Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
F reya
The castle is a sturdy two-story red sandstone square sandwiched between three towers. All the windows are arched at the top in half-moons, and when you stand inside the towers you can peer out the windows there for a lovely view of the river.
It's a beautiful land. A dream of a wee little castle. It is the perfect renovation project. A home to house generations of frisky little Frisques. And those brown-eyed French-speaking weapons will not be popping out of this golden minge.
But the way Fredrick is following me so closely, at my side every moment of the day, I’m near afraid I’ll get pregnant merely from spending too much time alone with the man.
“It’s a gorgeous estate,” I say. “I’d love to tour it in peace. ”
“You mean alone?”
“Aye.”
“No.” My tour guide and I stand out on the pebbled path where I first arrived, staring up at the castle as he informs me, “Built in the late 1800s, the estate home lovingly nicknamed Wee Inverness was modeled after the original Inverness castle, which was the fictional home of the infamous Lady Macbeth.”
“Lady Macbeth! That’s fascinating.”
“As the lady of the house, you will now be our Lady Macbeth.”
“I’m not the lady of the house. Only a guest.” A temporary one at that. “And please do not compare me to a power-hungry manipulative woman who plans a murder and then encourages her husband to carry it out for her.” I toss my hair over my shoulder. “Obviously, I’d carry out my own murders.”
“Hypothetically?” he hopes.
I pull down my white-framed Chanel sunglasses to peek at him in warning. “Don’t push me.”
“I only meant Lady Macbeth is strong, ambitious”—he chokes out the last word—“ruthless.” Clearly thinking of me on my knees. I laugh, picturing him on the edge of the bed last night, gripping the sheets and groaning out eff bombs as I pleasured him.
“Back to my request for the solo tour. Last night, when you first came in the room and were—” I flush, ashamed about laying over his lap.
“Spanking you and punishing you. Turning you on?” he says.
Clearing my throat, I ignore him, continuing, “You told me that I could go anywhere I wanted as long as I stayed within the walls.” I hold up a gold-bangled wrist, pointing to the tall stone wall surrounding the property. “I’m within the wall, ken?”
“I said you could explore inside the walls, yes.”
“And?”
“I never said you could go alone.”
Infuriated, I moan. “Semantics.”
“You’re a lawyer.” He shrugs. “You know how important it is to pay attention to the details.”
I heave a sigh. “I am a lawyer, and this whole ‘no contact with the outside world’ thing is driving me bananas! I mean, I know we just wrapped up two cases, and it’s the perfect time to have a”—I hold up my fresh red manicure to air quote—“vacation, but seriously. I’m a CONTROL freak. Not having any idea how work is going…”
“It’s for your safety,” he reminds me for the numpty-teenth time. “As well as that of your friends. If the Hoax came looking for you, whoever is around you at the time could be hurt.”
“I agree. It’s just frustrating. You know—you don’t have to babysit me. Don’t you have your own work to do?”
“I could use a vacation. Besides, if I don’t babysit you, who’s going to spank that lovely ass of yours if you get out of hand? ”
HEAT. Everywhere. “Have I told you how infuriating I find you?”
He counters with, “Have I told you how enchanting I find you?”
My entire wardrobe arrived this morning. I must say, I am looking good. I'm opting for a French flair for my first day as the MAD-mo-zelle of the castle. I wear a light, cashmere blue-and-white-striped sweater. I teamed it with fitted white pants, nude thong panties underneath, and Kate Spade kitten-heeled slingbacks on my feet. I completed the outfit with a lovely straw hat to keep the warm, late-fall sun from my face, a blue ribbon around its brim.
“I’ve never seen you in anything other than black.” He adds, “Or purple. Or naked.”
The cheek! “You’ve never seen me naked,” I correct.
“I’ve seen parts of your stunning body naked. Your thighs, your?—”
“Let me stop you right there.” I change to a safer subject, my outfit. “I shocked myself this morning when I chose this outfit, but I woke up feeling…”
Free is the word I want to use, but that would make absolutely no sense. Banished from my home, I’m a captive here. Yet, having some space from Callum and the Kings, I feel free.
