“If you let me go free, I will take my revenge upon Tristan de Neville for what he has done.” He looked her fully in the face, ensuring his meaning was clear. “I will kill him, the first opportunity I get.”
Frida reared backwards in distress. “You cannot make such threats.” She scrambled to her feet, heart pounding beneath her cloak. “He is my brother.” She clenched and unclenched her hands, hoping desperately that she might have misunderstood.
“Aye. And you are the woman I would lay down my life for. Which is why I beg of you, leave me now.”
There was no ambiguity here.
“Then there is no hope for us,” she whispered, the words burning her throat.
“None,” Callum agreed, already turning his face away from her. “I know you to be a merciful woman. Please leave and do not come back. The sight of you causes more pain than I can endure.”
Part of Frida wanted to argue, but a larger part still reeled from Callum’s declaration of violent intent towards her brother. She had heard with her own ears Tristan admitting to ordering the siege on Kielder Castle, though she hadn’t known in that moment what Kielder Castle meant to Callum.
Forsooth, just one day ago she had thought him a true-blooded Englishman.
Stifling her sobs, she walked unsteadily from the dim room, scarcely remembering to acknowledge the guard when he bowed. The door slammed shut behind her and the guard shot the bolt home.
She would never see Callum again.
*
Frida kept atight hold of her composure until she was safely inside her bedchamber, then she sank down onto her mattress and let her tears flow unchecked. She didn’t know how much time had passed when Mirrie tentatively opened the door, her face creased up with compassion for her friend.
“Oh Frida,” she said simply, walking towards her with her arms outstretched.
Frida had no words. She rested her head on Mirrie’s shoulder and continued to sob.
“You could go and see him,” Mirrie suggested quietly, smoothing Frida’s hair away from her eyes.
“I already did.”
“In the cellar?” Mirrie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“In the bakehouse.” Frida straightened up and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “It’s where I had the guards take him after Tristan stormed out, leaving him unconscious on the floor.”
“Tristan is all of a dither,” Mirrie said, conversationally. “I sat with him at dinner, but he hardly ate a thing.”
Frida shook her head, unwilling to speak of her brother. She was still unable to unsee the moment when he aimed that final kick at Callum’s head. But she noted Mirrie’s best blue dress and the way she had pinned back her wayward curls with extra care, and she hoped that Tristan would not break Mirrie’s heart as well as her own.
“I forgot to come down.” Frida crumpled the sodden handkerchief in her hand. “I did not mean to…” she paused.What did I not mean to do?
She had been about to say that she had not meant to make matters worse. But the man she loved was about to be executed by her own brother. How could missing a meal make that any worse?
Mirrie could read the secrets of her heart like an open book.
“Tristan knows you are upset.”
Frida lifted her eyes to meet Mirrie’s. “Does he know why?”
“I don’t think so,” Mirrie whispered. She reached out and grasped Frida’s hand. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t believe there’s anything I can do,” Frida answered numbly.
Mirrie’s light brown curls danced in the candlelight as she shook her head. “There is always something.”
“Not this time.”
“Frida.” Mirrie’s reprimand was as sharp as a slap in the face. “If Tristan kills Callum, you will never recover from it. Nor will you ever forgive him.”
