She had expected, e’en hoped, that her bold words would shock him. But if anything, Callum leaned closer. “Your hair is beautiful,” he whispered. “You are beautiful. And I will carry the memory of our dance always in my heart.”
Her heart fluttered and jumped as if she had fallen from a log.
This is not supposed to be happening.
“And yet, you do not remember me?” he continued. It was a question, not a statement. She could see the doubt flickering like a flame in his eyes. “I should not take this as a personal slight given the injuries you suffered. But I confess that my heart grieves this loss.”
Frida’s mouth went dry. How could she continue to deny it?
How could she continue to denyhim?The one man who had made her feel whole and happy. But she was not ready to open herself up to further pain, nor make herself vulnerable when she had worked so hard to recover her strength.
“There are things I have forgotten.” She indicated her head, even though the lump received from her fall was no longer present. It was true, kind of, for Mirrie always declared that Frida had forgotten how to laugh and hope and be carefree.
But she had not forgotten Callum, nor any of the events or people in her life. Though she knew this was how he would interpret her words.
“Of course.” Regret washed over his chiselled features.
What right did he have to feel regretful, more than two years after the event?
What right did he have to come here and disturb the peace Frida had worked so hard to achieve?
A question pricked at her mind. “You say you are close with Tristan?”
His eyes widened, mayhap surprised by her change of subject. “We trained together at Lindum.”
“And you became friends? That is why you came to Wolvesley that time?”
Was it her imagination, or did his expression harden?
“Of course.”
It was Frida’s turn to frown. “I would have thought my brother would have informed his friends that his sister still lived.”
A beat passed. “The fault was mine. I expected the worst and was most grieved by it.” He tightened his lips. “I went straight from Wolvesley to fight in France. My path has not crossed with Tristan’s since.”
His answer was delivered smoothly, but Frida was still not satisfied.
“And when Tristan asked you to come to Ember Hall, for whose protection was that?”
Callum’s gaze did not falter. Above them, a blackbird broke into a piping song. “He asked only that I ride to the aid of his family.”
There was something he was not telling her. Knowledge slid inside her, like a knife into butter. It was the sort of insight Frida had been used to receiving when she had the Sight. But this was no sixth sense. This knowledge stemmed from the fact that deep down, she knew this man. And he knew her.
And they both knew that neither one of them was being entirely truthful.
Without shifting her gaze, Frida took in his dishevelled hair and the lines of tiredness running around his eyes. Why would he deceive her?
Why would any man ride out to the far north of the country, sleep in an old hayloft and spend the morning picking apples?
Frida’s stomach flipped. Could it be that Sir Callum Baine was interested in her? Just as she had once dared to believe?
Her breath caught in her throat. For a long, dizzying moment, she pondered this possibility, before pushing it resolutely away. As she did, she broke Callum’s gaze, looking instead at the trampled grass and the wicker baskets filled with glistening fruit.
She had come dangerously close to forgetting the most important thing.
She had come to Ember Hall to live a life free of men. Her hard-won strength and independence rested on this one fact.
“I see.”
