Page 11

But when Callum removed his cloak and hooked it from a branch, she couldn’t help her gaze being drawn to his shoulders. Beneath the fabric of his light-coloured tunic, his muscles rippled as he reached and dipped. It was like a graceful dance. And she, an audience of one.

“’Tis hot work,” he commented.

Frida hurriedly switched her gaze to his brimming basket. Had he seen her watching? She would have to hope otherwise, else wilt with embarrassment. “You have done well,” she allowed.

He grinned at her. “This is not my first time.”

“Oh.” Frida’s cheeks grew hot and she cursed herself for it. Their exchange seemed intimate, bold even.

But also very compelling.

“May I ask you a question?”

Surprised, she answered faintly. “You may.”

Callum rested one hand against the trunk of the tree. His face was flushed with hard work and sunshine. It was hard to keep her gaze from the suntanned triangle of flesh visible at the top of his tunic. “Do you really not remember me?”

She should have been ready for this. Should have an answer prepared, one that would save both her blushes and her heart.

Instead Frida turned away and reached for another branch, her fingers shaking. Could she tell an outright lie?

“From Wolvesley, you say?”

“Aye.” His eyes burned into her back. “I remember you well.”

Her grip slipped and the branch sprang upwards. She ducked her head as the loosened apples showered downwards, falling on the soft grass with small thuds.

“Damnation,” she swore, not quietly enough. She was hot, uncomfortable and embarrassed.

But Callum was by her side in an instant, swooping down to pick up the apples and place them carefully on a flattened tree stump. “The horses will thank you for these,” he said.

“Thank you.” She swallowed as he straightened and turned to face her. They were so close she could make out each one of his long, dark eyelashes.

“We danced together,” he said abruptly.

“Did we?” Her heart hammered beneath the bodice of her dress.

“And we talked.” A frown flickered about his brow. “I dare to claim our conversation was worth remembering.”

Aye. It was that and more. She had ne’er been able to chase it from her mind.

Frida put a hand to her brow. “I apologise.” Her voice quavered. “There were many balls at Wolvesley. Many dances.”

“Many conversations?” he finished for her.

She nodded, unable to look again at his honest brown eyes.

“As you know, I suffered a fall.”

“I know it well.” He reached out as if to clasp her hand and then thought better of it. Awkwardness hung in the air between them. “I am pleased and relieved to see you so recovered.”

“I am not the same person I was.” The words burst from her before she could stop them. “I am much changed.” She glanced upwards and was immediately a prisoner of his dark, intense gaze.

“Nay.” He shook his head. “You are Frida de Neville. I see you still.”

His proclamation unlocked something inside her. Something reckless and ill-advised.

Frida reached up and untied the ribbons of her bonnet.

Her hair had already fallen free of its pins.

She tossed the bonnet on the grass and shook out her long tresses.

“My hair was all shaved off by the barber-surgeon who saved my life. When it grew back, it had lost all colour.” She heaved a breath.

“My ankle was all but shattered. The physician told me I would never walk again.” She straightened her shoulders, swallowing down a lump of sorrow.

“I shall certainly never again dance at Wolvesley.”

She had expected, e’en hoped, that her bold words would shock him. But if anything, Callum leaned closer. “Your hair is beautiful,” he whispered. “You are beautiful. And I will carry the memory of our dance always in my heart.”

Her heart fluttered and jumped as if she had fallen from a log.

This is not supposed to be happening.

“And yet, you do not remember me?” he continued. It was a question, not a statement. She could see the doubt flickering like a flame in his eyes. “I should not take this as a personal slight given the injuries you suffered. But I confess that my heart grieves this loss.”

Frida’s mouth went dry. How could she continue to deny it?

How could she continue to deny him? The one man who had made her feel whole and happy. But she was not ready to open herself up to further pain, nor make herself vulnerable when she had worked so hard to recover her strength.

“There are things I have forgotten.” She indicated her head, even though the lump received from her fall was no longer present. It was true, kind of, for Mirrie always declared that Frida had forgotten how to laugh and hope and be carefree.

But she had not forgotten Callum, nor any of the events or people in her life. Though she knew this was how he would interpret her words.

“Of course.” Regret washed over his chiselled features.

What right did he have to feel regretful, more than two years after the event?

What right did he have to come here and disturb the peace Frida had worked so hard to achieve?

A question pricked at her mind. “You say you are close with Tristan?”

His eyes widened, mayhap surprised by her change of subject. “We trained together at Lindum.”

“And you became friends? That is why you came to Wolvesley that time?”

Was it her imagination, or did his expression harden?

“Of course.”

It was Frida’s turn to frown. “I would have thought my brother would have informed his friends that his sister still lived.”

A beat passed. “The fault was mine. I expected the worst and was most grieved by it.” He tightened his lips. “I went straight from Wolvesley to fight in France. My path has not crossed with Tristan’s since.”

His answer was delivered smoothly, but Frida was still not satisfied.

“And when Tristan asked you to come to Ember Hall, for whose protection was that?”

Callum’s gaze did not falter. Above them, a blackbird broke into a piping song. “He asked only that I ride to the aid of his family.”

There was something he was not telling her. Knowledge slid inside her, like a knife into butter. It was the sort of insight Frida had been used to receiving when she had the Sight. But this was no sixth sense. This knowledge stemmed from the fact that deep down, she knew this man. And he knew her.

And they both knew that neither one of them was being entirely truthful.

Without shifting her gaze, Frida took in his dishevelled hair and the lines of tiredness running around his eyes. Why would he deceive her?

