Highlander’s Twisted Identity (Highlanders 0f Clan Craig Book 2)

by Shona Thompson

  Before she could speak, Wallace softly touched her shoulder in reassurance. “Nae lass,” he said, with such a honeyed gaze that she could feel straight away the ardor of his passion. Immediately, she knew that his sudden change of direction had not come from a change of heart. She had not been wrong about him. It was something else, something hard, which went deep into the heart of him.

  “Wallace, whatever is it, lad?” she asked, now beginning to feel alarmed, as well as more than a little dismayed.

  Wallace smiled warmly, making it clear that he had taken no offense. Then he stood up, reaching deftly for the shawl that Freya hadn’t even realized that she had discarded mid-reel. With a luscious smirk, he handed her the sheer silk wrap before positioning it on shoulders.

  But Freya was confused.

  “Come on, lassie, tisn’t it time we got ye home?”

  Freya was crestfallen, but pushing her dismay to one side, she tried to get a grip of herself.

  “Och, it’s nae even got started yet! I can tell ye’ve never been to a proper fair afore!” she teased, her green eyes beaming into his.

  She could see full well the impact that she was having on him, so why was he so reticent to act upon it? The question burned in Freya’s heart. Of course, she didn’t want to seem too keen, but all the same, this had been her first chance to let her hair down in months. She wasn’t in the mood to squander it!

  But Wallace was gently adamant. “Nae lassie, I’m nae sure yer father would approve… so why don’t we get ye home afore Padraig notices something?”

  His smile was too alluring for Freya to battle against. Giving a sigh, she smiled up at him, “Och, well, I suppose ye dae need yer beauty sleep!”

  Wallace gave a slight tug on her hand, then led her back across the crowded tavern and over to the waiting cart beyond.

  All the way back across the parched, moon-drenched glen, Freya sat gazing at the stars above. They were so radiant that even without the eerie glow of the wide, near moon, they gave off enough light to see by.

  Maybe Wallace didn’t realize the light was shining on him, but as a cloud scurried across the moon, Freya saw him staring at her.

  As they drove over the bumpy terrain, Freya tried to figure out what lay behind Wallace’s fixed expression. On the one hand, he seemed genuine enough; on the other, there was clearly something that he was hiding. He had grown increasingly thoughtful by the time the rickety cart pulled in front of the darkened keep.

  “Och, will ye come in for a wee dram?” Freya pressed him as they stood there, dawdling on the doorstep to the keep. An eerie silence had descended over the parched landscape, threatening to take them both with it.

  For a moment, Wallace did not answer, looking pensive. Freya could feel the heat coming from him, but there was something stopping him.

  Nervously, he looked over his shoulder, to where Padraig and the cart man stood in the shadows. It was impossible to ignore that her father’s mentor watched over them, no matter how tactfully he waited. Thinking that this must be the reason for his reticence, Freya’s mind whirred into motion, trying to devise a way of getting Wallace on his own.

  “So, what do ye say? Mah father’s got a wee single malt just waiting,” she tempted.

  From the look on his face, Wallace’s resolve was wavering. Then, it collapsed altogether. He smiled. “Ah, alright, just a wee dram,” he relented.

  Freya pulled him in through the solid oak door, dragging him by the hand before he had a chance to change his mind.

  She led him through the winding corridors of the keep, along to the kitchens, where her father kept the best whiskey under lock and key. However, before they reached the door to the pantry, something stopped them both in their tracks.

  “Nae, there’s nae sheep in here.” Freya almost leaped out of her skin as the thunderous voice of her father came booming out of nowhere.

  Finlay’s eyes glinted in the moon-washed pantry. He had returned from his business in town, and by the look on his face, he was far from amused.

  Casting his eyebrows wildly upwards, Finlay pulled his face into the characteristic scowl that Freya knew only too well. By his side was his counselor, Padraig, who had clearly followed on from the cart outside. He seemed a little sheepish.

  “So, where are the sheep, lad? Or did they wander off, because tis an awfu’ long way from the croft!” her father quipped. Although his smile remained rigidly etched onto his face, his eyes told another story, one of ice-cold candor.

  Before Wallace could had a chance to explain, Freya dived in. “Please, listen, father,” she began.

  But Finlay was having none of it. “Nae, I willnae,” he snapped, turning to Wallace. “If ye’ve got the sense ye were born with, ye’ll get out of here in double-quick timing,” he threatened Wallace.

  Across the darkened kitchen, Finlay’s wandering eyes glared, finding first Freya, then Wallace, and finally fastening upon Padraig.

  “Och come on, Finlay, it’s only a wee dram, even if it is a drop of the good stuff.” All four turned quickly around as the voice of Freya’s mother, Sine, reached them from the other side of the room.

  Sine strode into the center of the bare stone kitchen floor, occupying the mid-space between them all.

