Page 18

T he sabbath dawned damp and cold, so cold that Callum’s breath hung mistily in the air ahead of him as he trudged up the hill to the wood store.

Two days had passed since that fateful afternoon. Days in which Callum did everything in his power to keep distance between himself and Frida. Not because he wanted to avoid her, but because he no longer trusted himself in her presence.

No one else was about at this early hour. Even the cooing of the woodpigeons sounded muted. Above his head, grey clouds scuttled across a grey sky. Callum shivered a little, despite the warmth of his blue cloak. But cold was good. Cold kept his senses sharp and alert.

Exactly as he needed them to be.

He had almost kissed her, that afternoon in the solar. He’d been just moments away from tilting his head and claiming her sweet lips with his own, giving in to the craving that had haunted him ever since his arrival at Ember Hall.

But then she had spoken words about doing one’s best, invoking the strict moral code by which Callum’s mother had raised him. And Callum had floundered.

How could he be doing his best when he was lying to the woman he wanted to kiss?

How could he be doing his best when a boy who believed in him lay injured, fighting for his life?

How could he be doing his best when Frida, if she knew the truth, would doubtless order his arrest?

Were it not for this new knowledge about Tristan’s time in Scotland, Callum wondered if he might, in a moment of weakness, have confessed all to Frida.

For living like this was purgatory. And the longer he spent at Ember Hall, the more entrenched in his heart she became.

Even as he took steps to avoid her, he lived for those moments when he glimpsed her hurrying across the yard, her silvery hair tumbling down her slender back, her head held high and proud.

But how could he pledge his love to a woman whose own brother may well have ordered the destruction of Kielder Castle, initiating the siege which saw so many innocent lives lost?

He could not.

His hand wrapped around the smooth wood of the axe handle and he swung it upwards, relishing in the moment of greatest power, when the heavy metal axe head hovered at its highest point. He brought it forcefully down and a log splintered in two, falling in the damp grass at his booted feet.

Damn Tristan de Neville to hell.

Callum grunted with satisfaction. At least he could depend on physical labour to vent his surging frustration.

There was no shortage of work to be done.

And with Gregor gone, Arlo laid up and Andrew tending to him, Callum was determined to pull enough weight for the four of them—making amends for his deception in the only way he could.

At least Arlo was recovering, he reflected, positioning a new log on the stump and readying his stance.

The boy had regained consciousness some hours after Frida had tied off her last careful stitch.

Callum was simultaneously overjoyed and over-anxious lest he say something—in pain or delirium—that gave them away.

As soon as he was decently able, Callum had Arlo moved from the solar to a comfortable pallet in their loft above the stables.

It was safer for him, for all of them, to be away from the main house.

Frida came twice a day to check on his progress and change his dressing.

At such times, Callum had given Andrew and Arlo strict orders to hold their tongues and say as little as possible.

Andrew was thus far embracing his role as a tongue-tied simple peasant, and Arlo was still too weak for much conversation.

Callum swung his axe again, then piled the newly-cut logs inside a barrow. Physical exertion had begun to warm his limbs and he untied his cloak, relishing the cool breeze that whispered across his skin.

So far, his men remained safe. So far, no one suspected them. But he was playing with fire. At any moment they could be discovered.

If only they had left earlier, before Arlo was so grievously injured. It would be several days more before the lad could feasibly mount a horse. And Callum would not risk his recovery by stealing him away earlier. Nor could he abandon him.

He swallowed a curse, releasing all his energy into the fall of the axe and taking grim satisfaction in the cleanness of the cut.

“You shall have us ready for winter before the bell tolls for chapel,” spoke a voice he knew well.

Callum spun around, newly aware of his crumpled tunic and dishevelled appearance. He had washed his face and hair last night, but with no looking glass in the loft, he had not been able to shave, nor properly tame his unruly dark curls.

Frida stood just feet away beside a low stone wall. She was dressed in a rich gown of dark green covered with a fur-lined cloak in a lighter shade. Her long hair hung in a neat plait over one shoulder; her hood raised against the chill of the day.

He bowed. “Good morn, Frida.” The words came with difficulty, his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth.

