Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
She was caught off guard by the offer, by the quiet sincerity in his voice. Before she could respond, he inclined his head. “Good night, Ingrid.”
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing in the cool autumn air, watching him walk to his cottage.
He was a mystery, indeed, and one she found herself more and more determined to unravel.
Raff pushed open the door to his cottage, stepping into the dim interior. The fire had burned low, filling the space with quiet warmth. He moved to the bed and dropped onto it with a sigh, staring up at the wooden beams above.
This village was different. Everywhere else he had gone since his wish, people had barely looked at him, as if he were a shadow slipping through their lives. Here, they acknowledged him, accepted him. He was no stranger to their kindness, no ghost on the fringe of existence.
Was there magic at work here? Some unseen force that made them welcome him rather than ignore him like all the places he had wandered before?
For the first time in years, he considered the thought of staying, of calling this place home. It was foolish, he knew. His wish still lingered like a curse, unsettled and unresolved. But something about this place… something about her made him wonder if it would be wise to remain.
Ingrid.
His mind drifted to the sharp wit in her eyes, the way her fingers worked through wool with practiced ease, even with two fingers fused, the stubborn lift of her chin when she questioned him. No woman had appealed to him, not since his wish had cursed him with an existence of solitude. He hadn’t even cared for the woman he had been betrothed to, but that was not unusual with an arranged marriage. It was one thing freedom had brought him that he hadn’t minded. Yet, with Ingrid, there was something he felt, a pleasant pull he had not expected.
He closed his eyes and released a slow breath.
Whatever this village held, whatever fate had brought him here, he would find the answers soon enough.
Sleep took him, Ingrid still lingering in his thoughts.
CHAPTER 5
The morning sun hung low in the sky, its golden light casting long shadows over the field where Raff worked. Autumn’s crisp air did little to cool him as he drove the hoe into the earth, sweat glistening on his bare chest and arms. His muscles tensed with each movement, his mind drifting in places it shouldn’t.
Ingrid.
He had fallen asleep with her in his thoughts, and here she was again, lingering. It was a dangerous thing, to think of a woman like that. He had spent a year feeling nothing for anyone, untouched by desire, untouched by the weight of connection. His foolish wish had seen to that.
And yet, here in this village, something had changed.
A shout from the village broke through his thoughts. Then another. Urgent voices, rising in alarm. He straightened, his breath still steady despite the hard work.
Then he saw them.
Four warriors on horseback rode into the village, their presence like a dark storm rolling in. Raff’s grip tightened on the hoe. Even from a distance, he saw the way the villagers stilled, how the usual bustle of morning tasks faded into wary silence. Some women clutched their children’s hands, ushering them back toward their cottages. Men who had been repairing the thatch paused, shoulders rigid with unease.
The warriors rode past the fields, past the smithy, their attention fixed on a gathering of women working the wool outside a cottage. Among them stood Ingrid.
Raff wiped the sweat from his brow, his eyes narrowing as he watched one of the warriors dismount. He strode toward the women, his boots stirring dust in the dry path. The others remained on horseback, their expressions blank, though their presence alone sent a ripple of unease through the villagers.
“We’ve no need for raw wool any longer,” the warrior announced, his voice sharp and clipped. “Laird Chafton demands the finished plaids and blankets. You will turn them over immediately.”
A murmur swept through the gathered women, but it was Ingrid who stepped forward, her chin lifted in defiance.
“We were given no warning of this,” she said, her voice steady but edged with anger. “The agreement was for wool. If Laird Chafton wants finished goods, he’ll need to pay for them.”
A few villagers exchanged nervous glances, their unease thickening in the air like a coming storm. Laird Chafton was not a man known for fair dealings, nor was he one to be denied.
The warrior sneered. “Everything here belongs to Laird Chafton.”
Someone turned and sprinted toward the fields, calling Raff’s name. He didn’t hesitate. He tossed the hoe aside and started for the village, moving quickly, his body still humming from the morning’s labor. But as he neared, he slowed, instinct taking over. Warriors demanded strength. Confidence. Not reckless haste.