  Freya’s gaze broke from Wallace momentarily to register the impromptu appearance by her mother. Sine’s long, shiny black hair streamed behind her, loosed from its topknot for the night. Clearly, she had been disturbed from her sleep, although Freya noted that she didn’t look anything less than elegant, even in her hastily pulled-on clothing.

  It seemed Freya was not the only one to be surprised by her mother’s sudden intervention. Her father also turned sharply to look at his wife.

  “Tis the middle of the night, woman!” barked Finlay, before relenting somewhat beneath the glacial gaze Sine gave him.

  “Come now, Finlay. We still havenae really thanked the young man for his defense of Freya earlier from the fire,” reasoned Sine, her blue eyes rippling through the stifling room. Although the fires had long since gone, the kitchen was still hot and stuffy.

  Sine came through to the cupboard where Finlay had the whiskey locked up and opened it.

  “Here, come have a wee dram, Wallace,” she said charmingly, reaching down for a small quaich, which dangled from a hook at the side of the room. “We need to welcome ye in.”

  Sine’s gaze locked with Finlay’s, her imploring stare resonating with him until he finally relented. Giving a nod, he assented as Sine steadied her hand, pouring out the dram of malt to give to the lad.

  Freya noticed his hands trembled a little as he reached for the cup.

  “Thank ye,” he said, politely.

  “It is getting rather late, though,” conceded Freya, drawing a line over the suffocating silence which had opened up in the room under the heavyweight of Finlay’s stare.

  It was too much to hope for that her father would be civil to the lad, so Freya figured the best thing was to get him away from them as soon as possible. However, Sine had other ideas.

  “Aye, it is,” agreed her mother. “So why dinnae ye rest here tonight? At least, just for one night?”

  All eyes rested on Finlay’s face. Deep down, Freya found her heart thumping painfully hard. She watched Wallace, sensing his pained expression. He, too, looked as if he wished he were anywhere but here right now. Just as she thought that her father was going to turn Wallace out, he broke into a rueful grin.

  “Och, well, I suppose it cannae hurt for one night!!”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Father! Thank ye!” squealed Freya, her heart giving a little skip. Immediately, she jumped up, giving him a little peck on the cheek. Although Finlay smiled indulgently, he threw Wallace a warning glance, which was not missed by Freya.

  This was more than she could possibly hope for. Signaling her thanks, the excited girl sped off, opening the doors to the stairs.

  “Padraig, escort the lad to an empty bedchamber,” Finlay said with
a nod of the head.

  Wallace lingered a moment, hovering at the entrance to the stairwell, then turned to the laird. “Thank ye, sir,” he said, before leaving with her.

  With an excited buzz, Freya took him by the elbow and walked him through the many corridors that lined the keep, followed by Padraig at a tactful distance.

  As they walked, Wallace took in the labyrinthine tunnels that ran through the keep.

  “Och, I never kent it was so big, or so confusing!” he said, his eyes darting into the darkened recesses of the corridor. “Anyone would think it’s been designed to get ye lost!”

  Freya just gave a laugh, her merriment echoing merrily through the chambers and passages of the keep. But her laugh belied a slyness.

  Following on behind, Padraig must surely have known that this was the longest possible route to the bedroom that Wallace had been allocated—but if he did, he said nothing, and simply followed behind, smiling benignly from the shadows of the corridor.

  She led them along corridor after corridor. Wallace’s eyes opened wide and marveled at the size of the place.

  “This is the servant’s quarter. There’s separate staircases and corridors for them,” she explained as they walked towards the very end of the corridor, where the light was even dingier.

  “Och, I see,” said Wallace. Taking it all in, he craned his neck to see around the sudden twists and turns that lined their way.

  “Here,” said Freya, reluctantly holding a creaky door open for the lad. They had reached their destination far too quickly for her liking, even if she had deliberately taken the long way around.

  Gingerly, Wallace walked through the door that Freya held open for him. For a second or two, their eyes connected, glowing slightly in the pale moonlight. The servant’s quarter was even darker than the rest of the keep, with only a few meager candles to light the way down the twisting passage.

  Freya, who was unaccustomed to the smell coming from the tallow candles, tried to gulp back the cloying stench. The heat did not help much either, combining the acrid aroma of sheep with the pong of stale sweat.

  “I’ll open the window,” she said, fumbling through the dark of the chamber to the shuttered window. With some difficulty, she pushed it open.

  “Here, I’ll dae that. Ye’ve done more than enough for me tonight,” said Wallace gently. His amber gaze beamed into hers through the milky moonlight that gave his complexion a silken sheen. Freya wanted nothing more than to lean in and continue the kiss which he had so hotly bestowed on her earlier. But instead, she just lingered near the door.

  “Can I bring ye something to eat?” she inquired hopefully, hovering on the threshold to the room. The opened window frame brought in a freshly welcome breeze—which, while slight, helped penetrate the room, rinsing it of its foul odor.

  “Nae, dinnae fash. I’ve had plenty,” said Wallace, almost politely.

