“I’d rather have the game,” quipped Wallace, his appetite fully restored. The sight of the venison hanging in the larder proved too much for him. He almost forgot himself and started drooling.
“Aye, me too,” confided Freya, fetching him a slice. “But it tastes all the more good when ye hunt it yersel!”
“Aye, it does too,” agreed Wallace, sinking his ravenous teeth into the firm but yielding flesh and getting the first drop of flavor. “Mmm,” he drooled, quickly wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Then he stopped gorging himself and looked at her. His feelings and blood surged south, and embarrassment filled him, instantly coloring him red. “Ach, what a bawbag,” he exclaimed, embarrassed. “Where are my manners?”
“Dinnae fash,” said Freya, gently. “I like to see ye eat…”
Wallace found himself staring unexpectedly into her sparkling green eyes, which seemed to hold an extra vivid shade in the flickering candlelight.
Then, in the flicker of a candle, her expression turned momentarily to severity. “In that fire… earlier… ye were sent at the right moment, and I am so glad, but…” she hesitated. In her green eyes, Wallace traced her thoughts. Her gaze was fixed firmly on the flame as if hypnotized.
“Are ye sure ye didnae see anyone who may have lit it?” she asked slowly. Her eyes had opened pertinently, awash with a suspicion she did not want to feel but was there anyway. Despite her feelings for this lad, she could not help but notice how awfully quick he had come on the scene.
Watching her face, guilt filled him. He could not help placing his hand on the firm shape of the tinder box in his sporran. “Nae,” he said honestly.
Then, as fast as her muse had come, it left. Freya’s face cleared, and she put such thoughts out of her mind.
“…Well, I did manage to catch one thing, I suppose, but I wouldnae mind one or two hints from an expert!” she added, opening her eyes wide at his. Looking into his tender amber eyes, she felt sure that he could have played no part in the fire—could he?
Wallace flushed with heat. “Well, that’s easily done. We can go out anytime. Tomorrow?” said Wallace softly, without thinking. “Tae give ye some tips…”
But Freya shook her head, softly. “Nae,” she said uncertainly, even though she would have loved nothing better.
“Why ever nae?” asked the lad, raising his eyes to meet hers.
Freya stared at him, perplexed. “Because my father forbids it! I’m nae allowed out without a guard!” she exclaimed in dismay.
“Och,” said Wallace, crestfallen. “Robbie and Brodie might scare the deer off. I mean, they scare me a bit!” he quipped.
A slow smile spread across Freya’s face. “Ach, dinnae ye fash about them,” she said with a grin. “Their own clogs could outwit them!”
Wallace took in her triumphant grin.
“Then tis decided—we will meet tomorrow, noontide, in the midst of the woods—where the path to the clan an’ the clanless meet…” she said softly.
Footsteps creaked suddenly nearby.
Then a sudden noise had them both frozen in shock.
“Quick!” said Wallace, grasping Freya and grasping her down. The pair crouched behind the heavy wood pie safe until the unwieldy footsteps of Robbie trundled past.
Once again, Wallace found himself holding his breath so he would not be discovered. However, he needn’t have worried so much. Robbie had become distracted by a jar of pickles that stood on the pantry shelf. Holding himself in so he did not brush him, Wallace waited in stealth for the giant oaf to eat his fill and return the earthenware pot to its place.
But he was reckoning without Robbie’s butterfingers. Without warning, the heavy jar dropped and smashed hard against the kitchen floor. Behind him, he could feel Freya breathe in sharply. Extending his hand out to her in a bid to keep her quiet, Wallace felt her tremble.
There was a tense moment as Robbie crunched backward and forwards over the broken earthenware pot, in a feeble attempt to pick it up before it must have dawned on him that it was hopeless. He suddenly took to his heels and fled without warning.
They listened carefully for the heavy footfalls on the keep stair. When it creaked, Freya exuded a relieved breath.
“That was so close!” she gasped, her heart beating like a rabbit in a glen. She couldn’t help thinking how crazy this all was—being trapped here like a robber, in her own kitchen. And with such company, at that.
Wallace looked deeply at her and she felt herself blush through the shadows. He had a way of making her feel sort of embarrassed and excited at the same time, but she didn’t know why. Convulsed with nervous laughter, she doubled up at the thought of being alone with Wallace like this.
Giggling hard, they bade each other good night. Then Freya straightened down her dress and walked elegantly through the long corridor.
Wallace watched longingly as Freya’s curvaceous frame mounted the steep stone steps to her bedchamber and disappeared out of sight.
As she went, he instinctively felt into his sporran, pulling out the heavy metal tinderbox. In an instant, he flipped the smooth metal on its base, tracing the faded inscription with his fingers. Seoras.
When Freya had asked him if he saw anyone at the time of the fire, he had not been lying. He hadn’t seen anyone, but someone had. The description given by Padraig fitted that of Hughie, the neighbor’s drunken son.
