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 ofhim.
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 beyondrecognition? 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?”
