For two days, they rode with little rest. During that time, all he revealed to her was that he had been on a pilgrimage when his boat had sunk, leaving him stranded on the Isle of Rum and in Freya’s hut. Not a word was said about his family. Not a word was said about his distant past, and Freya didn’t push him, reminding herself to be patient.
It was only near the end of the second day that James finally decided to slow down. Once they reached a small clearing, he brought his horse to a halt and Freya came to a stop next to him, the two of them dismounting in silence.
“We are safe here,” he assured her as he led the horses to a patch of green grass where they could feed. “We’re out of enemy territory now.”
As relieved as Freya was to hear that the immediate danger had passed, she couldn’t bring herself to feel any joy. The last couple of days had left her cold and empty, forcing her to think about nothing other than survival. The moment she began to think about James and their future, she pushed those thoughts out of her mind. It was all she could do to stop herself from grabbing him by the shirt and yelling at him, demanding answers from him.
Give him time. He’ll tell me everything on his own.
It was a balmy afternoon. Freya sat under the shade of a large oak, resting her back against the large, rough trunk. Her stomach rumbled from hunger and her legs ached after so many hours in the saddle, but her physical exhaustion was nothing compared to the emotional turmoil she felt. Out of the two, she preferred the former. Nothing compared to the ache in her chest, the one that never seemed to go away no matter how much she told herself everything would be fine in the end.
Even if she wasn’t with James. Even if she had to navigate the rest of her life alone.
It had always been a possibility, after all, one that had been shoved deep into the crevasses of her mind.
“Ye can relax,” James assured her then as he returned, sitting on the ground near her so that they were facing each other. “Everything is fine now.”
Freya gave him a small, tight-lipped smile—all she could manage in that moment. And though she found it impossible, she desperately wanted to believe him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The flames burned bright and warm in the fire James had built for them in the small clearing. It was dark by then, the sun having set long before. Under the glow of the flames, Freya’s red hair seemed to be another blazing fire that surrounded her pretty face, but where James had once seen nothing but joy, there was now an emptiness that startled him.
He was well aware of the fact that he had concealed several things from her. In fact, he had concealed most of his past, telling her only his name and a few details about his travels to the Isle of Rum. None of it was fair to her; this secrecy, this reluctance he had to tell her the whole truth. But every time he parted his lips to tell her exactly where he had come from, to tell her of his real past and the fact that he was the son of a laird, the words died in his throat before he could utter them.
He didn’t know how she would react to them. He didn’t know what she would do, what she would say to him once she knew the whole truth, and the uncertainty of it was what gave him pause.
No, that wasn’t right, he told himself. He had to be honest—if not with her, then at least with himself.
The truth was he remembered things now that were less than ideal, and one in particular stopped him from telling Freya the truth. The very reason for his travels was to seek a blessing from Saint Cuthbert’s relic—the saint’s finger bone, which every MacGregor man had visited before his betrothal to his wife. Before long, James was meant to be a married man. Once he would return home, he would have to wed.
Had his parents already found a suitable match for him? Had they already arranged everything to their liking, ensuring a strong alliance for the clan?
It didn’t matter to James. The mere thought of marrying another woman made his chest ache with guilt, and that was enough to confirm to him that he had truly fallen for Freya. He couldn’t imagine another woman sharing the rest of his life with him and having his children.
Whether that was something Freya wanted, though, was still to be determined. Perhaps if he wasn’t such a coward, if he was more open to the idea of sharing his past with her, he wouldn’t have to wonder—Freya would have already given him an answer, and regardless of what that answer would be, he would know for certain. And yet, even that wasn’t enough to motivate him to reveal everything to her.
Living in this limbo was better than rejection, than facing the possibility that he would have to fight hard for this marriage.
Even if his parents hadn’t found a suitable wife for him, there was no telling if they and the council would accept Freya as the next Lady of the Clan. She was a peasant lass. She was a healer from a small village and had none of the upbringing required of a laird’s wife. And as much as James didn’t care about any of this, he couldn’t help but fear his parents and the council—his mother, more than anyone else—would be against their union because of it.
After a meagre dinner of what little they had left in their bag, James grabbed a stick off the ground and began to idly whittle it down to a point, just to have something to do with his hands. Across from him, Freya still sat with her bag against the tree, her eyes having fallen shut. She wasn’t sleeping, though. He could tell because of the way her breath caught every time she inhaled, her chest stopping for a brief moment at full expanse.
Neither of them had managed to relax, despite being in safe lands now. James couldn’t blame her; how could she relax next to a stranger? Because that was precisely what James was to her now—a stranger, and one who refused to tell her who he truly was.
On the other hand, James had even more to consider now. He had thought that once his memory resurfaced, once he realized who he was, everything would be easier, but the reality he found waiting for him was much different than he had hoped. He had known himself to be a warrior, but he had never expected he would be the son and heir of a powerful laird. He had known he must have had some sort of complicated past, but this was beyond his wildest imagination. And at the same time, he feltthat the part of him that had once been Nathan was now fading away.
And as it faded, it was replaced by a terror that Freya would not like what was left behind.
What if she only liked Nathan? What if she daesnae like me?
When James looked up at her once more, he found her staring at him through half-lidded eyes. She seemed exhausted, just like he felt, but there was more to her gaze than weariness. James felt as though she was dissecting him, peering right through him, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it was that she saw.
“I’m still the same man,” he said softly, his voice carried by the soft breeze. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t a lie either. “We’re still the same, Freya.”
There was silence, heavy and uncomfortable. With a flick of her hands, Freya pushed her fiery hair behind her ears, a heavy sigh escaping her.
“I dinnae ken if that’s true,” she admitted just as softly.
