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“I’ll say any man should be happy to ride behind Callum Baine,” he declared. “I know of no other warrior so skilled with a sword.” He jostled his friend’s arm good-naturedly. “They taught him well in Lindum.”

Callum decided to go along with the joke. “Aye. I heeded my lessons well.”

Gregor folded his muscular arms over his mail shirt. “And what of the men you trained beside? How is it to meet them in battle?”

“It has ne’er happened,” Callum answered truthfully.

“But I am sure the day will come. Methinks this is a burden we all must carry in these troubled times. Our friend of one day can become our foe the next.” Callum curled his fingers around the carved hilt of his sword, both reassuring himself that it was still there, and reminding his almost-adversary of the same.

Gregor grunted. “True enough.” But Callum saw that doubt still flickered in his dark eyes.

Andrew pulled off his gauntlet to scratch at his unruly locks of red hair. “Do not doubt the man for the way he speaks. It is an affliction he bears for the good of us all.”

Callum’s flash of displeasure faded as he saw Gregor’s mouth twitch and he spoke up before the moment of levity passed. “’Tis true. I cannot help my English accent. No more than I can help the size of my fist.” He clenched and unclenched his large hands reflexively.

“Or the size of anything else.” Andrew choked on a mouthful of bread whilst laughing at his own witticism. He spat a shower of crumbs on the soft earth as Arlo hurriedly slapped him on the back.

“I have ne’er had any complaints in that area, friend,” Callum grinned. “Are we done here?” It would be best to get going before Gregor could ask any further questions.

The men finished what remained of their food and mounted again; their joviality seeping away as the reality of the task ahead took hold.

Callum was pleased to wrap his long legs around his horse’s flanks and trot ahead of the men.

Their conversation had unnerved him, stirring up memories he would rather forget.

He had spoken the truth. This was not his first mission as a spy for Robert the Bruce. But what he hadn’t told Gregor was that he had failed his first—and only other—mission.

It was not a fact he wanted known, for the shame of it still nagged at him. But not for the reason anyone might expect.

Callum had willingly accepted those first orders: to infiltrate the mighty de Neville family, headed by the Earl of Wolvesley, one of the richest and most powerful men in England. Callum could see no harm in living the life of luxury for a while.

Plus, the mission had quietened his father.

Recently returned to his ancestral home in the highlands after the death of his English wife, Rory Baine had been growing increasingly vocal in his demands for his only son to prove himself a true Scot.

Wolvesley Castle had seemed like a good place to start.

Callum had remembered Tristan de Neville from the knights’ training academy in Lindum.

Although Tristan was two years his junior, tales of his horsemanship, sword skills and accuracy in the joust were impossible to escape.

Callum grew to resent Lord Tristan and all he represented about the English aristocracy.

The man was entitled and arrogant. Callum would not mind at all being first in line to watch him fall.

At least, that was what he thought at first.

Callum’s mouth pressed into a firm line as he ducked under some low-hanging branches, momentarily lost in the swirl of sorrowful memories.

It was one of the Lindum instructors who had secured Callum’s invitation to Wolvesley.

Even then, the Bruce’s connections ran deep.

Callum had cared little for the assignment—until the assignment changed from infiltration to assassination.

That was the first thing to give him pause.

He was not, by nature, a violent man. And Tristan had committed no crime other than to be born a wealthy Englishman.

But worse was still to come. When he arrived at Wolvesley, Callum found a half-starved hound pup shivering in the stable yard.

A dog-lover from birth, Callum had determined to hide the hound away and nurse him back to health.

But it seemed nothing escaped the eagle eyes of Lord Tristan.

And nor was any animal beneath his attention.

When next Callum came across the hound, it was being bottle-fed by Tristan himself.

The earl’s son had even spread a stall with fresh straw so the pup had somewhere warm to curl up.

Callum knew then that he would fail in his duties. He could not kill Tristan de Neville. His only hope was to satisfy the Bruce with some injurious information about Wolvesley.

And then he met Tristan’s sister.

Callum closed his eyes at the clutch of pain that still assaulted him whenever he thought of Frida de Neville.

For little more than a sennight he had lived entirely for those moments when he glimpsed her feasting in the great hall, or taking a turn in the gardens, wrapped in a cherry-red cloak.

Her golden blonde hair and beautiful smile began to haunt his dreams, until he doubted his ability to take any tales to Scotland that might prove her family’s undoing.

Then came the time their eyes met over the banqueting table.

And the glorious evening he dared to ask her to dance at the yuletide ball.

When their hands first touched, he knew that he could never betray her.

And when they withdrew to the fireside for a conversation that flowed more readily than the wine, his heart brimmed with the possibility of something he had rarely known.

Love.

Beneath him, his horse stumbled and Callum came back to himself, shortening the reins and adjusting his seat in the saddle. Gregor would never accept his leadership if he fell from his horse before they even reached their destination.

Andrew rode up alongside him. “Are ye all right?”

“Aye,” Callum answered shortly, part of him still grieving for the past.

“Yer not vexed at me for what I said back there?” Andrew jerked his head backwards. “I was only trying to lighten the mood.”

“And I thank you for it.” Callum flashed his old comrade a genuine smile.

“Ye seem lost in thought.”

Callum sighed, too weary to prevaricate.

