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Callum’s lips parted as if he were about to speak, but no words came out.

His anguished eyes conveyed the tumult of his thoughts.

Frida resisted the urge to reach out to him and looked back down at the boy whose wellbeing hung in her hands.

The frayed edges of his linen tunic were now mattered with so much blood it was hard to distinguish cloth from skin.

“Ember Hall has always been a place of peace.” She spoke the truth of her heart without pause. “I never imagined bloodshed on our doorstep.”

“’Twas I who brought it to you. I am sorry for it.” His words came out in a fierce rush, the violence of his expression belying the sentiment he expressed.

Again, his show of emotion confused her. Callum Baine was a knight, surely well-used to seeing comrades fall. He must take his responsibilities to the boy seriously , she thought, especially if Arlo is now all alone in the world. And he had promised him protection.

Tentatively, she rinsed a cloth with warm water and began the painstaking process of cleaning the wound.

It was deep, and she must not risk starting the bleeding up again.

The actions soothed her. ’Twas a relief to fix her attention on something other than the handsome man kneeling opposite, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her fingers.

Jennifer returned, her footsteps quick and light across the stone flags. As she laid out a needle, thread and a jar of honey on the low table, her hazel eyes sought Frida’s.

“Lord Jonah is in the great hall. He said to tell you that the man, Gregor, got away.”

Frida knew a swell of frustration, but Callum’s reaction was more extreme. He rose to his feet and turned away from them both, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

“Lord Jonah asked if we should send the guards after him?”

Frida bit down on her lip. She was minded to refuse, but Callum appeared in sore need of justice. Her mind raced with indecision, for she had been resolved to preside over Ember Hall without ever deferring to a man’s judgement.

But her father had always taught her that a wise leader must adapt to changing circumstance.

“What do you say, Callum?” she asked, softly.

Still facing away from her, he released his fists and lifted his chin. “I say your guards are better placed defending Ember Hall than in chasing a worthless man far and wide.”

She nodded her agreement, still carefully prying Arlo’s tattered tunic away from the knife wound. Her left arm stung beneath the bandage and she sent up prayers that it would not impede her more.

“Very well. I dare say he will not return. If he does, the guards should take him prisoner.” She lifted her gaze back to Jennifer. “Can you see that the message is delivered?”

Jennifer nodded, but her expression remained anxious.

“What is it?” Frida asked.

“Lord Jonah said something else as well.” The maid swallowed. “He said the guard told him that Gregor spoke with a Scottish brogue.”

Frida paused, one hand in the basin of cooling water. “Did the guard think him a Scot?” Her eyes flew to Callum, who stood curiously still. “Is it possible that you rode here with a Scotsman? On a quest to protect us from increased Scottish raids?”

Her mind immediately conjured visions of musclebound highland warriors, robed in tartan, shrieking vengeance as they stormed across the hills. Mayhap her father had not been wrong to order fortifications be built at Ember Hall.

But when Callum turned to her, he looked unperturbed. “We live close to the border, this far north.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Bloodlines are mixed. ’Tis true e’en of the French and the English. And in the most noble households.”

Again, he did not answer my question.

But she could not deny the truth of his words.

A faint moan from Arlo chased away all such thoughts. It was good news if the boy was regaining consciousness. But ’twould be better still if she could stitch his wound before he fully recovered his senses.

“Pass me the needle,” she said quickly to Jennifer.

“I have already threaded it,” the girl replied.

Frida worked quickly, closing her mind to the horrors of the gaping wound and the layers of muscle she could glimpse through the ragged flesh.

She did not allow doubts over her competence, nor the neatness of her stitching to take over.

And when she had finished, she scooped up honey and wadded it into the wound before swathing it with bandages.

The boy perchance had a long journey of recovery before him, but she had done all she could.

All she knew how.

Her head dropped with both fatigue and a wave of distress which came in place of the adrenaline that had fuelled her actions thus far. Callum clearly held himself responsible for this young man. And Frida felt the same.

But was she equipped to restore balance when so much harm had been wreaked?

In times past she might have looked to the spirits for an answer. Now she stood alone. And she had never felt the isolation more.

She closed her eyes to ward off tears that were already brimming.

Shock , the rational part of her mind declared.

Callum’s voice broke through her growing sorrow. “Jennifer, might you fetch us some wine?”

As the girl’s footsteps passed through the chamber, Callum’s warm hand fastened about her wrist. She sensed him drawing closer and it took all her remaining strength not to rest her aching head against his muscular chest. To seek comfort in one so willing to offer it.

“You did well,” he said, softly.

Frida opened her eyes, relieved that no tears spilled down her cheeks. She sniffed and inclined her head towards the boy. “We must ensure no fever sets in.”

Callum nodded. He had come to rest on the rug beside her, not so very much closer than they had been while she tended to Arlo. But now his body was angled towards Frida.

His hand remained about her wrist, anchoring her to hope and banishing the fears that flickered at the edge of her consciousness. She breathed in woodsmoke from the fire, mingled with Callum’s particular masculine scent.

“You have given him a chance.” His voice was thick.

She nodded, swallowing down a lump of emotion. “Let us hope, a strong chance.”

“Aye.” His brown eyes looked down into hers, as if calling her home.

Without shifting his gaze, his hand left her right wrist and skimmed up over the length of her arm, sending flickers of awareness through her stiff body.

When his palm cupped her cheek, she could do naught but lean into it, batting her eyelids shut as his thumb carefully nudged away a stubborn tear. “Frida,” he said.

With one word he lit a fire inside her.

Her eyes flew open to find his face inches from hers. Acting purely on instinct, she reached up to place her own hand over his. Her breath caught in her throat as their fingers entwined.

“You are remarkable,” he whispered. “I knew it from the first.”

A smile hovered around her lips, despite knowing all the reasons she should dispute his praise. For one, the proof of her skill with Arlo remained to be seen. For two, she had solemnly vowed to live a life clear of men.

But this man had found a place in her heart, however much she might try to deny it.

“I simply do my best.” She paused, anticipation tingling down her spine. “As we all must.”

Her heart raced beneath the bodice of her dress at the notion—the crazy notion—that he might press his lips upon hers. But in another moment, his face had clouded over and he was drawing away from her.

“Aye,” he said. “We all must.”

Frida felt a blush heat her cheeks, but ’twas not from the fire. What had she said that was wrong? She swallowed and attempted to straighten her aching limbs; she had been kneeling so long that a cramp was setting in. She put a hand to her skirts before realising that both were covered in blood.

Callum rose up with enviable ease and folded his hands behind his back as he looked down at Arlo.

“I will watch over him.” His voice was gruff.

Frida blanched. Was she being dismissed?

From the solar of her own house?

She was at a disadvantage on the floor while he loomed over her so. Using the table as a support, she hefted herself onto her feet, stumbling a little on her weak ankle. Immediately Callum came to her aid.

“Steady,” he said.

But he did not meet her eye and his touch was perfunctory; there was no tenderness to it.

She mustered her dignity, ignoring the stains on her dress. “I can manage, thank you.”

A movement at the door caught her eye. It was Jennifer, carrying a tray with two goblets and a pitcher of wine.

Wine that she did not want.

Frida lifted her chin. “Thank you, Jennifer.” She fixed her gaze on the servant, not allowing herself to even glance at the knight stood by the fire. “And thank you for your help. Alas, I am needed elsewhere, but I am sure Sir Callum will be glad to partake of refreshment.”

With that, she hobbled from the chamber.

Mayhap Sir Callum would enjoy the company of the pretty serving wench while he drank his wine.

Frida did not allow herself to care.