Page 16 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

Michael moved through the crowd, his presence commanding enough that people instinctively made way. Freya walked beside him, her skirts brushing against the cobblestones. He could see her eyes flitting over the stalls with a healer’s sharp intuition.Two guards trailed them, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, ever watchful.

Michael glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, noting how she carried herself with a confidence he had rarely seen in a woman. There was a certain softness to her—her delicate features, the way her auburn hair glowed in the sunlight—but her words held a surprising edge.

“This is where ye usually get yer herbs?” he asked gruffly, breaking the silence.

Freya nodded, pausing to inspect a bundle of dried chamomile. “Aye. The traders here have what I need most of the time. When they daenae, I forage in the woods.” Her voice was gentle, but there was a fire beneath it, a quiet strength that caught him off guard.

She glanced up at him, her brown eyes sharp yet kind. “And if yer men were better prepared, me laird, I might nae have been called here at all.”

His jaw tightened. “If the healer I had wasnae a complete fool, ye wouldnae have been needed.”

“Then perhaps ye should’ve sought someone better before now,” she replied smoothly, her tone polite but pointed.

“I did,” he grunted. “All charlatans. I just hope ye arenae one of those.”

“I have good recommendations, me laird,” she smiled, refusing to bow down. “After all, isnae that why ye came to get me in the middle of the night?”

Before she could say anything to that, he stopped at a stall selling jars of salves and bottles of tinctures, watching as Freya picked through the wares. She moved with purpose, her hands deftly inspecting each item.

The vendor, an older woman with a kind smile, greeted Freya warmly. “Mistress Lawson! Good to see ye. What’ll it be today?”

Freya exchanged pleasantries, her voice softening slightly as she listed what she needed. Michael folded his arms, feeling out of place amid the pleasantries but unable to take his eyes off her.

“Ye’re nae what I expected,” he muttered, almost to himself, yet unable to take his eyes off of her. There was something about the way the sun caught flickers of light in her hair that mesmerized him.

Freya glanced at him, one brow arching. This seemed to make her even more enticing. “And what did ye expect, me laird?”

He hesitated, caught between honesty and maintaining his gruff exterior. As always, he chose the truth. “Someone… meeker.”

She laughed, a light, melodic sound that somehow grated on his nerves and intrigued him all the same. It seemed that everythingshe did both annoyed him and thrilled him, something he didn’t quite know what to do with.

“Then ye’ve sorely misjudged me. I may be gentle with me patients, but I daenae suffer fools lightly.”

Michael smirked despite himself, though he quickly buried it under his usual stern expression. “Aye, I’m startin’ to see that.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the guards shifting behind them, ever watchful. Michael’s gaze swept the bustling market, instinctively scanning for threats. He wouldn’t let Freya —or anyone under his care, he reminded himself—come to harm, no matter how frustrating she might be.

Freya finished her purchase and turned back to him, her arms full of carefully chosen herbs and tinctures. She met his gaze head-on, her fire evident even in the smallest movement.

“Shall we continue, me laird?” she asked, her tone polite but laced with challenge.

Michael nodded, gesturing for her to lead the way. As they walked through the market, he found himself wondering how someone so soft in appearance could be so unyielding—and why, despite himself, he respected her for it.

They continued to stride purposefully, making their way through the bustling market. The guards trailed a few paces behind, a constant reminder of his station. Freya kept pace with him, hisarms laden with the herbs and tinctures she’d purchased, and though her movements were unhurried, her sharp eyes missed nothing.

“Are they here to keep us safe?” she asked, gesturing at the guards.

“Aye,” he replied barely audibly.

“Are we in danger?” she asked again, sounding more curious.

He had little desire to explain how a laird, and especially those around him, were in constant danger.

“They are here to make sure we are nae,” he explained instead.

“Do they protect ye like this in battles as well?” She was relentless with her questions and he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why.

“Nay,” he replied shortly. “In battles, it is every man for himself.”