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Her smile faded a little. “Now, I believe nobody comes at all, me Lady.”

Freya looked down at the twins. “Well, we’ve come.”

“Aye,” Brigid said, glancing toward the far archway with a sly little smile. “So ye have.”

Freya shifted the baby in her arms when she caught sight of Evander and the men training nearby. Even from where she stood, she could see every muscle move as he went through the familiar motions. His shoulders rippled, sheets of muscle shifting subtly across his back as he lunged, spun, parried. Sweat dripped tantalizingly down his broad chest and⁠—

She turned her head away when Brigid let out a stifled laugh.

“It is… lovely out here, is it nae?”

“Oh aye, very lovely,” Brigid said with a coy smile. “The scenery, in particular. I wouldnae dream of keepin’ ye from looking, me Lady.”

She set Archer down beside his sister.

The training continued, and Freya kept glancing over, trying to commit the image to memory. It was the last thing she should’ve been doing. What she should have been doing was paying attention to Archer, who had started crawling after a dog that was running nearby.

Freya’s breath caught in her throat. Sweat slicked Evander’s bare shoulders, catching the light with each turn. The scar ran pale from collarbone to ribs, cutting across a chest broad as a door. Muscle shifted along his back with every swing, and when he pushed the dark hair from his brow, Freya entirely forgot how to breathe.

Then came Archer’s sharp cry. She whirled around so fast that her loose braid nearly slapped her in the face. Archer had fallen while trying to crawl after the dog and lay on his side.

“Archer!” she cried, rushing to the boy.

She cooed softly, scooping him up into her arms. Her lips brushed the top of his head as her eyes carefully scanned him for any sign of injury.

A gasp escaped her lips. A scratch sat above Archer’s eyebrow. It wasn’t that deep, and she couldn’t see much blood. But still, she’d let him get injured while she was supposed to be caring for him.

Guilt curdled into a knot inside her.

The crying only upset Amelia, who was never the type to cry as hard as her brother. Almost as if she knew he was in distress, she started crying. Soon, it was a contest between the twins to see who could cry the loudest.

“We must take him to the healer.”

22

How could she have allowed herself to get so distracted? She could barely believe what she had done! She had never been so irresponsible, and now Archer was hurting.

No, he was hurt. The poor babe had a bleeding scratch above his eyebrow that hadn’t been there before. It never would’ve been there, had she been paying attention.

Archer continued crying and squirming in her arms. She looked at Brigid, who was now gently bouncing Amelia. The girl didn’t have a scratch on her, but she was upset that her brother had been hurt. Understandably so.

Skye would never have let this happen.

The thought came unbidden, and it stung worse than Freya wanted it to.

Her sister had taken Lily into her heart as if she’d birthed the girl herself, and Freya had never once seen a scratch on that child that Skye hadn’t already kissed better before anyone else noticed. Skye knew every cry, every mood, every warning sign. She’d have seen Archer crawling off the plaid before he’d gone two feet.

Skye had been made for this. Emily too, with her calm hands, her endless patience, and a houseful of bairns who adored her.

And Freya? Freya was the aunt. The one who visited with sweets and stories and handed the little ones back when they fussed. She’d held a great many babies, but she had never been the one they truly depended on.

Now, two of them did, and she’d failed them within a week.

“Where is the healer, Brigid?”

“The west tower, me Lady. Top of the stairs.” Brigid hurried after her with Amelia in her hands. “Me Lady, slow down, ye’ll trip on yer skirts⁠—”

“I’ll nae slow down.”