Page 24 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

She shifted in her seat, the soft rustle of fabric breaking the silence. He lingered for one more heartbeat, letting the sight of her burn into his memory, then retreated as silently as he’d come.

She’s nae for ye, Michael. She’s trouble. A distraction. And ye’ve nay room in yer life for either.

But even as he lay down, the ghost of her lingered. Her beauty, her defiance, the way her presence filled a room without even trying.

And despite every reason he gave himself to let her go, he couldn’t.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Wantin’ is a dangerous thing.

Freya knew that well, as she was sitting curled in the armchair near the hearth, with a book balanced on her lap. She wasn’t reading it, though—not really. Her eyes skimmed the words, but they didn’t register. Her mind was too preoccupied with thoughts ofhim.

Michael. The laird.

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the book as the memory of the kiss surged forward, unbidden and unstoppable. It had been a mistake. She knew that. She knew it, because she wanted more of it. It was also dangerous because she had to take care of her sisters. Nothing took precedence over that. But knowing it didn’t stop the warmth from flooding her at the thought of it, the way his lips had pressed against hers, firm and demanding.

The sound of opening doors brought her back to the present moment. She tensed, then looked up to see the laird stepping into the room, his broad frame filling the doorway as if the castle itself could not contain him. He paused, looking around, then his eyes landed on her.

“Freya,” he greeted her, his voice rumbling through the room like distant thunder. Her body immediately reacted to it, and she hated that it did.

“Me laird,” she replied, snapping the book shut and standing quickly. “I dinnae ken that anyone else might be in here. I’ll leave ye to it.”

She made to gather her things, but his hand shot up in a halting gesture. “Ye’ll do no such thing,” he said firmly. “Stay. A library should be for all who seek it, nae just those with titles.”

Freya hesitated, clutching the book to her chest. “Are ye sure? I daenae wish to intrude upon yer solitary moments.”

He took a step closer. “Ye’re nae intrudin’, lass. If ye wish to read in silence, I’ll nae say a word to ye. But daenae let me chase ye from this place.”

His voice was unusually gentle and it surprised her. She met his eyes, then she nodded, sinking back into her chair.

“Thank ye,” she murmured, reopening her book. He sat opposite her, with his own book.

She watched him for a moment, then spoke as if she was unable to resist the temptation to do so. “Ye read like a man marchin’ into battle.”

He glanced up only for a second, then turned a page with slow precision. “Well… books are nae meant to be coddled.”

She huffed a chuckle. “Really? I think,” she added cautiously, “that ye just daenae like bein’ watched while ye do.”

A muscle in his seemed to tick, but he merely returned his attention to his book. “A man’s thoughts are his own.”

She reached for another volume, more to occupy her hands than from real interest. “And yet, here ye are, with books that allow ye to borrow another man’s thoughts.”

His fingers lingered on the page. For a moment, she thought she had poked him enough for another response, but he merely shrugged and resumed reading.

“What is it ye’re readin’?” she asked, curious.

“A book.”

She bit back a smile. “Aye, I gathered as much.”

His expression, everything about him warned her against prying. But she couldn’t help it. Not now that he was here.

“Ye daenae strike me as the type to enjoy frivolities,” she ventured a pretty accurate guess.

His eyes lifted once more, sharper this time.” And what is it ye think I enjoy, then?”

Her fingers tightened around the book she was holding. “Duty. Discipline. Perhaps a fine whisky. But if ye’re readin’ only out of obligation, I wonder why ye’d bother.”