But when Callum removed his cloak and hooked it from a branch, she couldn’t help her gaze being drawn to his shoulders. Beneath the fabric of his light-coloured tunic, his muscles rippled as he reached and dipped. It was like a graceful dance. And she, an audience of one.
“’Tis hot work,” he commented.
Frida hurriedly switched her gaze to his brimming basket. Had he seen her watching? She would have to hope otherwise,else wilt with embarrassment. “You have done well,” she allowed.
He grinned at her. “This is not my first time.”
“Oh.” Frida’s cheeks grew hot and she cursed herself for it. Their exchange seemed intimate, bold even.
But also very compelling.
“May I ask you a question?”
Surprised, she answered faintly. “You may.”
Callum rested one hand against the trunk of the tree. His face was flushed with hard work and sunshine. It was hard to keep her gaze from the suntanned triangle of flesh visible at the top of his tunic. “Do you really not remember me?”
She should have been ready for this. Should have an answer prepared, one that would save both her blushes and her heart.
Instead Frida turned away and reached for another branch, her fingers shaking. Could she tell an outright lie?
“From Wolvesley, you say?”
“Aye.” His eyes burned into her back. “I remember you well.”
Her grip slipped and the branch sprang upwards. She ducked her head as the loosened apples showered downwards, falling on the soft grass with small thuds.
“Damnation,” she swore, not quietly enough. She was hot, uncomfortable and embarrassed.
But Callum was by her side in an instant, swooping down to pick up the apples and place them carefully on a flattened tree stump. “The horses will thank you for these,” he said.
“Thank you.” She swallowed as he straightened and turned to face her. They were so close she could make out each one of his long, dark eyelashes.
“We danced together,” he said abruptly.
“Did we?” Her heart hammered beneath the bodice of her dress.
“And we talked.” A frown flickered about his brow. “I dare to claim our conversation was worth remembering.”
Aye.It was that and more. She had ne’er been able to chase it from her mind.
Frida put a hand to her brow. “I apologise.” Her voice quavered. “There were many balls at Wolvesley. Many dances.”
“Many conversations?” he finished for her.
She nodded, unable to look again at his honest brown eyes.
“As you know, I suffered a fall.”
“I know it well.” He reached out as if to clasp her hand and then thought better of it. Awkwardness hung in the air between them. “I am pleased and relieved to see you so recovered.”
“I am not the same person I was.” The words burst from her before she could stop them. “I am much changed.” She glanced upwards and was immediately a prisoner of his dark, intense gaze.
“Nay.” He shook his head. “You are Frida de Neville. I see you still.”
His proclamation unlocked something inside her. Something reckless and ill-advised.
Frida reached up and untied the ribbons of her bonnet. Her hair had already fallen free of its pins. She tossed the bonnet on the grass and shook out her long tresses. “My hair was all shaved off by the barber-surgeon who saved my life. When it grew back, it had lost all colour.” She heaved a breath. “My ankle was all but shattered. The physician told me I would never walk again.” She straightened her shoulders, swallowing down a lump of sorrow. “I shall certainly never again dance at Wolvesley.”
