She tilted her head back, trying to find the moon to judge how many hours were left of darkness. It was no good, the sky was too cloudy. Sighing, she put her head down and trudged on.
A maid would come in to wake her at dawn, like she had every other morning. The woman was a sour-faced matron, in the pay of Laird Grahame, and had made it clear that she didn’t like Freya one bit. She’d muttered a lot about red-headed people being cursed, just loud enough for Freya to hear.
The maid would discover that Freya was gone, and the alarm would be raised immediately. The Keep would be searched, Freya’s father contacted, and then the search would extend to the grounds around the castle.
But I’ll be safe,she told herself.He doesn’t know which way I’ve gone. He won’t find me. Surely, he won’t find me.
She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the surge of fear. Laird Grahame was a clever man, and she would be a fool to underestimate him. Any man who’d kept control of a Highland clan for as long as he had—thirty years and counting—was aforce to be reckoned with. The man was forty-nine years old, strong for his age, and had already been married twice.
Freya was meant to be the third bride.
Not if I can help it.
She increased her pace, stumbling through the woods. With no moon to guide her way, the going was slow. She tripped over tree roots and ran straight into bushes, thorny branches catching at her skirts. She was doubly grateful now for Maggie, who’d insisted on getting good, sturdy boots as well as practical clothes for Freya to wear. Even so, the rain and cold were seeping through the material, chilling Freya’s skin. She was shivering harder and harder as the minutes went by.
I need to find somewhere to rest,she thought, tiredly. She must have covered at least a few miles by now.
Sighing, Freya increased her pace—that would keep her warm, at least—and began to look around for lights, for movement, for anything that might indicate there was a dwelling or shelter nearby.
I don’t want to be seen, though. I don’t want anybody to remember me. And they certainlywillremember me; a strange, wet woman wandering through the forest in the middle of the night.
It would be safer, too, if she could stay hidden. Freya knew she was pretty, pretty enough to secure Laird Grahame’s interest at least. He used to call her his little pixie, and tweaked her turned-up nose while she swallowed her revulsion. He didn’t like her freckles, though, and had tried to convince her to wear a white paste to hide them.
Looks aside, though, Freya knew that women faced more singular threats when they were travelling, especially when they were travelling alone.
She was just starting to believe that perhaps she would die out there in the woods, of cold and damp and exposure, andwhile that meant she’d never have to marry Laird Grahame, it also meant that she’d bedead. And then, quite abruptly, Freya stumbled out of a tangle of thickets and into a wooden wall.
No, not a wall—a building.
Tentatively, squinting up into the rain, she edged around the building, taking it in. It was a barn, and she could hear animals shifting inside. There appeared to be no dwelling nearby, but then, the forestwasvery thick in this part of the woods. Trees and undergrowth were cleared away in a wide circle in front of the barn. Freya gratefully lifted the heavy bolt keeping the barn door shut, more than ready to sink into a hay bale and sleep.
At that moment, the wind started up, jerking the door out of her hands. It swung back against the barn wall with an echoingcrash, and the animals inside shifted nervously. Cursing to herself, Freya grabbed at the door to stop it from banging again, and held her breath.
Silence. Nobody seemed to be coming. No guard dogs barked, and there were no distant shouts of alarm. She breathed out slowly, and let herself in.
It was deliciously warm inside the barn, so warm that she didn’t even care about the strong animal smell. She passed by large, shifting shapes in the dark—horses or cows, no doubt, or perhaps sheep—and headed straight to the hayloft.
Freya had never slept on straw before, but she was so tired and cold that surely…
The door flew open with a crash, and Freya leapt back with a panicked yelp.
“Who’s there?” demanded an angry male voice, lifting a guttering lantern.
She couldn’t make out much of him, only that he was tall and strong-looking. It was too late to hide, of course.
“Ye, lass,” he snarled, striding forward. “Ye think to rob me, eh?”
A dog wound around his legs, a lanky, waist-high thing with shaggy gray fur and a long snout. It eyed her curiously, sticking close to its master. The man didn’t come too close, he only stood menacingly in the doorway.
She held up a placating hand, backing away. Her hood fell back from her head, and the lamplight no doubt illuminated her red-gold hair. It felt like a beacon.
“Nay, I’m not robbing ye, sir. I-I’m a traveler, and I was caught unawares by the weather. I just wanted somewhere dry to sleep for a few hours.”
The man was silent for a moment, then took a few careful steps forward. Freya forced herself to stand her ground, and not to back away. She squinted against the lamplight, but could not make out much of his features, beyond the fact that he was tall and strong, and likely only a few years older than her.
“Who are ye, then?” he said at last.
She swallowed. “I’m a maid. I ran away from… a bad situation. I’d just like to get home.”
