Page 57 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

Spinning on his heel, he strode back toward the keep, his voice sharp as a blade. “Brodie!”

The castle doors hadn’t even fully swung open before the man appeared, his broad frame filling the entryway. Brodie was always near when he was needed.

Brodie took one look at his laird’s face and stiffened. “What’s happened, me laird? Is it the lad?”

“It’s Freya.” Michael shoved the crumpled note into his hand. “She’s gone. Someone lured her out—used me name to do it.” He inhaled sharply, forcing himself to stay steady. “Search the keep, the grounds—everywhere. I want every man we have looking for her. Now.”

Brodie scanned the note, his face darkening as he did so. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t waste a single breath. He just gave a sharp nod and turned on his heel, barking orders before he was even out the door.

Michael remained rooted to the spot, hands flexing at his sides, his heart hammering against his ribs. The walls of the keep suddenly felt too close, too suffocating. He should be out there searching for her himself, but where? If she wasn’t in the castle, wasn’t in the gardens, wasn’t anywhere near?—

His stomach clenched.

God above, let me nae be too late.

Freya’s head throbbed, a slow, pounding ache that pulsed behind her eyes. A chill seeped into her bones as she inhaled the damp and musty air, thick with the scent of old wood and something faintly metallic.

She blinked against the dim light, and her vision was swimming. The ceiling above her was rough-hewn timber. She immediately recognized it as the kind found in old cottages or abandoned hunting lodges. This was not the castle.

Panic tightened in her chest.

She tried to sit up, but something bit into her wrists, holding her fast. Her breath hitched. Her hands were bound. And tight. Rope burned against her skin as she struggled, her heart hammering faster with every tug.

“Nay. Nay, nay, nay!” she said loudly, unable to make herself believe that she had found herself here.

Her breath came quicker, shallow, frantic. She tried to move her legs, only to realize that they were tied as well. The realization sent a wave of icy terror through her.

“Where am I?” she managed to muster to herself, although she knew there would be no answer.

How had she?—?

The memory crashed into her like a thunderclap.

Leighton.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips. He had been at the castle. She had stepped into the garden, seen the note by the willow tree, the one she thought was from Michael, and then…

Pain lanced through her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to think through the fog. A hand, rough and bruised, clamped over her mouth. Then, there was a voice in her ear, as cold as the steel of a blade. She could remember it all now.

“Who did this to me?” she asked again, needing to hear her own voice, needing to comfort herself in this dire moment.

“Help!” she tried screaming. “Help me! Anyone!”

A fresh wave of panic surged through her veins, but she clenched her teeth, swallowing another scream clawing at her throat. She doubted that anyone would hear her, that anyone would come to her aid.

Instead, she forced herself to breathe. In. Out. Slow. Steady. If she lost her head now, she was as good as dead. She needed to act.

Frantically, she turned her head, scanning the dimly lit room, searching for something,anything, that could help her. The walls were rough timber, bare except for an old iron sconce that held a dying candle. There was a small table sat in the corner, a pitcher of water resting atop it. A chair. A threadbare rug.

Nothing sharp. Nothing useful.

The ropes cut deep into her skin as she fought against them, twisting, writhing, testing for weakness. There had to be a way out. There had to be?—

A sound.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Measured.