Why would any man ride out to the far north of the country, sleep in an old hayloft and spend the morning picking apples?

Frida’s stomach flipped. Could it be that Sir Callum Baine was interested in her? Just as she had once dared to believe?

Her breath caught in her throat. For a long, dizzying moment, she pondered this possibility, before pushing it resolutely away. As she did, she broke Callum’s gaze, looking instead at the trampled grass and the wicker baskets filled with glistening fruit.

She had come dangerously close to forgetting the most important thing.

She had come to Ember Hall to live a life free of men. Her hard-won strength and independence rested on this one fact.

“I see.”

Brimming over with annoyance, mostly with herself, Frida stepped around Callum and stalked over to the plum tree. Without pausing to think, she climbed the ladder, relieved to disappear into the laden branches and hide her flaming cheeks.

God’s bones. She didn’t have a basket.

So be it. She would gather the plums into a fold of her cloak.

Frida worked steadily, stripping the nearest branches and placing the plump purple fruit carefully into her cloak. Noises below indicated that Callum had also returned to the task in hand.

Good.

They would work, not talk.

She would just have to be careful never to talk to him alone again.

All too quickly, the plums threatened to spill out of her hastily-fashioned receptacle.

Frida began to lower herself down the ladder, moving slowly so as not to drop any.

She had taken less than two steps when the ladder moved beneath her, tipping her further into the tree.

She cried out, half in alarm and half in frustration, as the plums scattered.

“What is it?”

This was the last thing she needed; to look a further fool in front of him.

“’Tis nothing. I will right myself in a moment.”

But as her injured foot searched for the next rung, the ladder lurched again and this time Frida could not prevent her fall.

She scarcely had chance to scream as sharp branches whipped past her face and a rush of air lifted her skirts.

She braced herself for impact, but instead found strong arms closing around her.

Then Callum cried out as his feet slipped beneath him and they both landed on the soft grass; Frida’s face falling against the soft linen of his tunic.

His heart beat directly in her ear. Her breath mingled with his. She inhaled his scent of horses and leather. Long moments passed.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was gravelly.

“Nay.” She raised her head so that it hovered over his. “Are you?”

“Nay.” His eyes looked directly into hers.

As her panic subsided, Frida became aware of the hard muscles of his chest. His face was an open book. His lips inches away.

She could kiss him. If she wanted to.

She didn’t want to. It was a preposterous idea.

She tried to push herself up, but found her skirts tangled in his long legs.

“Wait,” he cautioned, twisting beneath her in an effort to free them both. Every inch of her lower body seemed welded with his and time stretched painfully before he finally rose to his feet and extended a hand to help her up.

Frida contemplated ignoring the hand, but she was shaken and could not deny a pain in her left arm.

“You are hurt,” Callum exclaimed as she came to stand beside him.

“It is but a scratch,” she replied automatically, although red blood dripped from her elbow.

Callum closed long fingers about her wrist, sending tremors through her as he examined the wound. “’Tis a deep cut. It must be tended to.”

“I can do it.” She wrestled with the desire the leave her wrist where it was. The better part of her knew she should pull away.

“You are a healer?”

“I have some training.” She must do something to alleviate this tension—this connection —between them. Her breath was coming so quickly it was as if she had run across the fields. “It is for that very reason that we are blessed with my brother Jonah’s presence,” she blundered.

Callum’s eyebrows raised a notch higher. “He is also hurt?”

“So he says.” Frida exerted great self-control in lifting her arm free of his fingers, but the sudden flow of warm, sticky blood brought a wave of dizziness upon her. She put her right hand to her forehead, staggering slightly.

“Steady.” Callum placed his hands on her shoulders, righting her once again. His concerned face swam before her. “You are losing a lot of blood.”

“’Tis nothing,” she persisted.

“’Tis only nothing if it is treated properly—and quickly.” He tore off a strip of his tunic and wrapped it tightly around her arm. It stung, but Frida was more distracted by the smooth expanse of bronzed flesh she could now see at his waist.

She averted her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Let us get you inside.”

“I can walk well enough,” she protested, feeling his arm come about her shoulders.

“You are swaying,” he pointed out.

She paused, recognising the truth of his words and wanting to right herself. “I am in shock, that is all.”

“Aye, and is shock not reason enough to merit some assistance? ’Tis a long walk to the main house.”

“I can manage,” she said, through gritted teeth. But when she started forwards, the grass beneath her rose up into a steep slope and her vision blurred.

Moments later, she was lifted snugly against Callum’s broad chest, her head resting on his broad shoulder. “We will make faster progress like this,” he declared, pre-empting her objection.

She tensed her body. “You are carrying me as if I am a child.”

“I am carrying you as if I am a knight,” he corrected her.

“But I do not want to be carried.” She did not speak the truth. Warmth from his body enveloped her.

“And I do not want to explain to your brother why I let you bleed out in the orchard.” He set off, long legs striding forwards. “I have carried men from the battlefield with lesser wounds.”

“That is a lie.” With her good hand, she beat him lightly on the chest. “Do not patronise me, Callum Baine.”

His voice trembled with laughter. “At least you remember my full name.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to admit that she remembered it all. Not only the dance they had shared, but the stolen glances across a crowded banqueting hall. The times she had lingered in the garden, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

That icy morning, when she had known it was risky to take her young horse out on the hunt.

Frida’s head spun and she closed her eyes against another spell of dizziness.

Callum was at once kind, loyal and attentive. And the man who had upended her life.

She couldn’t allow him into her heart a second time, even if his arms felt like home.