“Two winters past, I left this land vowing to work only for peace between England and Scotland. The lass I loved was dead. Her family in mourning. The last thing I wanted was to move against them. Your man back there, he had a point about facing men in battle that you once trained with.” Now it was Callum’s turn to jerk his head back towards Gregor.

“I recall you came back to Kielder ready to lay down your sword.” Andrew’s eyes were solemn. “I could understand it. Though it made your father furious.”

“Aye.” Callum thought of the scar across his ribs, placed there by his own father’s blade.

“But the English cannot be allowed to raze our lands as they please.” Andrew’s voice became agitated.

“Exactly that. They have all but destroyed my home. Killed many I hold dear.” He glanced back towards Arlo, who had watched both his mother and father die in the most recent raid. Callum steadied his breathing. “And so here we are. Ready to wreak our revenge.”

As he spoke the words, they emerged out of the woodland into a small clearing. Beyond them, he could discern smoking chimneys and a great wall built of local granite stone. Diminutive figures cloaked in green strode along the top of the wall, making Callum’s heart sink.

“Ember Hall is both fortified and guarded,” he said in surprise, remembering too late that he had claimed to be unfamiliar with these lands.

“It changes naught,” declared Gregor. “I am ready to take down any number of English guards.”

“And I have no intention of turning this into a massacre,” retorted Callum.

His mind’s eye conjured the pile of bloodied and broken bodies piled beside the curtain wall of Kielder Castle.

Pushing the memory away, he ploughed on before the challenge in Gregor’s eyes could be articulated.

“As Andrew said earlier, my English accent is an asset to us in times like this.” He paused for emphasis. “Leave the talking to me.”

“So we continue with our plan to assassinate the English lord?” Arlo chewed nervously on his bottom lip.

“To the last. But stay behind me and follow my lead.”

In a single line, they trotted down a winding track which skirted the perimeter of Ember Hall.

Glancing up, Callum saw an elegant stone-built manor, four-square and strong.

Mullioned windows looked out onto sweeping fields.

Aside from the guards, it looked to be a place of peace and welcome.

His heart lurched at the devastation they were about to bring upon it; but he could not allow recent events to go unpunished.

The English would pay for what they had done to his home and his people.

Hardening his heart, Callum held out a hand to slow his men to a walk as they rounded the corner and approached the main gate.

A liveried guard stood waiting for them beneath the archway, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

Callum’s eyes lingered on the golden standard emblazoned on the man’s tunic.

Something snagged at his memory, but there was no time for him to consider it.

“Halt,” the guard commanded. “Who goes there?”

Callum dismounted and tossed his horse’s reins to Andrew, who caught them neatly.

“Stay there,” he muttered, not waiting to see if his men agreed.

Straightening his own cloak, he walked the few paces to the gate and bowed his head. “I wish to see the lord of the house.”

“State your business to me first.” The guard stood firm, hooded eyes boring straight into Callum’s.

Callum remained calm. “My business is with the lord of the house.”

A sudden flurry to the right drew his eyes to a tall, slim young woman hurrying towards them. She was clothed in a serviceable woollen shawl, her light brown hair escaping from beneath its folds.

She stopped some distance away and dropped into a short curtsy. “May I ask your name, sir?”

She spoke too well to be a servant, yet was not dressed as fine as a lady.

“I am Sir Callum Baine.”

He was confident that his father’s name would not be known in these parts, but the lady’s hazel eyes opened wider.

“Sir Callum Baine,” she repeated, more loudly than he thought necessary.

Was this a trap?

“Aye.” He widened his stance. He could reach his sword in less than a second. “I am of Egremont House,” he added, evoking his mother’s ancestral home. The place where he grew up. The house his father had wrenched him from within days of his mother’s death.

The lady nodded, as nervous as a rabbit. “I am Miss Mirabel Duval.”

God’s bones. Why did he know that name?

There was too much here not adding up. Callum swung his gaze around to his men, reassuring himself of their presence. The mist had closed in around them, giving him a strong sense of being all alone.

She straightened her spine. “There is no lord here for you to speak to. But I will carry a message to my lady.”

Her words made no sense to him. Callum repeated them stupidly. “No lord?”

“No lord.” Mirabel was emphatic. She folded her arms about herself, holding the shawl closed.

Callum cleared his throat, grappling with the blow of all his carefully laid plans unravelling. “May I speak directly with your lady?”

“She is not at home.”

It was a lie. He could tell by the strain in her voice and the anxious darting of her eyes.

“That is most unfortunate.” Callum glanced towards the guard, stood just feet away and closely watching their exchange.

If Callum made any attempt to enter the gate, he could tell that he would have a sword pointed at his chest within moments.

He looked back towards Mirabel. “When do you expect her to return?”

“I do not,” Mirabel protested, her voice scarcely carrying through the mist.

Callum took a small step towards her. One more question and she would cave, he was sure of it.

But before he could frame that question, all capacity for rational thought deserted him. His mouth gaped open as an ethereal figure appeared behind Mirabel, walking steadily towards him as gracefully as a swan gliding across a lake.

Her figure was tall and slim. Her face angelic, framed with cascading hair that was whiter than winter.

Her hair had changed colour, but he would know those piercing blue eyes anywhere. They had once looked up into his, bright with laughter. He had held her hand and not wanted to let it go.

Is she real? Or am I haunted by an apparition?

His mouth went dry. Blood roared in his ears.

This was Frida de Neville.

His deceased love.