Page 24

Callum could hardly believe it. Within moments he experienced a whirlwind of emotions.

Admiration for her pluck went into battle with a swell of anger at her foolish disregard for her own safety.

He wanted to shout at her to go back inside, but knew she would not listen.

And anyway, the wind would snap up his words and carry them away before she had chance to hear them.

There was nothing for it but to increase his stride, gradually closing the distance between them.

“Frida,” he shouted into the cold.

She stopped her halting progress, her cloak flying up as she turned to face him. Snow stung his eyes as the wind burned his cheeks, but he continued without pausing until they were mere steps apart.

Frida was breathing hard, her cheeks red with cold and effort. Ice crystals had formed on the top of her hood.

“Callum,” she said, as if she was greeting him across a banqueting hall.

“What are you doing out here?” He was breathless, and the question came out more harshly than he intended.

“I am out for a stroll.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

“You should not be out in this cold.” He stamped his feet, to bring feeling back to his toes.

She gave a little shake of her head. “Go inside, Sir Callum, if the weather bothers you so.”

He could scarce believe it as she turned from him. “Frida,” he shouted again, stumbling in the snow as he raced to catch up with her.

This time her blue eyes blazed as she spun around. “What?”

“’Tis dangerous out here.”

“Dangerous for our livestock. You know as well as I do that they will die unless I take them to shelter.”

“That is why I am here.” He spluttered as the wind took his breath.

“I see.” She pursed her lips. “Then you can help me.”

“I can manage alone.”

“They are my animals, Callum.” She turned once again, but this time the demands on her ankle were too great and she stumbled. At the last moment, Callum saved her from a tumble into the snow.

He knew again the rush of feeling as he held her close, even though many folds of rough, half-sodden material separated them, even though the wind whipped around them still and Frida was looking at him with something like vexation burning in her eyes.

He could see how much this meant to her.

“You are a stubborn woman, Frida de Neville.”

“It has been said before.”

“And no doubt will be again.” He helped her upright. “You will allow me to help you?”

She nodded once. “If you promise to make no more protests about me staying out in the cold.”

“Not another word.” He paused, glancing upwards in surprise. “The wind has dropped.”

They were no longer buffeted by strong, freezing gusts. Instead the white world around them stood still and strangely silent, as if waiting for something.

“That is good.” Frida sniffed and pulled her cloak more tightly about her.

“Aye.” At the moment, it certainly seemed better than the alternative.

But Callum was not convinced all was well.

The grey clouds hovering overhead promised more snow about them.

“Where are we headed?” He knew the cattle were kept in a field to the left, nearest the path to the village, whereas the sheep grazed the land approaching the cliffs.

“One of our tenant farmers brought in the cattle he tends yesterday. He is a country man and must have smelled the snow before it fell.” Frida threw him a smile. “’Tis the sheep I am most worried about.”

Callum bowed his head. “Then let us put your worries to rest.” He ducked his head to better meet her eye. “Can I take your arm, milady?”

“Are you fretting about me falling again?”

“Not at all,” he lied. Without waiting for permission, he took her gloved hand and tucked it inside his elbow. “’Tis a handy excuse for me to walk close beside you, that is all.”

“I will accept that,” Frida replied, primly. But she leaned her weight against him as they trudged forwards.

Callum felt that as an honour. There are not many people , he mused, that brave Frida would allow herself to lean on .

But no sooner had this thought formed, than another occurred to him.

Frida would not lean on me if she knew the truth of my identity, and the real reason I first came to Ember Hall.

But now was not the time to dwell on such matters. The most important thing was to rescue the sheep and see Frida safely home.

The sheep field was bathed in a dim yellow light when they finally crested the hill. Trees reached their snowy branches into the cold air and the wind had died to a mere whisper.

“There they are.” Frida pointed to a huddle of shapes beside what could only be a snow-covered stone wall.

The sheep had black faces, which helped them stand out against the snow. Otherwise, their task would have been impossible.

“There is a hut to our right,” she continued. “We must first fetch the crooks so we can better steer the sheep down the hill.”

“Pray, lead the way, milady.”

He followed her steady footsteps to the small wooden hut with a perfect blanket of snow covering the roof.

Frida unfastened the door and they both stepped inside, grateful for shelter.

Callum looked about him at a tidy shepherd’s store, furnished simply and sparsely.

A row of curved crooks had been propped against the far wall.

Frida held one out towards him and as Callum took it from her, his fingers brushed against hers, unleashing a wave of feeling which coursed all the way up his arm.

“Frida,” he said again, softly this time.

When she turned her eyes upon him, he could see they reflected his desire.

She feels it too, this connection between us.

Of course she must, for why else would they have shared such a powerful kiss?

Callum swallowed, newly aware of their close proximity.

Of the unlikelihood of us being disturbed.

He reached out a hand and touched her cold cheek. “About yesterday,” he tried.

She leaned into his palm, just for a moment, before turning her face away. “Let us not talk of that now.”

The rejection stung, although he forced a genial smile. “Of course.”

Her gaze snagged his. “Later,” she whispered. “When the sheep are safe.”

And his heart soared again.

“Later.” He nodded, grasping the crook and following her back out of the hut, the snow crunching beneath his feet.

But what will I say, later , he demanded of himself as Frida fastened the door.

Will I declare the truth of my heart? That I’m falling in love with her?

For that was at the root of it all. This was no mere passing fancy for a pretty young woman. I love Frida de Neville.

A sharp breeze lifted his cloak away from his body, bringing the cold sting of reason to his racing thoughts.

Nay, he could not declare it. He had no business doing so. For he was still a spy for Robert the Bruce.

The enemy of her family.