She flicked him a glance from beneath her hood. “The favour concerns my good friend, Lady Frida.” She paused. “Frida, I should say. We are not formal here. There is no cause to be.”
At the mention of her name, Callum’s pulse sped up. It did not slow in any way when he realised that Mirabel was watching his reaction closely.
“You must tell me more,” he declared. “Before anticipation proves my undoing.”
Her laugh was like a peal of bells. “I remember your wit from Wolvesley.”
He bowed his head. “And I remember you, most especially your grace on the dance floor.”
She looked away. “You are too kind, sir. But you are right. I did so love to dance.”
This was his moment. Callum took the plunge. “I am pleased to know that you recall our earlier meeting. I fear that Lady Frida—Frida,” he corrected himself, “does not.”
Mirrie came to a halt. They had reached the corner of the courtyard formed by the outer walls of the hall itself. She leaned one hand against the stone. “May I speak candidly?”
“I always favour candour.”
But Mirrie’s expression had grown serious. She tucked a wilful strand of hair behind her ears and met his eyes boldly. “You know that Frida had a terrible fall?”
He nodded. “I saw it myself.” A chill went through him at the memory.
Mirrie inclined her head. “Frida was unconscious for three days. When she awoke, much had changed.”
Callum spoke without thinking. “Her hair.” He had wondered at its shimmering whiteness yesterday.
“Her hair,” Mirrie agreed. “Although mayhap that is not the most important thing.” She broke his gaze, an expression of doubt dancing across her heart-shaped face.
“Tell me, pray. I will help if I can,” Callum said quickly. A chicken pecked about his booted feet but he hardly noticed it.
Mirrie pursed her lips. “There are some things that Frida has,” she paused, “forgotten.”
He looked at her, not understanding. “Forgotten?”
“Aye.” She nodded. “I should like your help in getting her to remember them.”
Callum dragged a hand through his own hair, which was tousled and tangled, having not seen a comb this morn. “What things might those be?”
Mirrie fixed her gaze at some point over his shoulder. “I have always admired Frida’s self-discipline, but in times past, this was softened by a sense of hope and joy.” She sighed. “I sound whimsical, I am sure, but ’tis this softer side that she has put aside. Forgotten, I would say.”
He had to draw on all his training as both a warrior and a spy to disguise the jolt of emotion he felt at her words. “I am not sure I am the right person to help Frida recover her sense of hope and joy.”
Perchance I am the last man who should try.
She gave him a smile like sunshine after rain. “On the contrary, Sir Callum Baine, you are mayhap the only person who can do so.” She stepped closer and took his arm, the sincerity of her gaze impossible to escape. “If you are willing to try?”
His heart threatened to jump through his ribs. He could not prevaricate beneath her all-seeing eyes. “Then I will do all I can.”
“That is exactly as I’d hoped.” Mirrie’s manner became playful again as she turned them towards the arched front door, but Callum still held back.
“What would you have me do?”
Mirrie shrugged, her eyes dancing. “Speak with her. Spend time with her.” She nudged him with her elbow. “I cannot prescribe every detail. But I have dragged you from your bed and not offered you any refreshment. Forgive me. You and your men are welcome to break your fast in the great hall.”
“I am not hungry.” His mind raced too fervently to allow hunger. “But my men will be.” He glanced back towards the outbuildings. “I will fetch them.”
“Nay, do not trouble yourself. I will show them to the hall when I give them their tasks for the day.”
A day when Gregor, Andrew and Arlo would act as labourers for those they saw as their enemies. Despite his excitement over the chance to spend more time with Frida, a new clutch of anxiety made him pause.
