Page 29

T he two siblings faced one another across the great hall while Frida fought to keep her spiralling emotions in check.

When she had awoken that morn, she had thought herself a woman in love.

Now she was a woman under siege, and from her own brother at that.

A fire flickered in the grate but she had no desire to move closer to its blaze, nor to hold her damp cloak to the warmth.

Her hunger and thirst were forgotten as well.

Tristan had all the height and bearing of their father; the same thatch of thick blond hair, which curled just above his powerful shoulders, and the same piercing blue eyes.

Even his sworn enemy would call him handsome.

But it wasn’t just good looks that drew people to the future Earl of Wolvesley; energy and charisma radiated from him.

His bright smile was contagious; his determination to succeed was a key component in cementing his mighty reputation.

Little more than a year separated their births, and Frida had always thought that she would trust her brother with her life. Now she wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. She was no longer cold from her night in the shepherd’s hut; her whole being burned to be heard.

“It is no crime to be of Scottish descent,” she stated into the vast room, which was empty but for the two of them. Jonah was keeping his distance, though she had no doubt he would be listening nearby. Mirrie, who hated conflict, had melted away to the kitchens.

Tristan eyed a tapestried chair and she thought for a moment that he might go and sit down.

He had, after all, endured an arduous ride from Wolvesley in challenging conditions.

But the revered knight of the realm merely folded his arms across his chest and sighed.

“Mayhap not. But it is suspicious indeed to tell false tales about one’s descent. ”

Aye, she could not deny the truth of that.

And the question of why tore up her insides.

Frida felt like a little ship tossed this way and that in mighty waves.

She could not search for all the answers at once.

She must deal with the most pressing issue first. And that was undoubtedly the fact that the man she loved had been dragged away by armed soldiers and locked in the cellar by her brother.

The two men he’d travelled with, Arlo and Andrew, had been flung in there alongside him. For safety, Tristan had said.

“You knew Callum at Lindum,” she tried again. Trying to make sense of it as much as anything else. “You invited him to Wolvesley.”

A frown flickered across his brow. “I scarcely knew him at Lindum. And ’twas one of my instructors who pressed me to invite Baine for the yuletide celebrations.” His blue eyes narrowed. “That means Scottish treachery is embedded even within our most heralded institutions.”

Frida could not be less interested. “He and his men have been useful here.” She opened her arms, thinking of Callum helping her to bring in the fruit harvest and ploughing through the snow to rescue one lost lamb.

“They fixed the barn roof, chopped firewood, helped with the animals. One of them lies injured, e’en now. ”

Tristan let out a short bark of laughter. “I know all about that particular incident. But, sister, pray, may I take refreshment before we talk further? My throat is parched.” He looked about as if hoping Mirrie might magically materialise with a tray.

After all, Mirrie habitually anticipated Tristan’s every whim and wish. But not today.

Today, pure-hearted Mirrie would be almost as bewildered by this turn of events as Frida.

Frida fought off an urge to refuse. She wanted answers more than he wanted wine.

But he was, after all, her brother. This was his ancestral home.

And he had ridden here with some misguided notion of securing her safety.

Furthermore, she knew of old that there was no sense trying to reason with Tristan when he was hungry.

“I will ring for refreshments,” she said, stepping forward to pull at the bell rope. “Sit down,” she added, somewhat begrudgingly.

Tristan did so, stretching out his long legs and rotating his muscular shoulders. “You look in need of rest and refreshment yourself,” he observed. “And perchance a dry change of clothes?”

He was right. Her dress and cloak were both crumpled and damp, but she couldn’t bear to retire to her chamber with so many questions left unanswered. She made an impatient gesture. “Later.”

“I do not want you to catch a chill.”

She shook her head at him. “You sound just like Mother.”

He leaned forwards. “And you are acting most out of character. Why so much concern for the Scot?”

Because I love him.

She could not say that. Certainly not now. Instead, she perched on the edge of the adjacent chair and made an effort to steady her breathing. “Because he has been nothing but kind to me.”

Tristan let out another bark of laughter. “Sister, he came here to kill me.”

She could not believe it. Would not believe it. Her hair swung over her shoulders as she shook her head violently. “Nay.”

“Aye,” he corrected, firmly.

“You were not even here.”

He drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. “And that proved to be the first obstacle in his path.”

They both fell silent as Jennifer carried in the heavy tray and settled it carefully upon a low wooden table. Frida nodded her thanks and the serving girl curtsied respectfully before scurrying away.

Tristan fell upon the food like a man who was starving. He had always had a big appetite. She watched as his white teeth tore into the freshly baked bread and felt her own stirrings of hunger fade away.

It was unlikely that Callum would be enjoying food and drink down in the cold, dark cellar.

She cleared her throat. “Since arriving here, your friend Callum Baine has saved both the fruit harvest and our first flock of sheep. Why would he act in such a way if he intended harm to our family? Why would he not simply seek you elsewhere?”

