Page 17 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

“Me laird,” she began hesitantly, “ye’ve clearly seen yer share of battles. I imagine ye carry more scars than most.”

He glanced down at her this time. “Aye, I’ve had me share.”

Her gaze flicked to his face, and she hesitated before speaking again. “The burn on yer cheek... was that from a battle?”

Michael stiffened, the tension radiating through him like a drawn bowstring. His jaw tightened, and his steps slowed as he turned to face her. The fire in his blue eyes was colder now, edged with a simmering anger.

“It’s none of yer concern, lass,” he said, his voice gruff and unyielding.

Freya’s expression softened, and she quickly held up a hand in apology. “Forgive me, me laird. I dinnae mean to pry.”

For a moment, he considered leaving it at that. But something in her gaze—genuine curiosity tinged with an unspoken kindness—unlocked the door to a memory he rarely allowed himself to revisit. He sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck as he averted his eyes.

“I got it in the fire,” he said at last, his voice low and rough. “The one that took me wife.”

Freya stopped in her tracks, the weight of his words obviously hitting her like a blow. “Oh, Michael,” she said softly, the use of his given name slipping out unbidden, then she hastily corrected herself. “Me laird, I’m so sorry for yer loss.”

His gaze snapped back to her, the brief vulnerability in his eyes replaced with steel. “Daenae be,” he said sharply. “Our marriage was one of convenience. She was... difficult, to say the least. A match made for politics, nae affection.”

Freya blinked. “But still?—”

“She gave me me son,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “For that, I’ll always respect her. But daenae mistake that for somethin’ it wasnae. I’m sorry she died. Nay one deserves an end like that. But I dinnae love her.”

Her eyes searched his face almost as if she didn’t know what exactly to say. Not that he wanted her to say anything.

“Thank ye for sharin’ that with me,” he heard her words in a subdued tone. “That couldnae have been easy to say.”

Michael huffed, brushing off her words as if they were inconsequential. “It was a long time ago,” he muttered, resuming his brisk pace. “And we’ve a boy to save. That’s all that matters now.”

She didn’t say anything to that. The matter was brought to an end. He trailed a few steps behind her as she approached another vendor’s stall. Her voice, soft yet commanding, carried just enough for him to catch her words as she greeted the vendor with warmth.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Boyle,” she said, her tone friendly. “How’s yer brother farin’? Is the fever gone?”

The vendor, a stout man with weathered hands, looked up from arranging bundles of dried lavender and smiled broadly. “Ah, Mistress Lawson! Aye, he’s on the mend, thanks to ye. If nae foryer potion, I doubt he’d still be with us. Ye’ve the touch of an angel, that ye do.”

Freya laughed lightly, shaking her head. “I only did what I could. I’m glad to hear he’s better. Tell him to rest properly—none of this runnin’ about too soon, ye hear?”

Boyle chuckled, his face lighting up with gratitude. “Aye, aye. And if there’s ever a need, ye come to me. Nay charge for anythin’ at me stall, mind.”

Michael stood a few feet away, observing the interaction in silence. He saw the way the vendor beamed at her, his appreciation evident in every gesture. And Freya, for all her grace and modesty, dismissed the praise with humility, as if saving a life were nothing extraordinary.

She handed over a few coins anyway, refusing to take charity even when it was freely offered, and selected a small pouch of herbs from the stall. Her kindness wasn’t showy or ostentatious—it was woven into her very being, as natural as breathing.

Michael’s chest tightened. He wasn’t a man prone to sentiment, but watching her now, it was impossible to ignore the truth settling over him like a weight. He’d chosen well.

For his son, for Cody, there could be no better healer. She had not only the skill but the heart to see her work through. That kind of integrity was rare, and it stirred something in him that he couldn’t name—or didn’t want to.

When she turned back toward him, her eyes bright with determination and her hands full of fresh supplies, Michael gave a small nod.

“Got everythin’ ye need?” he asked without a change in his facial expressions.

“For now,” she replied, smiling faintly.

He fell into step beside her, his mind heavy with thoughts. She was here for Cody, and that was all that mattered. Yet, as they moved to the next stall, he couldn’t shake the image of her face—kind, resilient, and quietly luminous.

But before he could silently admire her for a few moments longer, a scream tore through the air around them.

CHAPTER TEN