And Wallace didn’t for one minute think that he would have come up with the plan to trap Freya in fire all by himself. Undoubtedly, Nora had put him up to it. Worse still, he had left evidence lying around pointing to them. It wouldn’t take much for someone to put two and two together.
With horrible clarity, Wallace’s complicity threatened to submerge his conscience. He turned faint with nausea.
Even if she did not intend any harm, his mother had endangered Freya.
But no matter what, Wallace was still committed to overthrowing the laird the very first chance he got.
Chapter Eight
“You read my mind! I had a feeling ye’d be here!”
The sound of his voice through the rustling green leaves made Freya’s heart skip a beat, then run ahead triple time, like it was dancing a reel in her ribs.
“Wallace!” she squealed, the early morning air taking her young, high voice and distributing it across the landscape. The sound of Freya’s scream pierced the four corners of the glen before reverberating back on itself. The lad had sprung himself on her unannounced, and it took a while for Freya to recover herself.
“But… ah…” Freya lisped, still genuinely stunned.
It was a week after their first meeting, the memory of which was still imprinted hazily in Freya’s brain. Since then, they had been convening almost daily; twice sometimes. And even in-between times, Freya had got into the habit of taking herself out to their meeting spot, which was the point where the two dirt roads from the Craig clan and the clanless zone converged.
“Although I’m a wee bit surprised to see ye afore noon!” he added with a grin, instantly invoking the memory of the first day they met. “Or even supper!” he mocked even further.
“Och, wheesht!” said Freya, giving him her best pout. On their first meeting, she had got lost in the woods and turned up late, and he would never let her forget it.
She looked radiant this morning, even though the sun had barely crept upon the horizon. In the pure, unforgiving rays of morning, Wallace marveled at how fresh she looked.
The pair stood gazing at each other for a few moments, both far more pleased to see each other than they were prepared to let on.
“Ah, ye brought yer hunting gear then?” he asked. The pair fell into a pace, walking through the glade that lined the path out of the village.
“Aye,” said Freya. “I reckon I can catch more than ye now…” she challenged him coyly.
“Och aye, we’ll see about that!” said Wallace, rising to the bait.
In actual fact, Freya needed very little instruction. She was a n
atural hunter, no matter the nature of the quarry. With sleight of hand, Freya had an agility and stealth that lent itself to the hunt. Rabbits, birds, deer—none of them were safe around Freya.
Freya watched as Wallace got his bow positioned, and then pulled her with him into the cool green undergrowth to wait.
“Sit tight, this is a canny spot,” he whispered in her ear.
He was so close, Freya could feel his breath on her neck. A faint whiff of masculine sweat swirled in the gentle morning air, a smell at once alien and strangely pleasing.
“You need to be early to get the best chance,” he muttered.
Freya nodded along, trying to look as if this was news to her. But it hadn’t been the love of the hunt that had got her up this early. Now midsummer, Freya was already waking sooner, thoughts of Wallace creeping into her mind. Unable to sleep, she leaped out of bed and wandered the eerie corridors of the keep before unbolting the door and slipping into the bright morning light.
In the grey of morning, the barracks were imbued with a deadening calm. During the day, the place bustled with life; soldiers and servants milling around. But in the early hours, there was no one—not even a guard on duty.
“So, how did ye give those twin lugs the slip then?” asked Wallace slyly, as they shared a wee dram from his flask. It was too early to worry about being seen out together, and Freya’s heart sang as gladly as the birds darted in the sky above.
“Och, let’s just say they enjoyed themselves rather too much at the reel last night!” she grinned, glancing up to catch his eyes. “Robbie didn’t get up for sentry duty in time, and he’s already in trouble for breaking a pot in the kitchen! My father is going tae have his head!”
Wallace laughed. He had heard all about Robbie and Brodie’s lack of guile from Freya.
“That wis lucky for us!” he added.
Freya beamed. “More than lucky,” she agreed. “Because I was the one pouring him doubles all night…”
The heat had made people thirsty, and at night, they cooled down with plenty of liquid refreshments.
“You wee minx!” Wallace gasped, trying to get a grip on his laughter. If he wasn’t careful, it would scare the deer coming to the burn for their early morning drink.
Freya watched as Wallace tried to control his laughter. Over the last few days, she had grown used to his mirth, particularly loving the way he threw his head back to laugh. She had never met anyone who had thought her clever before.
Day by day, they had hunted until each one knew the other’s every trick. In this time, Freya found herself lulled by Wallace’s deft, decisive mannerisms. And she couldn’t help noticing his rugged physique or the pleasant spice of his masculine sweat every time he brought his bow and arrow to bear.
Then, as quickly as it had come, Wallace’s amusement faded and was replaced by a thoughtful look. For a moment, Freya thought that he must have spied a deer on the horizon. Instead of getting his bow and arrow into position, he turned his face and trained his honey-colored eyes onto hers.
"So, ah, ye ken all about me now, so what about ye?” he asked by way of a preamble. His eyes shone into hers, making her blush.
