Page 33

F rida’s heart beat so quickly she thought it might bring armed guards running to the western corner of the courtyard.

There were no wall torches to illuminate the way here, only the dimming light from several flaming sconces still visible at the front of the house, and the vast moon above.

It was a clear and still night, full of stars.

The thaw had set in during the afternoon and much of the snow had melted away into puddles, but those puddles were solidifying into ice on the paved paths and Frida had to pick her way carefully.

For many reasons, she could not afford a fall now.

The guard was sitting in a hard chair outside the locked door of the old bakehouse, a torch flickering above his head.

He had fallen asleep on duty, his mouth open and his head tilted back.

As the first notes of his rippling snores reached her, Frida had started in fright.

Then she realised what the source of the noise was and she smiled.

This would make her task easier.

Although she could not rely on a man’s natural sleep being deep enough to suit her purpose this night.

Adrenaline kept her body warm, even as her breath steamed in the freezing air.

Frida took a moment to settle her hood and smooth down her cloak; one hand gripping an ornate goblet taken from the great hall.

She stepped forward with renewed determination, her wooden pattens ringing on the stone flags beneath her.

“Good evening,” she sang out.

The guard bolted upright, one hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. “Who goes there?”

“’Tis I, Lady Frida.” She kept her voice deliberately light.

“Lady Frida.” He lumbered to his feet and gave an awkward bow, his limbs still heavy with sleep. “I was merely resting,” he added, his eyes darting sideways as he realised the gravity of his error.

Frida pulled her lips into a smile. “Pray, do not be alarmed on my account.”

“Milady.”

“Sit,” she urged. “I have brought you this.” She pressed the goblet towards him, swirling the liquid gently so the fragrant aroma of mulled spices would reach his nose.

The guard swallowed, clearly discomfited. The guards were not permitted to drink on duty. Frida knew this as well as he did. But she also knew how hard it would be for him to refuse an order from a member of the de Neville family.

“Warmed wine,” she added. “To chase away the chill of the night.”

“’Tis kind of you, milady,” he stammered. He took the goblet from her but lowered it.

Frida’s heart plunged. The man was about to resist. If he refused to drink the wine, her plan must be aborted and she had no other.

She could not fail.

Before he could find the words to refuse her, she sashayed forwards and placed her own hands over his. She felt rather than heard his sharp intake of breath.

“Drink,” she urged again, her blue eyes boring into his. “Take comfort, rest a while. All will be well.”

As if hypnotised, the man put his lips to the goblet and drank deeply.

“Very good,” she encouraged him, pushing on the goblet to tip it higher and ensure he finished every last drop.

It was done. Now all she had to do was wait until the sedative took effect.

Frida nodded regally and took her leave as if nothing untoward had taken place.

As she stepped away, she heard the creak of the wooden chair as the guard sank back down.

She slipped around the corner and stood patiently, until his rippling snores once again ripped through the night air.

Frida exhaled heavily, almost dropping the goblet in her relief.

The guard would sleep deeply now, without wakening, but she still had no time to lose. Walking as quickly as she dared, Frida returned to the door of the bakehouse and wrestled with the bolt until it finally sprang free. She cautiously pushed open the door and stepped inside.

“Callum?” she whispered.

Torchlight filtered in through the shutters, but made little impact in the far corners of the room.

For a terrible moment, Frida feared she was too late—that Callum had gone, Tristan having already taken him.

But then her ears tuned in to his light breathing and she finally discerned his outline.

He was not taking his rest, sitting on the floor or laying on the rug.

He was standing in the corner, every muscle in his body braced for attack.

She pursed her lips, going straight to the basket which she’d abandoned in here earlier, and fetching out the tinderbox.

Without looking behind her, she struck the flame and lit the candle before returning to her basket and fetching out a small dagger.

After a moment’s thought, she went back to the half-open door and pulled it closed.

Only then did she turn to face Callum.

“Frida,” he said softly, shaking his head. “I told you not to return.”

She tested the sharpness of the blade on the ball of her thumb. “And I am more accustomed to giving orders than taking them.”