She nodded in response. “Callum.” Her blue eyes sought his, but as soon as he met her gaze, she looked past him towards the log store. “I thank you for your efforts here.”

He shrugged awkwardly. “I must earn my keep. Especially with my men unable to do so.”

“All men are entitled to rest on the sabbath.” She smiled, but with more politeness than warmth.

He could not rest. If he sat still, his spiralling thoughts would soon drive him demented.

“’Tis my belief that the good lord knows when there is work to be done. And forgives a man for doing it.” Unable to gaze any longer at her beautiful face, he half-turned and gestured to the grey expanse of sky. “’Tis also my belief that we will have snow before the sennight is out.”

He felt rather than heard her gasp of surprise. “Snow? Before All Saints Day?”

“Have you ne’er wintered this far north?” His tone was glib, but he regretted it when he looked upon her face and saw fear stamped upon it.

“I have not.” She clutched her cloak around her.

“We shall be well prepared.” He nodded towards the log store.

“Aye, thanks to you.” She gave a ghost of a smile, which could not banish the anxiety from her blue gaze.

It occurred to him that he may no longer be at Ember Hall once the foulest of the winter weather arrived. Frida might have to face the frost and snow without him.

“I shall be sure to fix the barn roof before then.” He nodded emphatically, keen to provide all the reassurance he could amidst his sudden sense of loss.

Frida straightened up, wincing a little as she balanced her weight on her injured ankle. Again, Callum had a strong urge to offer her comfort.

An urge he pushed down with all the others.

“As I said, we are grateful for your efforts.” She nodded towards the low wall and he realised she had placed objects upon it. “I have brought you a skin of wine together with bread and cheese.”

He pursed his lips, not liking to think of Frida waiting upon him. Nor of her giving him special treatment.

“That was not necessary.”

He thought he saw her flinch, but her gaze remained steady and cool. He must have imagined it.

“You did not break your fast with the others in the great hall. Whene’er workers are in such demand that they must miss meals, ’tis my custom to bring refreshments out to them.”

No special treatment then. He was just another man working the grounds of Ember Hall. ’Twas what he wanted, so why was he disappointed to hear it?

“You are kind,” he muttered.

She tightened her lips. “I only follow the lessons my mother taught me.”

Her mother, the Countess of Wolvesley. He recalled a petite woman with a radiant smile. Another whose hospitality he had trampled upon.

“Thank you, Frida,” he said, summoning warmth into his words, for his torment made him as cold as ice.

She nodded once. “You must take care with that axe. It is sharp.”

She was about to leave. Suddenly he didn’t want her to go. This realisation cut through the clamour of his confusion like his axe splitting the log. He stepped forward. “Are you headed for chapel?”

“Aye, Mirrie and I will walk down into the village.”

“Not the chapel here?” He thought of the peaceful chamber with the vivid murals.

“’Tis important that we meet the local families.” She looked down at the damp grass for a moment. “Would you care to join us?”

He held her gaze. “Is that invitation extended to all who work at Ember Hall?”

This time she did not flinch. “Of course.”

His urge to say yes was in direct conflict with his rational mind. He must put distance between them to deny to himself the alluring connection which sparked in the air whenever she was near.

But he didn’t want to deny it any longer. He was tired of pretending to be something he was not. For this one moment in time, he wanted to own the desires of his heart.

He wanted to be special to her—not just another worker, nor just another knight.

He took a second step closer, noting her physical reaction to his increased proximity. A pulse fluttered at the side of her neck. How he wanted to kiss it.

“I would go with you chapel if I might sit beside you,” he said recklessly. He was suddenly uncaring of propriety, and e’en more uncaring of keeping up this pretence of indifference. He was already in trouble.

And he may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

“As a friend of the family, that would be entirely acceptable.”

He was stood directly in front of her now. Close enough to hear the raggedness of her breathing. He caught one of her gloved hands in his. “What if I was not a friend of your family? What if I was just Callum Baine, desirous of your company?”

“My company?” she echoed. Her pupils had grown wide and liquid, her sweet lips parted just enough for him to kiss them.

“More than your company,” he declared. Greatly daring, he brought her gloved fingers to his mouth. If she pulled away, he would release her.

But she didn’t.