  Freya leaned forwards, enticing him, like prey to the bait. Maybe it was too much for Wallace, because in that second, he moved towards her and grabbed her hand. Freya was taken aback with the intensity of his gaze.

  “I can hear yer heart beating,” she said gently, placing her ear against his chest.

  “Aye, it beats all the time, ye ken!” he said with a slight laugh.

  She looked up at him. Overcome with that heat that once again radiated between them. Their passion filled the room, overwhelming both of them. Freya leaned in to kiss him softly on the collar.

  Freya willed him to come closer. She wanted to draw him in and drink him down. He was so close, she could almost taste him. Freya placed a hand gently on his shoulder. She didn’t mean to be forward, but the signs he was sending were so strong. The scent of his skin hovered in the air, tingling and mesmerizing in equal measure. Her eyes opened wide as if to say, well, come on, then!

  Abruptly, Wallace pulled away. Bewildered, Freya’s heart thumped hard. She felt hurt, confused. But then she remembered Padraig loitering behind in the shadows. Reluctantly, she sighed, and with a brief nod, turned and walked slowly down the corridor.

  From his door, Wallace watched her leave.

  “Sweet dreams, Freya!” he called to her.

  * * *

  Wallace sighed as he closed the door. For a moment or two, he just stood there, leaning against the battered, creaky oak door, his back pressed into the flat of the wood. Wallace breathed deep, catching the scent of Freya’s perfume still swirling in the air.

  “My God,” muttered Wallace. He was almost shaking. Holding back from Freya’s embrace was just about the hardest thing he had ever had to do.

  In despair, he clutched the silver tinderbox nestling in his sporran and sat down on the roughly hewn bed.

  “Father, what would ye do?” he asked. “I think I love her,” he added to no one in particular.

  Of course, there was no reply. But at that moment in time, Wallace would have given anything for there to be some response from someone, anyone.

  Sitting with his hands over his face, Wallace rubbed his tired eyes. He had never felt as alone as he did tonight. Deep inside, his heart rippled with all the sounds of the day.

  It had all been too much. Thoughts of his mission ahead overwhelmed him. Killing Finlay had been his life’s goal for so long, but now that he was on the edge of achieving his goal, it was all so different.

  For a start, the laird did not seem to be the vicious tyrant that his mother had told him about. How could he kill this man who had only shown him compassion—let alone take away the only father Freya had known?

  Unease built inside him as he glimpsed a flash of Hughie in his mind’s eye. Wallace could not shake the feeling that he had been watching him for some time from the shadows. Just as he was pondering on what to do, something outside his window made him jump. He wasn’t sure what it was. It could have been an owl. But it sounded like a man’s voice.

  And then there was a sound like a hiss from the gravel pathway leading to the keep. Again, Wallace twitched. This time, curiosity got the better of him and he leaped up to the window, to try and catch the source of the sound.

  There wasn’t any. At least, none that he could see. And although he was sure that he had heard footsteps, when he looked, there was no one there.

  For a moment, Wallace thought about going down to investigate, but it seemed as if there was nothing out there for miles and beyond.

  Convincing himself it had been a cat, Wallace settled himself back down on the thin straw mattress.

  The box bed in the room was hard and uncomfortable, but it didn’t matter. Out of nowhere, a creeping tiredness was taking him by stealth.

  But as he was about to slip into unconsciousness, a realization jolted him. There was simply no way he could go through with his mission to murder the laird. Deep down, he had known it for some time.

  Earlier, he had tried to tell Freya, but he hadn’t had the chance to finish what he started. And just now, Padraig had been in the way. Any doubts he might have been having had clearly resolved.

  So, yes, he would abandon his mission and try again to come clean to Freya and beg her forgiveness. Having decided this, Wallace fell into an instant and deep sleep, released from all his burdens.

  Finally, it was all alright. He was going to do the right thing.

  “Dancing! What dae ye mean, he was dancing?”

  From far away in her small black house, Nora’s voice pierced the gloom.

  Even inside, the heat had penetrated, sending its tentacles into every corner of the tiny cottage. The three of them were seated—Nora and two younger men both stretching out their legs on the floor.

  “Well, I dinnae ken, but I think it was some sort of jig!” a red-faced lad said, belching unpleasantly.

  “Nae, I would say it was more of a reel,” corrected the second man, a neighbor with sandy hair.

  Nora brought her face up close to the inebriated lad and screwed it up hard. For a moment, she was silent.

  Then she exploded.

  �
��I didnae mean what they were dancing! I told ye to keep me informed, Hughie!” she screeched in front of the red-faced wretch. Hughie shied back, nervously.

  “I mean, is he still gonnae finish the job?” she flashed angrily. But inside, she sighed a little. This was her fault for setting a task like this for her son. She looked eagerly to Hughie for an answer, but it was not forthcoming.

  “Ah, I, um, am not sure,” he waffled, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

  Nora slumped back down into the low stool she was seated on. “Yer not sure? It’s a simple question—is that thick lump of a son of mine going to make good his promise, or isnae he?”