Page 18 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

The scream froze Freya in her tracks. Her head snapped toward the sound, and her heart clenched at the sight. A young girl, no older than eight, lay crumpled on the dusty road. A man loomed over her, his horse snorting and stomping nervously behind him as he waved his arms in anger.

“Watch where ye’re runnin’, ye wee fool! Nearly broke me horse’s leg, ye did!” the man bellowed, his voice echoing through the stunned silence of the onlookers.

Freya dropped her basket and ran toward the girl without hesitation, barely aware of the laird’s storming past her toward the irate rider.

“What’s happened here?” Michael’s deep, commanding voice cut through the man’s tirade, silencing him mid-shout.

Freya dropped to her knees beside the girl, her healer’s instincts taking over. “It’s alright, lass,” she said softly, brushing the girl’s hair from her tear-streaked face. “I’m here to help.”

The girl whimpered, clutching her leg, where a gash ran jaggedly along her shin. Blood stained her skirts and pooled onto the ground. Freya moved quickly, her hands steady as she reached for the satchel slung over her shoulder.

“Let me see,” she murmured, gently prying the girl’s hands away. The wound wasn’t life-threatening, but it needed attention. “Ye’re goin’ to be just fine.”

Meanwhile, Michael squared off with the rider, his tone measured but firm. “Ye’ll lower yer voice, or I’ll lower it for ye,” he said, his eyes sharp as steel. “This is a child ye’ve injured. If ye’ve got grievances, ye’ll speak them to me, nae her.”

Freya was focused on the girl entirely, barely noticing the exchange. She retrieved a strip of clean cloth and doused it with a tincture, then pressed it gently to the wound. The girl winced, fresh tears spilling over her cheeks.

“I ken it stings, but it’ll stop the bleedin’,” Freya said soothingly. “Ye’re very brave, do ye ken that?”

The girl nodded weakly, her tiny hands clutching Freya’s arm for comfort.

A woman stepped forward, her face pale with concern. “How is she?”

“She’ll be alright,” Freya replied, tying the makeshift bandage securely around the girl’s leg. “The cut isnae deep, but she needs to rest and keep it clean. She is fortunate that the man was payin’someattention to the road.”

The man overheard her, his face twisted in fury, and his loud voice exploded all around them.

“Blamin’ me, are ye? The brat ran right in front of me horse!” he shouted, jabbing a finger in the girl’s direction.

Freya rose to her full height, ignoring the dust on her skirts. Her voice was steady but sharp as steel.

“And as the rider, it’s yer responsibility to watch where ye’re goin’. A grown man like ye should ken better than to charge through a crowded market without care!”

The crowd murmured in agreement, but the man’s face darkened further. “Ye dare speak to me like that?” he growled, taking a menacing step toward her.

Freya didn’t flinch. She was too used to dealing with unruly men to let his bluster faze her. “I do,” she said firmly, standing her ground. “Ye struck a child with yer negligence, and instead of showin’ remorse, ye shout at her. Ye ought to be ashamed!”

The man’s hand shot out, his intent clear. Freya barely had time to react, but before his hand could reach her, a blur of motion swept past her.

Michael.

His hand caught the man’s wrist in an iron grip, yanking it back so forcefully the man staggered. In one swift motion, Michael drew his sword, the blade gleaming in the sunlight as he leveled it at the man’s throat.

“Touch her,” Michael growled, his voice low and deadly, “and it’ll be the last thing ye ever do.”

The man froze, his face draining of color as the tip of Michael’s blade pressed just enough to nick his skin.

Freya’s breath caught as she watched the laird—his towering frame, his controlled rage, and the sheer command he exuded. For a moment, she forgot everything else, captivated by the raw power radiating from him.

“Apologize,” Michael ordered, his voice cutting through the tension like the very blade he wielded.

The man stammered, his bravado utterly gone. “I’m—I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I dinnae mean?—”

“Louder,” Michael barked, his tone brooking no argument.

“I’m sorry!” the man practically shouted, his knees trembling under Michael’s glare.

Satisfied, the laird lowered his sword, though his grip on the hilt remained firm. He turned to the nearest guard. “Take him to the dungeons. He can sit there and think about his recklessness.”