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I t is him.

The man she wanted to see least in all the world.

And he had recognised her, she was sure of it.

Frida stood tall, ignoring the chill wind whipping through her uncovered hair. She should have pulled up her hood. Nay, she should have run back to the kitchen and bolted the door behind her.

“I am the lady of the house,” she declared. “You can state your business to me.”

Callum was just as she remembered him, although she had never before seen him clad in chain mail. He stood taller than most men; taller than Tristan, she would wager. And his shoulders were broad and strong. At first glance, he was a man you might depend on, lean on.

But appearances could be deceptive.

Right now, Callum appeared quite unsteady on his booted feet. His dark eyes had grown wide with fear. Frida didn’t understand why, but she allowed herself to enjoy the jolt of power it gave her.

“How may we assist you, sir?” she said, after several seconds of silence had passed.

He looked her up and down, surprise and wonder darting across his rugged face.

“You are Frida de Neville,” he declared, his voice little more than a croak.

She lifted her chin higher. “That is correct.”

He staggered backwards and she saw his men, still mounted on horseback behind him, exchange worried glances. A biting gust of wind wrapped Callum’s midnight blue cloak around him, covering his armour. For a moment, he stood before her as a man, not a knight.

“Are you unwell, sir?” she asked, her voice carrying through the mist.

He took a deep breath before offering her a courtly bow. “Forgive me, my lady. We have ridden long and hard to reach you.”

She allowed a beat to fall. “And why have you done that?”

He straightened and she found her gaze rising with him. Their eyes clashed and a frisson passed through her.

A frisson that she would pay no heed to.

“Perchance you do not remember me, my lady? I am a friend of your brother, Lord Tristan.”

Aye, she remembered him. Stolen glances across a hall strung with mighty boughs of pine. A dance that she’d hoped would never end. An ill-advised hunt that had changed her life forever.

She would give all the coin she had if it meant she could forget him.

Beside her, Mirrie was all but trembling with anxiety. Frida wanted to send her away, lest she said something that spoiled her charade of nonchalance. But to do so would only alert suspicion. And part of her drew comfort from Mirrie’s presence.

“My brother Tristan has many friends,” she answered steadily, folding her arms across her cloak. If only she had dressed in expectation of visitors. In expectation of him .

Frida pushed the thought away, angry at herself.

Why should she spare a thought to her appearance?

And what did it matter what she wore when her very soul had changed beyond recognition?

The Frida who had danced with Callum beneath festive greenery, breathless with anticipation and the heady scent of pine, was a different person to the woman she was now.

White-haired, weary, limping.

“I once visited your family at Wolvesley Castle for the yuletide celebrations,” he said, surprising her. Sudden vulnerability showed in his rugged face, as if he wanted her to remember him.

Aye , she remembered him.

But she was not ready to abandon all her carefully-crafted defences and admit it.

Although that flash of humanity in his eyes had stirred something she’d long since buried deep inside her heart.

“I lose track of the knights who have visited Wolvesley, sir. My parents enjoy company.”

He swallowed, his muscular chest rising and falling beneath the folds of his blue cloak. Had her sharp words wounded him?

“I’m afraid Tristan is not here. Nor is he expected to be. There is only my youngest brother, Jonah; mayhap you are acquainted with him?”

Why had she said that? It was nerves that made her chatter on so. Nerves that grew tighter with every second that passed.

Indecision raced across his face, but then his expression closed and became unreadable.

“I met Lord Jonah at Wolvesley, of course.” His mouth tightened. “He is a poet, is he not?”

Frida allowed herself a short laugh. “A poet one day, a painter the next. A struggling artist of all kinds. Most unlike Tristan, who lives only for the thrill of battle.”

Callum nodded his head. “It was Tristan who sent me.”

Beside her, Mirrie let out a small sound of either excitement or distress. Frida shot her a warning look.

“Tristan? How so?”

Callum glanced back towards his men, seeming to steel himself. “To offer protection, my lady, against growing unrest on the border.” When she raised her eyebrows quizzically, he continued. “Our spies tell us that Robert the Bruce plans to strengthen his position against the English.”

Mirrie put a hand to her heart and turned anxiously towards her. “This is grave news.”

But Frida shook her head impatiently. “’Tis unnecessary caution. You see we are already well-defended, sir.” She gestured to the high fortifications and the uniformed guards.

