Page 55 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

Frowning, she bent and picked it up, her heart giving an uneasy thump as she turned it over. There was no seal, no sign of who had left it.

Slowly, she unfolded the note.

Meet me in the garden. By the willow tree. —M.

Michael.

Freya’s pulse quickened.

She glanced toward her sisters. They hadn’t stirred.

Why would Michael call for her at this hour? The castle was on high alert, a traitor hidden within its walls, yet he wanted to meet in the gardens—alone? Was this the walk he had in mind?

She hesitated only a moment before grabbing her robe, slipping it over her nightdress, and quietly stepping out into the corridor.

The castle’s torches burned low as she made her way toward the gardens. Her heart thudded with every step, though whether it was from apprehension or anticipation, she wasn’t sure.

When she reached the outer courtyard, the night air hit her, crisp and cool. The gardens stretched ahead, darkened shapes of hedges and flowers shifting gently in the breeze. The great willow loomed ahead, its long branches swaying gently in the night breeze.

A shadowed figure stood beneath it. Her breath hitched.

Something was wrong.

Even in the dim light, something about the figure’s stance, its shape, felt… off. Michael carried himself with rigid control, always poised, always sure. This man, whoever he was, stood differently, his shoulders hunched, his weight shifting uneasily.

A warning prickled at the back of her neck.

But it had to be Michael. Who else would it be? Her mind was playing tricks on her in the dark.

She swallowed, forcing herself forward. “Michael?” she called softly.

The figure didn’t move. It didn’t answer.

Steeling herself, she stepped forward. The moment she did, the figure lunged. A rough hand clamped around her wrist.

Freya gasped, instinct kicking in as she wrenched back, but the grip was unyielding. It was iron-strong, brutal. Panic shot through her as she opened her mouth to scream, but another hand clamped over it, muffling the sound.

The scent of sweat, leather, and something else hit her in a nauseating wave. Then, a voice, low and mocking in her ear.

“Clever lass. Ye came all on yer own.”

Leighton.

A bolt of terror struck her like lightning. She twisted, fought, her bare feet digging into the damp earth as she struggled to wrench free. She kicked out blindly, her nails clawing at his wrist, but he barely flinched. His hold only tightened.

Nay, nay, nay!

There was a sudden press of cloth against her mouth, and a thick, cloying scent filled her lungs. It was sickly sweet, suffocating.

Freya’s head spun violently. The garden blurred, the towering willow warping and twisting like a specter in the dark. Her limbs weakened, her strength ebbing away like water slipping through her fingers.

She fought to stay conscious, to stay upright, but her body betrayed her. Leighton’s grip was the only thing keeping her from crumpling to the ground. Her vision darkened.

The last thing she heard was his voice, a sinister whisper against her ear.

“Sweet dreams, lass.”

Then, the world vanished into blackness.