“Lady Frida.” He lumbered to his feet and gave an awkward bow, his limbs still heavy with sleep. “I was merely resting,” he added, his eyes darting sideways as he realised the gravity of his error.
Frida pulled her lips into a smile. “Pray, do not be alarmed on my account.”
“Milady.”
“Sit,” she urged. “I have brought you this.” She pressed the goblet towards him, swirling the liquid gently so the fragrant aroma of mulled spices would reach his nose.
The guard swallowed, clearly discomfited. The guards were not permitted to drink on duty. Frida knew this as well as he did. But she also knew how hard it would be for him to refuse an order from a member of the de Neville family.
“Warmed wine,” she added. “To chase away the chill of the night.”
“’Tis kind of you, milady,” he stammered. He took the goblet from her but lowered it.
Frida’s heart plunged. The man was about to resist. If he refused to drink the wine, her plan must be aborted and she had no other.
She could not fail.
Before he could find the words to refuse her, she sashayed forwards and placed her own hands over his. She felt rather than heard his sharp intake of breath.
“Drink,” she urged again, her blue eyes boring into his. “Take comfort, rest a while. All will be well.”
As if hypnotised, the man put his lips to the goblet and drank deeply.
“Very good,” she encouraged him, pushing on the goblet to tip it higher and ensure he finished every last drop.
It was done. Now all she had to do was wait until the sedative took effect. Frida nodded regally and took her leave as if nothing untoward had taken place. As she stepped away, she heard the creak of the wooden chair as the guard sank back down. She slipped around the corner and stood patiently, until his rippling snores once again ripped through the night air.
Frida exhaled heavily, almost dropping the goblet in her relief.
The guard would sleep deeply now, without wakening, but she still had no time to lose. Walking as quickly as she dared, Frida returned to the door of the bakehouse and wrestled with the bolt until it finally sprang free. She cautiously pushed open the door and stepped inside.
“Callum?” she whispered.
Torchlight filtered in through the shutters, but made little impact in the far corners of the room. For a terrible moment, Frida feared she was too late—that Callum had gone, Tristan having already taken him. But then her ears tuned in to his light breathing and she finally discerned his outline. He was not taking his rest, sitting on the floor or laying on the rug. He was standing in the corner, every muscle in his body braced for attack.
She pursed her lips, going straight to the basket which she’d abandoned in here earlier, and fetching out the tinderbox. Without looking behind her, she struck the flame and lit the candle before returning to her basket and fetching out a small dagger. After a moment’s thought, she went back to the half-open door and pulled it closed.
Only then did she turn to face Callum.
“Frida,” he said softly, shaking his head. “I told you not to return.”
She tested the sharpness of the blade on the ball of her thumb. “And I am more accustomed to giving orders than taking them.”
But despite the bravado in her voice, her nerves jangled. For even with his hands and feet bound, Callum was every inch the warrior. The candlelight illuminated the powerful bulk of his shoulders and the determined set of his jaw. This was a man determined to kill her brother if he had the chance.
And she was about to set him free.
She paused for a moment, noting the matted blood on one side of his head and the way he stood, favouring his right side. She could not let him leave without giving some attention to his wounds.
“I am here to make a deal with you.”
She saw surprise wash over his face. “Go on.”
Frida wanted to walk closer, e’en to stand on her tiptoes and kiss his stubbled face. But this was the most important conversation she would ever have. She must do her best to keep her voice free of emotion.
To act like a man, speaking with authority as he negotiated before a battle. Looking to spare bloodshed.
She lifted her chin. “I cannot stand by and see you executed by my own brother.”
