Her heart raced beneath the bodice of her dress at the notion—the crazy notion—that he might press his lips upon hers. But in another moment, his face had clouded over and he was drawing away from her.
“Aye,” he said. “We all must.”
Frida felt a blush heat her cheeks, but ’twas not from the fire. What had she said that was wrong? She swallowed and attempted to straighten her aching limbs; she had been kneeling so long that a cramp was setting in. She put a hand to her skirts before realising that both were covered in blood.
Callum rose up with enviable ease and folded his hands behind his back as he looked down at Arlo.
“I will watch over him.” His voice was gruff.
Frida blanched. Was she being dismissed?
From the solar of her own house?
She was at a disadvantage on the floor while he loomed over her so. Using the table as a support, she hefted herself onto her feet, stumbling a little on her weak ankle. Immediately Callum came to her aid.
“Steady,” he said.
But he did not meet her eye and his touch was perfunctory; there was no tenderness to it.
She mustered her dignity, ignoring the stains on her dress. “I can manage, thank you.”
A movement at the door caught her eye. It was Jennifer, carrying a tray with two goblets and a pitcher of wine.
Wine that she did not want.
Frida lifted her chin. “Thank you, Jennifer.” She fixed her gaze on the servant, not allowing herself to even glance at theknight stood by the fire. “And thank you for your help. Alas, I am needed elsewhere, but I am sure Sir Callum will be glad to partake of refreshment.”
With that, she hobbled from the chamber.
Mayhap Sir Callum would enjoy the company of the pretty serving wench while he drank his wine.
Frida did not allow herself to care.
Chapter Nine
The sabbath dawneddamp and cold, so cold that Callum’s breath hung mistily in the air ahead of him as he trudged up the hill to the wood store.
Two days had passed since that fateful afternoon. Days in which Callum did everything in his power to keep distance between himself and Frida. Not because he wanted to avoid her, but because he no longer trusted himself in her presence.
No one else was about at this early hour. Even the cooing of the woodpigeons sounded muted. Above his head, grey clouds scuttled across a grey sky. Callum shivered a little, despite the warmth of his blue cloak. But cold was good. Cold kept his senses sharp and alert.
Exactly as he needed them to be.
He had almost kissed her, that afternoon in the solar. He’d been just moments away from tilting his head and claiming her sweet lips with his own, giving in to the craving that had haunted him ever since his arrival at Ember Hall.
But then she had spoken words about doing one’s best, invoking the strict moral code by which Callum’s mother had raised him. And Callum had floundered.
How could he be doing his best when he was lying to the woman he wanted to kiss?
How could he be doing his best when a boy who believed in him lay injured, fighting for his life?
How could he be doing his best when Frida, if she knew the truth, would doubtless order his arrest?
Were it not for this new knowledge about Tristan’s time in Scotland, Callum wondered if he might, in a moment of weakness, have confessed all to Frida. For living like this was purgatory. And the longer he spent at Ember Hall, the more entrenched in his heart she became. Even as he took steps to avoid her, he lived for those moments when he glimpsed her hurrying across the yard, her silvery hair tumbling down her slender back, her head held high and proud.
But how could he pledge his love to a woman whose own brother may well have ordered the destruction of Kielder Castle, initiating the siege which saw so many innocent lives lost?
He could not.
