Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
THE MORNING OF FREYA’S ARRIVAL AT WEE INVERNESS…
F reya
Callum has to believe me that I had no idea Jack was with the Hoax. Had I known, I never would have taken his case! Now he thinks I’m in danger, which is only going to add fuel to the crazy get-Freya-a-husband notion he’s been dwelling on.
The concept is so ludicrous that I move on to one that has my heart sinking into my slippers.
Do my people honestly think I’ve betrayed them?
Late last night, wearing PJs and face masks, curled up in my many layers of duvets, Fiona assured me over tea and biscuits that everything was fine and Callum was just being overprotective when he said I need to leave Norse Garden?—
“Though why not consider it, Freya? Two back-to-back intense trials—couldn’t you use a vacation after all? ”
And on the topic of our beloved islanders?—
“Of course they’re confused, they have questions, but sure, they’re behind you…’
I found the chocolate the biscuit was dipped in more comforting than her words, told her I was tired, would be fine on my own, and sent her to bed. Fiona and I usually have no secrets, but I didn’t even tell her about what had happened with Fredrick just hours before in the Great Hall.
This morning, I’ve silenced numerous calls from home, unsure of what Carol Ann and the others would ask me, knowing I’d be too brokenhearted to defend myself if they doubted me. And Callum…it’s too painful to remember our conversation outside of O’Malley’s, so I don’t, shoving it down into the darkest part of myself.
An angry tear of hurt comes to my eyes, and I brush it away. They know me. We’ve grown up together, bandaged each others skinned knees, stolen beer, and smoked together. Hell, in our awkward stages of teenage lust, I kissed half of the Kings, I’m sure of it.
How could they ever doubt me, for a moment—me, Freya Burnes, the head female of our Burnes clan?
And my flesh and blood…
No matter what any fresh meat Glasgow Kings told me about an islander, I’d deny it to the grave, have that brother’s back, take it public, and make it right. I don’t believe in whispered words behind closed doors. That is what I love about court. All the facts are out in the open, free to be disputed by anyone, but in the end...
Only the facts stand in the end .
Pushing all the yuckiness away, I try to improve my mood, distract myself, and focus on something else. Sweets. I pull on a cozy gray waffle-knit robe over my silk black button-down long-sleeve pajama top and matching flowy pants and tie it around my waist. Under the advice of my mirror, I pop some 24k gold gel stickies over the black circles under my eyes.
“Stress is so NOT my beauty product of choice.” I slip my bare feet into my puffy pink slippers and wander out of my room, searching out my breakfast.
The newlyweds are out all day for their once-per-week preplanned Saturday outing. Today, I think they’re hiking to a meadow for a picnic. How boring! They seem obsessed with themselves, never having their hands off one another.
Honestly, it’s so adorable I could vomit.
Although alone, I CAN have a nice day to myself. I can recover from the confusing sex-plosion in the Great Hall with Fredrick. The hurt I feel from the Kings’ mistrust—the guilt over disappointing Callum and the fact that he wants me to leave our precious Norse Garden.
My slippered feet pad over the gleaming marble floors to our oversized commercial fridge, which I sort through, looking for sweets to comfort me. The house staff is off today, but I find a plate left for me: fruit, cheese, bread, and thinly sliced beef.
Behind that is a thick slice of chocolate cake.
I grab the small glass dessert plate and push the real food out of the way. “Yes, please!”
I curl up on the comfy gray sofa in the TV room, cake in my lap, hot tea beside me, a lineup of true crime documentaries ready to fill my day. I click on the television, filling the space with my voice. “If anyone hasn’t seen the one on the Sherri Papini case, you must. If possible, go in completely blind for best shock value.” I sigh. “I really must stop talking to myself.”
As much as I brag about being a strong, independent woman, I loathe spending time alone. If Fiona were here, I’d charm her into playing a game of Scrabble with me, Callum grumbling in the corner.
Champers jangles into the room, her prissy paws barely touching the floor as she approaches me. “Here, baby! Come cuddle me!” Gently, I pat the open cushion beside me so as not to scare her away.
As per usual, the cat, who I’ve secretly nicknamed Ginger for her cream and orange coat, gives me a prudent sniff, looks around for Fiona, then turns and leaves the room, haughtily sticking her fluffy tail up in the air, giving me a glamorous view of her pink bum.
She hates me.
“Fine. More cake for me, Ging.” Can cats even have chocolate? The prongs of my fork slice through the creamy ganache layer in the center of the cake just as there’s a knock at the door.
I wait for a guard to answer. Prickles dance down the back of my neck, tickling my spine as I wait. Nothing. Another knock. Callum, totally overprotective at every turn, has left me home alone with no guards.
“This is crazy.” Grabbing my phone from my robe pocket, I hastily text him .
Me: Callum, where are the guards
Someone is at the door.
I tap a black lacquered fingernail against my phone screen while waiting for his reply. My heart beats hard at the sound of the next knock.
