freya, it’s that she’s astubbornhealer.”

With a scrape of wood against the ston floor, he shoved back from the table and stood. “Stubborn or nae, she disobeyed me. If somethin’ happens to her—” He started, but he cut himself off, his anger thick in his throat.

No. He would not speak it aloud.

He turned on his heel, striding toward the entrance, as his plaid swayed with the force of his movements. Cold air hit him as he stepped outside, but it did nothing to cool the heat simmering beneath his skin. His boots struck the ground hard as he crossed the courtyard, his mind already fixed on the words he’d have for Freya when he found her.

He quickly found himself in the garden. The air carried the scent of damp earth and the fading sweetness of late-blooming heather. This was where she always came. His mind could see her kneeling in the dirt, her fingers plucking whatever meager herbs his garden could provide.

But she was not here now.

His gaze swept over the small patch of greenery, the rows of thyme, rosemary, and yarrow. He took in their curled leaves at the edges from the creeping chill. A basket sat beneath the stone bench, tipped on its side. It was empty. Nor was there any sign of Freya’s small footprints in the damp soil.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Damn ye, lass,” he muttered under his breath. “Why do ye have to be so stubborn?”

He glanced at the gate. She wouldn’t have gone there… would she?

His frustration gave way to unease as he strode past the garden walls and caught sight of two guards standing near the gate.

“Have either of ye seen Mistress Freya this morn?” he asked in a gruff voice, more command than question.

The older of the two, a broad shouldered man named Boyd, shook his head immediately. “Nay, me laird. Nae since yesterday.”

His chest tightened.

Foolish lass. Reckless, stubborn?—

A gust of wind cut through his thoughts, biting at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the ice settling in his veins. His anger was slipping into something far more dangerous.

Fear.

If she was nowhere in the garden, nowhere in the keep, then where in the blazes had she gone?

As he passed by the old willow tree near the courtyard’s edge, something caught his eye. A scrap of white against the damp earth, half-hidden among the fallen leaves. He stilled momentarily. It was a crumpled piece of parchment.

Frowning, he bent down and plucked it from the ground. The paper was damp at the edges, the ink smudged, but the moment his eyes scanned the uneven scrawl, his chest went tight.

Someone signed it with his own initial. But he hadn’t written this.

A chill ran down his spine, colder than the Highland winds that howled through the valley. His grip on the parchment tightened until his knuckles turned white. Someone had lured her here. Someone had used his name.

And now she was gone.

A raw, gnawing panic twisted in his gut, battling with the fury that burned just as hot. He forced himself to move, to breathe, to think. Freya needed him, and he’d be damned if he let his own fear slow him down.