He pressed his lips to her knuckles, gazing all the while into her darkened eyes. When she made no move to resist, his lips travelled upwards, skimming her wrist until he had pushed away the fabric of her sleeves. When his mouth brushed against the bare skin of her forearm, Frida gasped.

A gasp of pleasure.

She tasted of lavender.

He kissed her there again, wrapping his other arm around her waist and drawing her closer until less than an inch separated them.

“Frida,” he said.

Now that she was so close, so yielding, he was paralysed by his own desires.

’Twas not proper to embrace an unchaperoned young lady out in the open where anyone might come across them.

But for the life of him, he could not step away.

Moments passed. He closed his eyes, gathering both his strength and his commonsense.

And then both deserted him in a sudden wave as Frida raised herself onto her tiptoes and began kissing him.

Her mouth was soft and hesitant, her body warm against his.

With a groan of willing submission, he crushed his arms about her and kissed her back.

He was gentle at first, but as she wound her arms about his shoulders, desire defeated his reason and he parted her lips with his tongue, running his hands down her spine and pulling her against him.

The gift he had longed for was here, in his arms.

Frida de Neville. The girl he had loved from afar. The woman he had not been able to forget.

She pulled away, lifting her chin so that he was scorched by her blue gaze.

“I’m sorry.” The words fell from his lips.

A beat passed before she frowned. “Why so?”

“I should not have kissed you so.” His hands were still upon her body. He should release her, but he could not bring himself to do so.

“’Twas I that kissed you,” she whispered. “I only wanted a moment to check this was real.” Her nostrils flared. “And that it was what you wanted.”

In answer, he claimed her mouth again, slanting his lips over hers and kissing her thoroughly.

“It is what I want, Frida,” he said. “It is what I have wanted for the longest time.” His hands skimmed over the gentle curve of her hips.

He wanted to explore beneath the heavy folds of her cloak but knew that territory was forbidden.

And that his self-control hung on a knife edge.

She rested her palms against his chest, her touch burning through his tunic. “I vowed to live a life free of men.”

He regarded her steadily, drinking her in. Her eyes, glowing with passion. Her oval face, framed with loosened strands of silver hair.

“I would recommend you live a life free of other men,” he said, solemnly. “But I plead for leniency for this particular man.”

Her laughter brought a bolt of joy to his heart. “I believe I have already granted it.”

He kissed her again. His senses, which minutes earlier had registered the chill of the morn and the mournful cry of the birds, were now awash with Frida. Her lavender fragrance, the rich wool of her cloak, the way her body slotted against his so perfectly.

“Frida?” The call pierced the misty haze, causing them to spring apart.

“’Tis Mirrie,” Frida said. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, her eyes wide and dark. She rocked to one side and he shot out his arms to steady her.

He wanted to suggest that they hide in the wood store until Mirabel had gone, but deep down he knew that this precious interlude was already over. Frida was smoothing down her cloak and re-positioning her hood. Her breathing steadied as she looked over her shoulder.

“I’m here,” she called in return.

Callum made his own breathing slow down. For want of something to occupy himself with, he picked up his cloak and slung it back over his shoulders. A tall shape loomed out of the mist.

“There you are,” Mirabel said. She dropped into a small curtsy and Callum bowed in return.

Like Frida, Mirabel was dressed in a warm cloak with the hood pulled over her head.

He had not spent much time in Mirabel’s company, but he thought there was something odd about her eyes.

As if she was trying overly hard to repress a smile.

“Are you ready for chapel?” she asked Frida.

Composed as ever, Frida nodded. “Let us depart.”

Callum bowed again. “Fare thee well, ladies.”

Mirabel nodded and took Frida’s arm. The two of them walked away from him, down the slight incline to the courtyard, leaving Callum alone with his thoughts.

Before they disappeared around the corner, Frida threw him one last look, but she was too far away for him to properly see the expression on her face.

It looked as if she was smiling.

Smiling in farewell? Or smiling in anticipation of seeing him once more?

Callum turned back to the pile of waiting logs with a barely smothered growl of frustration. This turn of events did not make his path forward any clearer.

In fact, with every day that passed, his vision of the future became increasingly muddled.