Callum: Forgot to tell you the guards have a training today
You told me in our screaming match you can take care of yourself
Can you open a door
“Och! Little brothers…I swear…” I punch the words in.
Me: Don’t be that way
Can you at least tell me who is at the door before I get up
Ginger doesn’t want me to disrupt her for nothing
C: Who is ginge r
Whoops!
Me: Champers
C: I’ve pulled up the camera
It’s just the delivery man of Fredricks
He’s dropping something off
Fredrick Frisque with the frisky tongue. Och! What I wouldn’t give to keep that man off my mind.
I set the cake on the side table, toss my fuzzy blanket to the side, and harumph my way down the long hall to the front door, passing by Her Majesty. She’s relocated from the TV room as far from me as possible, now curled up in my red velvet foyer chair.
“Don’t worry, Ginger! I’ll get the door. You relax.”
Fully expecting the kind older man, Ian, our usual delivery person, I fling the front door open without looking through the peephole first. On the stoop stands a shorter man wearing a gray pinstriped suit, gelled-back black hair, and a thick mustache.
There’s a small red cube-shaped gift box sitting on his open palm. He holds it out closer to me. “For you, madame.”
The married version of ma’am in French.
“It’s mademoiselle,” I assure him. “With absolutely no plans to be addressed as madame.”
Instead of correcting himself, he only offers a funny smile.
What a strange man. I take the box, thank him, and close the door.
Triple locking it.
I pad back to my seat, sticking my tongue out at Ginger as I pass, and open the delicate box.
“Oh my gosh! What is this?”
Inside sits a tiny red-and-orange hot air balloon made of thin, colorful paper pasted over a grid of delicate metal forming the balloon—a perfect replica of the one I hired to float above our home two All Hallows Eves ago, tethered to the ground and rising so you could overlook the sparkling lights of the city with one of my themed cocktails in your hand.
Callum said there were no hot air balloons this year. It’s a security issue. He said he can only keep what’s inside our stone walls safe, which is precisely why he never wants Fiona to leave Norse Garden.
I hold the delicate object by its tiny straw basket, which looks to have been handwoven, admiring the artist’s attention to detail. A darling miniature of Champers sits in the basket, complete with her ginger-colored fur. Her cute little face is a replica, and she’s even wearing a pink collar with an itty-bitty silver bell.
“This is unreal.” I scour my mind, thinking of the local artists I know, wondering who could have created such a piece.
I can’t think of anyone.
To say I’m impressed would be an understatement, but coming from my snake-tongued fast-fingered arch-nemesis, I can’t admit what a wonderful creation he’s produced.
A note flutters out of the box. An invitation? As I read the paper, I realize the words aren’t so much a polite request as a demand.
Join me at my estate in Inverness
Wear wedding attire.
“Ha ha! As if!” Letting the paper slip from my fingers, I sigh, watching it flutter to the floor. I’ve clarified to all parties involved that I will NOT be leaving Norse Garden Estates. “So funny I forgot to laugh, Freddie.”
The hot air balloon, on the other hand, I nestle lovingly back into its box. No matter the sender, the little work of art is a treasure.
I’m just getting into the part when Sherri, wrapped in chains, flags down a truck driver on the side of the road to save her from her captors when there’s a SECOND knock on our front door.
Holding in a groan, I text Callum AGAIN.
Me: another knock
who is THAT
C: Fredricks man again
Me: The weird little mustached man
what does he want NO W
C: he needs to pick something up
answer the door
Me: you didn’t say please
C: ANSWER THE DOOR FREYA
“Geeze, oh man, Callum. Keep your pants on.”
Despite my better judgment, I pad my way back over to the door. Stachio is waiting on the stoop. Leaning against the doorframe, I ask breezily, “Can I help you? Callum said you’re here to collect something?”
A look of confusion is on his face. “I’m here to collect you,” he announces matter-of-factly.
“Collect me?” I gape at his audacity. “Like a suitcase or a bag of old clothes to be donated? What on Earth do you mean by ‘collect me?’”
“You’ve been invited to the Frisque estate in Inverness.”
“The note in the box? I thought that was a JOKE.”
His caterpillar brow folds. “So, you have received Mr. Frisque’s invitation.”
Pfft! “If you call that an invitation,” I say.
“You’ve had plenty of time to get ready.” He eyes my messy bun, the gold gel patches I’ve placed under my eyes to calm the last of the dark circles, the cozy robe I wear, and most likely a chocolate frosting smudge somewhere on my person. His gaze lowers, taking in the pink tops of my fuzzy slippers. “Are you?”
“Am I what?” I ask, still in shock over his arrival.
He says, “Ready to go?”
“Certainly not! And I’ll advise you to leave my property at once.” I go to close the door. To my shock, his strong arm shoots out, grabbing the edge of the door to stop me from closing it.
Then, he steps inside. The mustache had me off guard, but now I see this man's full size and strength. He’s barely my height but muscled like childhood drawings of the strongman from Fossett’s Circus.