But despite the bravado in her voice, her nerves jangled. For even with his hands and feet bound, Callum was every inch the warrior. The candlelight illuminated the powerful bulk of his shoulders and the determined set of his jaw. This was a man determined to kill her brother if he had the chance.

And she was about to set him free.

She paused for a moment, noting the matted blood on one side of his head and the way he stood, favouring his right side. She could not let him leave without giving some attention to his wounds.

“I am here to make a deal with you.”

She saw surprise wash over his face. “Go on.”

Frida wanted to walk closer, e’en to stand on her tiptoes and kiss his stubbled face. But this was the most important conversation she would ever have. She must do her best to keep her voice free of emotion.

To act like a man, speaking with authority as he negotiated before a battle. Looking to spare bloodshed.

She lifted her chin. “I cannot stand by and see you executed by my own brother.”

“You have no choice.” Callum’s voice was harsh.

“We always have choices,” she echoed Mirrie’s sentiment from earlier, appreciating the full truth of it. “I am here to set you free.”

Callum let out an anguished sound. “Then I will hunt Tristan down and you will come to hate me.”

“Nay,” she interrupted him quickly, “you will not. You will leave Ember Hall and never return.” She swallowed down her pain at the thought. “Not unless you wish to cause the execution of your men, Andrew and Arlo.”

He blanched as if she had struck him. “Andrew and Arlo.”

“Aye.” She nodded once. “If you harm Tristan in any way, I will have them both killed.”

Callum’s brown eyes bore into her soul. “You could not do such a thing, Frida,” he said softly. “You are no killer.”

His words reverberated around the empty room like the tolling of a bell. With a growing sense of dread, Frida realised that he was right.

I am no killer.

But without the lives of Arlo and Andrew to use as leverage, her plan had no foundations.

She swallowed, keeping her back ramrod straight. “I will do what I have to do, like we all must, in these turbulent times.” The candlelight flickered as if doubting her sincerity.

Callum shook his head. “You know in your heart that you cannot bring harm to anyone. I watched you nurse Arlo back to health. Do you truly expect me to believe that you could give the order for a blade such as that to slit his throat?” His eyes flickered towards the dagger she still held.

Frida’s breathing faltered as her imagination played out such a scene. She saw Arlo’s trusting face turned towards her, his young eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hope.

Her stomach rolled with nausea. But the face she showed Callum was devoid of all feeling.

“I expect you to believe it,” she said calmly, drawing strength from the full range of emotions she felt as a daughter, a sister, a woman .

“I expect you to believe that I would do whatever it took to ensure the safety of my beloved brother.” She paused, giving her claim extra weight. “To keep my family complete.”

A beat passed. Callum’s face was in shadow and she could not properly read his expression, but she sensed that her words had landed.

“Very well.” His voice was tight. “I believe it.”

She did not give voice to her relief. Instead, she walked steadily over to him and indicated with a nod of her head that he should turn away.

When his all-too-distracting eyes were fixed on the plastered wall, she began to cut through the bindings on his wrists.

As she worked, she was overly aware of his height and width, of the lines of muscle over his back and the sinewy strength of his calves.

Aye, this man would be a threat to her brother for as long as they both lived.

Tristan was a skilled knight, but Callum was a warrior in his own right.

Either one of them might kill the other in any number of scenarios, meeting in a battlefield far from here, months or even years in the future.

Frida could not do anything about that. All she could manage was the here and now.

Her Sight, which once might have shown her every outcome and how to avoid it, was gone.

She stifled a sob as her blade cut through the last of the rope and Callum gave a slight moan of relief, flexing his wrists and clasping his hands together.

“Will you sit while I free your ankles?” She kept her voice expressionless.

Callum hesitated and she thought he would refuse, but then he sank gracefully to the floor and stretched out his long legs before him. In the dim light, she saw him wince and she remembered her earlier intention to check his wounds.

Frida got to her knees and started to work on the second binding. This one was looser than the first, freed no doubt in the beating Callum had received earlier. She closed her mind to thoughts of this. All that mattered was that he left Ember Hall before dawn.