Callum, however, did not back down. “Tristan did not believe it unnecessary. In fact, he urged me to ride with all possible haste.”

Frida’s stomach twisted as she sensed the situation slipping beyond her control. She could not, in good conscience, turn away a man who had been ordered here by her brother. But neither could she countenance this man staying.

Her lips tightened at the thought of Tristan sending soldiers to her home without so much as a hastily-penned message to notify her of his intentions. ’Twas a high-handed move, even for her brother.

Indecision swirled in her gut. And Frida was not usually indecisive.

For better or worse, Mirrie took charge of the situation. “You must come in and take some refreshments. You and your men.”

Callum bowed. “That is most kind.”

Frida’s breath caught in her throat at the prospect of Callum Baine stepping into her sanctuary.

Defiantly, she remained in his path. “Do not feel you have to stay, sir, out of courtesy.” To Mirrie, she said, “Mayhap Sir Callum would prefer to be on his way. ’Tis a long ride back to Egremont House.”

Immediately she berated herself for revealing this proof that she had been listening so attentively.

“I would much appreciate the chance to eat and drink away from this wind,” he contradicted her, standing so close she could catch his scent.

Horses, leather and something indescribably male.

Her heart jumped in her chest. “It would not be wise of me to invite four armed men into our home,” she said tautly.

She expected a denial, but Callum paused as if considering her words. “Nay, indeed.” He inclined his head. “My men will be pleased to take shelter anywhere.”

Mirrie clucked her tongue. “The barn roof is damaged. But if they will be happy to eat in the dining chamber used by the guards, I will take them there.”

Frida took her elbow and led her a few paces away. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” she whispered furiously.

Mirrie’s hazel eyes widened with surprise. “How so?”

“We do not know these men.”

“But Tristan sent them,” said Mirrie, as if that fact alone was the most important. “And you do know Callum, as do I. We both recognised him straight away.”

A flush threatened to creep up Frida’s neck. “I do not wish to be alone with him.”

“But Jonah is inside.” To Mirrie, it was very simple. “And I will be along presently.”

Frida couldn’t ignore a deep sense of foreboding. “Take Matthew with you,” she ordered, nodding to the guard who had first intercepted Callum.

“Very well.”

With a regal wave of her hand, Mirrie beckoned the three men in through the gates. She and Mathew then led them towards the stables, where two young stableboys waited to take the horses.

Leaving Frida alone with Callum.

He cleared his throat, momentarily looking as discomfited as she felt. But then the shutters came down on his face again.

Enough. They could not stand here staring at one another.

Frida turned on her heel and began walking towards the hall. Callum hurried to catch up with her.

“Your hospitality is greatly appreciated, Lady Frida.”

“Call me Frida,” she said impatiently. “You will find we do not stand on ceremony here, Sir Callum. Nor do we offer such a grand welcome as you are perchance accustomed to.”

“If I am to call you Frida, then you must call me Callum.”

As if driven by the same impulse, they both slowed and glanced at the other. Again, Frida felt a traitorous blush creeping over her cheeks.

“I am a man of simple pleasures,” he muttered. “I expect no grand welcome.”

Frida’s throat tightened. “I am glad to hear it.” She quickened her pace, ignoring the biting pain of her ankle and abandoning any attempts to disguise her limp.

She must get inside, away from Callum, as soon as possible.

They were approaching the side of the house and chickens scurried from their path.

Soon they would be in sight of the big windows of the great hall.

Frida thought that she might never again be so pleased to catch a glimpse of Jonah.

But Callum had other ideas, catching at her arm whilst they were still in the shadows.

“Forgive me,” he said, pulling her around to face him. “I mean you no harm.”

Frida tried to pull herself free. “Unhand me then, sir, this instant.”

He did so, his breathing jagged and his stubbled cheeks mottled with red. “’Tis only that I may not get this opportunity again.”

Blood rushed to Frida’s ears. She should walk away, but her feet were rooted to the soft earth beneath her. Mist covered them like a blanket, but Frida was far from cold. She was flushed and anxious and more alive than she had been in years.

Two years, to be exact.

“You are Frida de Neville,” he said, wonderingly. “You are alive.”

This was so close to what Frida had been thinking that a smile chased at her lips.

“I am alive,” she confirmed.

“I thought you were dead.”

His words landed heavily between them. Frida gave a short intake of breath, digesting this.