My heart hammers in my eardrums as the heat of panic rises in my chest. “What—what are you doing?”
My pulse takes flight, beating like a hummingbird's wings as I back from the door. The guards are at a meeting. The staff have left for the day. The newlyweds aren’t even close to coming home yet and are probably pulled over shagging in the back of their Escalade SUV.
And Ginger does nothing. She’s still sitting on the velvet chair, daintily licking an already perfectly groomed paw.
I am absolutely, utterly alone. The next house is acres away. We made sure we had complete privacy when we bought the place. There’s no point in even screaming. No one will hear me.
“Look. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you, just step outside. Please. I have cash.” Whipping over my shoulder, I grab the coffee cash from my shiny black hot-girl fanny pack, shoving it at him. “Here. Take this and go outside. I’ll get you more.”
“The Frisque family is generational wealth,” he says, as if I do not know such a thing. “They pay me well.” He shakes his head, that seedy grin coming back to his face. “I’m not here for your money.”
“What are you here for, then?” I ask.
“You.” This time when he speaks, his tone is stern. My blood chills at his following words. “I’m not leaving this house without you.”
“Wait here.”
“With pleasure.” His mustache lifts with his icy smile.
Even his henchman is infuriating. Storming back to the TV room, I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts. Ol’ Freddie’s at the bottom of my call list—the only time I’ve rung him was to set up the meeting last month to choose the whisky for the party.
His name is saved as Fredrick Frisque BEST Distiller in Scotland.
His attention to detail and need for perfection make him the best in the business. However, this will need to change. In my anger, my thumbs fly over my screen. “Fixed it.”
Triumphant, I press the new contact, Freaky Freddie —really, everyone should aspire to my level of petty—and wait for him to answer before storming back to the foyer with Ginger and Strongman.
He picks up on the first ring like he’s expecting my call. His smooth voice sluices through the line. “Bonjour, madame. ”
“It’s MAD-mo-zell and why is your Frisky Whisky thug standing in the foyer of my house? Are you accosting me in my jammies? Disturbing the cat, who, might I add, is already very jumpy from being home alone this morning?” I pet the cat’s soft fur, cooing, “It’s okay, Gingy. I’m getting rid of the bad man…”
She swipes a paw at me.
Fredrick clears his throat. “I take it you received my invitation.”
“I received a scrap of paper. No name, no timeframe, and no polite request for my presence. Though,” I add despite myself, “the artistry of the balloon, I must admit, was second to none.”
“I’m glad you like the gift,” he says. “And I apologize if you found my manners lacking.”
“Lacking? Pfft! Non-existent, I’m afraid, Mr. Frisque.”
“A lovely gift accompanied with a handwritten note lacks manners?” he says. “I object.”
“Overruled,” I snap. “You’re not the one with a mustached criminal currently scaring your cat.”
“Scared? The very same cat that let Fiona carry it around all night at a wild Halloween party when it was just a kitten. Alex will take you to my car, where my driver awaits you.”
I scoff so hard I choke, coughing into the phone.
“Are you alright? I took a swim this morning. I may have some water in my ear, but you sound like you’ve swallowed a fur ball. ”
“You. Are. Infuriating.” I look at the mystery man beside me. “Alex? Your cryptic messenger now has a name?”
“He’s always had a name. Now go put on something pretty and get in the car.”
“Or what?” I hiss into the phone.
His voice drops. “Or I’ll come down there myself to retrieve you. And I promise you—you won’t like that very much. Get your gorgeous ass in my car. Now.”
I let a string of expletives go, calling him every name in the book.
“And madame questions my manners.” He hangs up.
“Mademoiselle!” I shriek into the phone. I toss it to the side.
I’ll go. But only because I need a change of scenery. I can’t stay here with Callum’s men’s eyes on me; I don’t want to feel their stares as they question my loyalty.
It would break my already hurting heart.
And honestly, after the explosive fight with Callum in the Great Hall, I knew he was right. He has so much on his plate. I don’t want to worry him more.
And after those pain-filled words from my brother outside of O’Malley’s…
Freya, how could ye not know?
The words I can’t get to stop echoing in my ears. They’re weighing me down, breaking my heart repeatedly each time I remember them. A little space between Callum and me could benefit us both.
I’ll go, but not for the reason everyone thinks, not to create a relationship with Fredrick.
They say I was too young to remember the moment my parents first laid that precious bundle in my arms. And maybe I was. But if I close my eyes, I can feel Callum’s soft, weighted warmth, smell his soft baby scent, and a surge of big sister love and protection fills me.
Callum is a Viking of a man, but he will always be my little brother.
I’ll go to protect the one relationship that matters most to me if only to ease my brother’s mind. I’ll be Freddie’s captive if it brings peace to Callum. For now, just until I figure out how to prove to everyone that I am a loyal islander through and through.
But I will NEVER marry him.
And Fredrick best not lay one finger on me.
Or…tongue.