Page 37

W eighed down with regret and worry, Frida found the day passed with painful slowness.

To stay out of the way of Tristan’s men, she confined herself to the hall.

And never had the large, comfortable rooms seemed so restrictive.

She found no comfort in the sweeping views of moorland and paddocks, for everywhere she looked she hoped for a glimpse of Callum—and hoped to never see him again.

Hoped to see him so that she might know he was safe, but knew that if she could see him, he was in grave danger of being spotted by Tristan or his guards.

She shook her head and closed her eyes, sending up prayer after prayer that the man she loved would be kept safe.

Frida had taken refuge in the solar when Mirrie finally found her. A fire crackled cosily in the grate and the wooden panels on the walls reflected the golden glow of firelight. But none of this was enough to settle Frida’s agitation. She jumped at every footstep and would take nothing to eat.

“I am not hungry,” she insisted, when Mirrie pointedly positioned a platter of bread and cheese within easy reach.

Mirrie raised her eyebrows but said nothing. “May I sit with you?”

Frida barely looked up from her pacing between the door and the window. “You may sit wherever you wish,” she replied.

“And will you join me?”

Frida wrung her hands together. “Nay. I cannot rest. I cannot be still.”

“Your exhaustion will not help Callum’s cause.” Mirrie broke off a piece of cheese and chewed slowly, her hazel eyes fixed on her friend.

Frida did not dignify this with a response. “I might kill my brother, when he finally returns,” she blurted out.

Mirrie nodded. “I daresay he deserves it.”

“Forsooth, he deserves stringing up on the walls.” Frida gesticulated violently in the direction of the main gate. “If he had only told the truth from the beginning, all of this could have been avoided. He’s entirely to blame.”

Mirrie tore at the bread, releasing the pungent aroma into the small room and making Frida’s stomach rumble. “Jonah too, I guess?”

“How do you mean?” Frida folded her arms lest she snatch the bread out of her friend’s hands.

“This is at least partially Jonah’s fault. If he hadn’t written to Tristan, none of this would have happened. You said it yourself.”

Frida snapped her fingers. “Aye, you’re right. Both Jonah and Tristan are to blame.” She paused in front of the low wooden table. “Mayhap I will take some of that bread.”

Mirrie nodded, shuffling up on the couch to make room for her. Frida intended to take only the smallest heel of bread, but once she had tasted it, she wanted more. Soon she was breaking off a hunk of cheese as well.

“You don’t need to look so pleased with yourself,” she said crossly, once she had swallowed. “I was always going to eat at some point.”

Mirrie folded her hands in her lap. “Of course.”

“It’s Callum’s fault as well,” Frida went on, returning to their prior conversation as she brushed at the crumbs on her grey skirt.

“Callum’s fault?” Mirrie’s face was without expression.

“I am no fool, Mirrie. I know this situation is of Callum’s own making. He should have told me the truth about who he was and why he came here. God’s bones, we shared enough together.” Tears stung at her eyes again.

“But Callum did not trust you. And Jonah did not trust Callum. And Tristan did not trust either you or Callum.” Mirrie stretched her legs. “And so, here we are.”

“In a mess forged by pride and anger.” Frida gazed in the direction of the fire, the orange flames made blurry by salty tears.

“But thanks to your courage, Callum is free. He has every chance of escaping Tristan’s retribution. And then who knows what the future may bring.”

Mirrie reached out for her hand and Frida willingly gave it to her, even as she shook her head to refute her words. “I place no hope in the future. Callum is a Scot. I am a de Neville. Nothing can bridge that gap.”

Mirrie squeezed her fingers in sympathy, but before she could say more, footsteps beyond the solar had Frida leaping out of her seat.

Has Tristan returned?

Frida thought her heart might jump out of her chest, but when the door finally opened, it was Agnes who appeared. The cook bobbed into a small curtsy.

“Beg pardon, milady. Miss Mirrie.”

Frida turned around to hide her distress and Mirrie waved Agnes forward.

“Come in, Agnes. You know we don’t stand on ceremony here.”

“I don’t like to interrupt. But I need to know how many to cook for tonight.” Agnes pulled at her sleeves, nervously. “We were not expecting such an influx of guests.”

Frida felt a jolt of shame. She had neglected her duties around the hall in these last days, and it had never even occurred to her that the servants might struggle to accommodate the newly arrived Wolvesley army.

“Do what you can with what we have, Agnes,” she said. “Mayhap a soup or a stew that can be reheated? We know not what time the men will return, but we must feed all who serve us.”

Agnes did not look convinced. “For the family too? E’en Lord Tristan?”