Callum took a deep swig of watered wine. “I do not know. That is what I need to ask him.”

She ground her teeth with frustration. “But what makes you think he came here to kill you?” The words formed with difficulty and suddenly the reality of what she was saying—of what Tristan was accusing Callum of—settled within her.

Tristan had his faults, and as his older sister who had grown up beside him, Frida would happily list them to anyone prepared to listen. But he was no fool.

“Why do you think that?” she whispered.

“Because his accomplice told me everything.” Tristan placed his goblet on the table and turned to face her. “Allow me to ask you a question.”

Pulse pounding, she nodded her assent.

“Why did Baine tell you he was here?”

She struggled to remember; it all seemed so long ago. So irrelevant, given everything that had happened since. “He told me you sent him,” she muttered, her lips grown dry and her throat constricted with tension.

It must have been a lie.

Tristan held her gaze. “I knew that, of course, for Jonah sent me a letter detailing everything.” He shrugged. “But I wanted you to realise that he was deceiving you from the start.”

Frida couldn’t bear it. Hot tears sprang to her eyes, and she looked down at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap, so that Tristan wouldn’t see her distress.

His tone softened as he continued. “As soon as I received Jonah’s letter, I knew that both of you were in danger.

” Frida shook her head, still not prepared to accept this, but Tristan spoke on.

“Mayhap if the snow had not come, things would have played out differently. Baine is a clever man. A charming man.” Frida felt the full force of her brother’s gaze resting upon her and realised that he was offering her something of an excuse.

“Aye,” she could say, “he conned us most cleverly. That is why I so readily fell into his trap. Thank goodness you arrived in time to show me the truth.”

But she could not be grateful. She had believed Callum because she loved him. Loved him still. Could not accept his deceit.

“Because of the snow we had to take shelter in the forest. And there, we met Gregor.”

Now her eyes flew to his. She remembered the tall, angry man who had thrown the dagger at Arlo. “Gregor?”

Tristan nodded. “The man had the nerve to try and steal food from our camp fire. Yet he lacked the finesse to do so without being caught. We showed him leniency, at first. I would not see a man starve in the snow. Eat with us , we told him. And he did,” Tristan snorted.

“Right until the moment he tried to stab me in the back.”

Frida’s hands covered her face.

“Then the man spoke most freely and his Scots brogue became clear. He told us everything. How Callum Baine took his orders from Robert the Bruce himself. How they had ridden here with the express purpose of assassinating me.” Tristan tore off another hunk of bread and sat back in his chair.

“Clearly my absence from Ember Hall spoiled their plans. The information passed up country must have been false. A mix-up between myself and Jonah, perchance.” His lips twitched.

“Mayhap I should be grateful for Scottish incompetence.”

Frida felt as if she might be sick. Only the fact that there was nothing in her stomach kept her from retching.

“He has shown us nothing but kindness,” she whispered.

But in her mind’s eye, she saw the stash of gleaming weapons beneath Callum’s pallet in the hayloft, and she grew close to weeping once more.

“That may be so, sister. But we do not know what he was planning to do next.” Tristan chewed ruminatively and washed it down with another mouthful of wine. “Or rather we do know, but not the detail of it.”

“Nay.” Frida shook her head. She could not accept this; Tristan must have made some mistake. “Gregor was angry with Callum when he left. ’Tis clear to me that he must have lied.”

A log spat in the fire as if to accentuate her distress, but Tristan remained unruffled.

“Callum’s father is Rory Baine.”

Tristan announced this as if the name might mean something, but Frida shrugged her shoulders, still focused on holding back the tears that threatened to expose her love for Callum.

Sir Callum Baine, the knight that had trained alongside my brother.

Not Callum Baine, the Scot in league against my brother.

The two could not be one and the same person. She wrung her hands in anguish.

“He is a mighty Scottish clansman. A faithful follower of Robert the Bruce.”

She scrabbled to make sense of it. “Then how did Callum come to be at Lindum? Why does he speak with an English accent?” Her voice rose triumphantly. “What are his connections to Egremont House?”

“I do not know every inch of his life story.” Tristan pressed his lips together. “You can ask him these questions yourself, if you wish.”

“I do.” She nodded vehemently. She would believe nothing until she had heard it from Callum’s own lips.

He inclined his head. “Very well. After I have rested a while, I will interrogate the prisoner myself. You can come in once my men have softened him up.”

Frida’s blood ran cold. “Nay.” She rose up from her chair, ignoring the stab of complaint from her ankle. “You will not hurt him.”

But Tristan’s eyes were hard. “This man lied to you whilst plotting to kill me. You cannot expect leniency?”

Her legs threatened to give way beneath her and she was forced to lean on the arm of his chair for support. Coming closer to her brother, she saw again the determined set of his jaw and the anger flickering in his blue eyes. “I expect you to give him a fair trial.”

He held her gaze. “I will give him a trial, aye. In front of witnesses at that. But no one threatens the de Neville family and gets away with it.”