“What do ye mean?” asked Freya, confused. “I hardly ken anythin’ about ye!” she said. “An’ there’s nothing to ken about me!”
“Well, I ken ye were adopted at birth… did ye ever meet yer birth mother—or know who she was?” asked Wallace tentatively. Almost immediately, he wished that he had not.
Freya’s face changed, looking crestfallen, and not even the forced gaiety in her tone could alter the fact that this question had visibly shaken her.
“She was a serving girl. She died shortly after having me— then, my mother and father took me and raised me as theirs. That’s it. That’s all I ken,” she said in one huge gulp.
There was a brief pause as Wallace tentatively looked over to her.
“So, ye dinnae know yer real da?” Wallace questioned nosily. Partly, he was trying to build a connection with her, but partly, he could not help being curious. His mother had made a big deal out of Freya’s lack of noble blood. Perhaps sensing this, she bristled noticeably.
“My real da is the Laird of Craig. Finlay and Sine are my family. That’s all there’s ever been, and all there is tae it…” Freya said stiffly, her back tensing slightly. He had upset her; that much was clear.
They were so close that Wallace could feel the warmth from her nubile young body. As if he needed to be any hotter…
The sense of sadness within her was palpable. Instantly, Wallace wished that he had never opened his mouth. It was obvious then to him just how much Freya cared for Finlay. Out of the blue, a dart of guilt took him in the heart. How could he manage to kill this man in cold blood?
“Och, I’m sorry, lass,” he said.
Freya’s green eyes flushed with tears. Wallace watched as Freya struggled to fight them back.
“It’s alright,” she said brightly, looking away. But her eyes told a different story. He had touched her weak spot, the one thing that was guaranteed to make her vulnerable.
Without thinking, Wallace put a protective arm around her. The heat from her skin rippled through him, immediately raising his blood and warming him.
She felt so soft and smooth. As he brought his arm close around her, he got close enough to touch her shining ginger hair; it was every bit as silken as it looked. Marveling at the texture wrapped around his fingertips. Wallace drifted off.
Her scent, her fragrance, and the allure of her body all combined, swirling around above him. Suddenly, it was all too much, if he didn’t stop himself now, he would never be able to let her go.
Building in his veins was a sudden urge to simply grab Freya and kiss her passionately on the lips. Her uncovered neck was right in front of him, tempting him to press his lips down to it and ravish her.
Sweating and flushed, Wallace pulled away, his face even redder than before—if that were humanly possible. To his surprise, Freya looked more startled than offended.
“Och, c’mon, I think I see something over yonder,” said Wallace in a vague tone. He pointed somewhere vaguely in the opposite direction.
“Really? I didnae see anything,” pouted Freya, looking flushed and confused.
“Aye? It was yon, near the big tree. See?” He gestured in the direction of the giant oak which dominated the center of the woodland. Freya looked impatiently. There was nothing there—mainly because Wallace had completely invented it to avoid an awkward moment.
“Alright, let’s go,” agreed Freya, but reluctance showed in her eyes. If he didn’t know better, Wallace would have thought that she didn’t want to move. But that thought was so crazy that he immediately put it out of his mind.
As they walked, the conversation turned back to hunting, but only as they talked of the problems facing the clan that Freya became animated.
“It’s nae that my father doesnae care about the poor folks in the village—or even the clanless…” Freya had defended. “In fact, he’s doing his bit to try and rebuild their houses!”
Wallace’s eyes opened wide.
“It’s true. He’s been trying to help out villagers in both Craig clan and beyond—did ye know he’s given them a load of building stuff, wood, straw, and even stones to help them out?”
As she spoke, Freya’s eyes became passionate, widening and turning even greener. Wallace was surprised at how much she seemed to care about the villagers in the clan.
“Really?” he said, feeling less than credulous.
“And I ken because I am helping them—I take supplies from the keep to some of the poor clan, especially in the winter months. We helped build a new box bed for one of the younger couples who were expecting a bairn…” she said, her eyes flashing with energy. Wallace could see that she felt deeply about this, and that it was personal to her. “Because taking care of everyone—especially the bairns—is something that ye’ve got to do…”
“Right,” said Wallace, his
mind elsewhere. This caring side to the laird and his daughter was at odds with the reckless image that Nora had carefully built up for him. For years, she had been at pains to paint Finlay as an ogre and Freya as a spoiled princess, unworthy of the lairdship.
“Ye look surprised,” said Freya, looking up at Wallace’s thoughtful expression. He was distractedly glancing at her ginger hair billowing in the breeze.
Although it was still early, it was shaping up to be another blistering hot day. Freya was dressed lightly, her linen stays laced chastely all the way to the top. But the woolen arisaid looked suffocating. Wallace turned his face away from her sharply, trying to cast thoughts of Freya stripped to her stays from his feverish mind.
Highlander’s Twisted Identity (Highlanders 0f Clan Craig Book 2) Page 7