“Lord Tristan will eat what the rest of us eat,” Frida replied swiftly. “If he doesn’t like it, he can go back to Wolvesley Castle.”

The cook hid her shocked expression by bobbing her head in acknowledgment. “Very good milady.”

Mirrie and Frida exchanged a look as she left.

“Methinks Agnes does not share your poor opinion of your brother,” Mirrie commented mildly. “She would prefer to serve him some special dish rather than see him supping stew.”

Frida allowed herself to smile. “Tristan charms e’en the birds from the trees.” She rubbed at her arms, crossly. “I oft think I am the only one immune.”

“I would not say that,” Mirrie replied.

Frida snorted. “Do not try to tell me that you are immune to my brother’s smile.”

Mirrie’s cheeks flushed pink but she shook her head steadily. “I was thinking of Jonah.”

“Ah yes. Well then, you are right.” Frida grasped Mirrie’s wrist. “I am sorry for teasing you.”

Mirrie’s expression softened. “I was glad to see you light-hearted for a moment.”

Frida let out a deep sigh and sank back onto the settle. Aye, for a moment she had put her worries behind her. But now they were back with a vengeance. Her head throbbed and her stomach churned with nerves.

“Just think,” Mirrie continued. “’Twas not more than a sennight since that you vowed to live a life free of men.”

Frida covered her face with her hands. “I do not think I can speak of this now.”

“I only meant it as an example of how things can change.” Mirrie’s voice was gentle. “We know not what the future holds. We may think we do, but surprises wait at every turn.”

Frida rested her elbow on the arm of the settle, but did not lower her hand. “I cannot deny the truth of your words. But nor can I find the strength to hope just now.”

“All I ask is that you do not close yourself off from what the future could hold.” Mirrie rubbed her back comfortingly. “Hope may yet come and find you.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the only sound being the occasional hiss from the fire and footsteps coming from the kitchen. Frida’s distress began to subside, replaced with fatigue and even a flicker of suspicion that Mirrie might be right.

Who knows what the future may hold?

If Callum had got clean away, as she hoped with every fibre of her being, then all of this furore would die down soon enough. Tristan would return to Wolvesley. Frida and Mirrie would return to their chores. Who was to say that Callum would not one day return to Ember Hall?

He knows well enough where to find me.

All she had to do was stay here and wait.

The heavy tramp of booted footsteps jolted her from her reverie.

This time there was no doubting Tristan’s quick, intentional tread.

He flung open the door of the solar and stood for a moment, framed by the archway.

His golden hair, curling just above his shoulders, was streaked with sweat.

His emerald green tunic was creased and shadows smudged his eyes, but even when fatigued and foiled, Tristan de Neville continued to exude a charismatic energy that filled the room.

“We did not find him,” he said.

His words brought Frida a sharp rush of relief.

Mirrie rose to her feet. “Come and sit down,” she urged. “I will fetch you some wine.”

Tristan shook his head. “I will take refreshment in the great hall, not here.”

Mirrie looked nonplussed. “As you wish.” Her hazel gaze swung to Frida. “We can all go and sit by the fire there.”

“Nay.” Tristan’s voice was emphatic. “I will not sit and sup with my sister, pretending that all is well between us.” Mirrie flinched, as if she was the one bearing the brunt of his anger.

Tristan looked fleetingly contrite, but then he steeled his expression into granite again.

“’Tis your doing, Frida, that near twenty of Wolvesley’s best men were forced to spend fruitless hours searching the lands surrounding Ember Hall for a man who had already fled. ”

She shook her head, bristling with emotion. “’Twas not my doing, Tristan. I did not give that order.”

“You set him free.” His voice rose. “A treacherous Scot who brought violence to your door.”

This time she could not contain her anger. “Callum brought no violence to my door, brother. The beatings and threats only began when you arrived here.”

Tristan stepped forward menacingly but Frida held his gaze, refusing to be cowed.

“Enough,” Mirrie stepped between them, her arms outstretched entreatingly.

“You are right, Mirrie, enough.” Tristan’s voice was calm although he still glowered at Frida. “This experiment of you both living at Ember Hall has conclusively failed. You must return to Wolvesley.”

Frida’s blood roared in her ears. “You cannot make us do that. You have no authority here, Tristan.”

Tristan smiled thinly. “Mayhap not, but our father does. It’s your choice, Frida.

Either you return to Wolvesley voluntarily, or I will send a message to our parents to inform them of recent events.

” He smiled, evidently pleased with her stricken expression as realisation sliced through her.

“Then you will have to return to Wolvesley, at the earl’s command. ”