“Ready to conquer the day?”
“Exactly,” I say. “And the idea of wearing black made me miss the courtroom that much more.”
“Hopefully, you won’t find staying at our little castle too terrible a time.”
“You’ve been more than generous,” I offer. “And, so far,” fingers crossed, “I’m not hating it as much as I anticipated when your circus hand dragged me away from my cozy home.”
He clears his throat, hiding a laugh.
SHOCKER: I am having a lovely time. Last night’s sexcapades didn’t hurt either. I was Freya, the sexy Valkyrie, and I conquered the stuffy French man, rocking his privileged world, showing him what we simple islanders are made of. We don’t need prestigious boarding schools for a good education.
A few drinks, a good bonfire night, and a grassy hill with privacy will teach you everything you need to know to rule this man’s world.
Of course, a few years of law school didn’t hurt either.
“Come this way,” he says, leading me toward a lovely gazebo at the water’s edge. The scent of fresh coffee hits my nose, making it a wee bit easier to follow behind him.
“I’ve had the staff prepare a breakfast picnic for us.”
“Fredrick, you really don’t have to spoil me,” I say, loving the attention. After Callum’s betrayal, I’m licking my wounds. A little thoughtfulness goes a long way in recovering my former confidence.
“Smoked salmon, caviar, and liver paté. French delicacies.”
“Oh.” I smooth a false brightness to my tone. “Lovely!”
What I could use this morning is a deep-fried Mars bar.
Still, I behave, following him to a table by the water. It is nice to know someone cares. The river sparkles under the sun, and the little town stretching out on the other side of the water is pristine and quaint.
The table is filled with fresh coffee and sweets.
“Wait a minute, you tricky trickster. These are what Fiona calls my Freya foods.” Mini powered doughnuts. Raspberry ruffle bars. Tea cakes.
“I’ve told you, I want you to be comfortable here. Anything your little Freya heart desires, say the word, and you shall have it.” He gestures at the table. “Please, dive in.”
“If you insist.” I pick up a ruffle bar and take a delicate bite. The delicious taste confirms what I suspected. “I’d know this Raspberry Ruffle anywhere. This is Cheffie’s recipe!”
He nods. “I didn’t want you homesick, so I asked Cheffie to send some of your favorites along with your wardrobe.
“That was very thoughtful of you.” My heart does this weird fluttering thing. He reached out to Cheffie just for me? Feeling I owe him thanks, I stretch up, landing a chaste kiss on his cheek. His intoxicating masculine scent has me pulling back quickly. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing. Truly.” He reaches over, picking up a frosty glass. “Your favorite flavor of fruit smoothie with added protein powder for your health.”
He hands me the glass, and I accept, taking a deep drink. “Delicious. Thank you. You’ve thought of everything.”
He dines on the fresh fruit and cheese platter while I sample every dessert, thinking it would be rude not to after all the thought he’s put into our picnic.
I hold out my glass. “Smoothie?” I offer.
“No thanks. The French prefer to chew our food.”
Conversation flows between us. Witty banter is a must for me, and I have to admit, the man delivers. The weather is unseasonably warm, and under the shining sun and the river's sparkle, I almost feel I’m dining on the French Riviera with a man I much like.
Strange how after all our filthy sexcapades and the electric sexual tension between us, we can transition to having a pleasant day out.
I’m almost enjoying myself when he ruins the mood with, “The wedding. Have you given it more thought?”
I pop a grape into my mouth, enjoying the burst of flavor. “Not a chance. I don’t have a plan. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, how I’ll sort out this mess I’ve made, but I will.” I give him a pointed look. “And I won't need a husband to accomplish the task. I’m no weak woman.”
“Quite the opposite,” he says, admiring my face in the sun. “Which is why you’d make the perfect mafia wife.”
“One day. Perhaps. If I meet the right man,” I admit.
He looks around; seeing no other men to choose from, he points to himself, saying, “Moi?”
I almost laugh. “No- wa,” I rhyme with moi, “ and no way.” I shake my head, the silk ribbon from my hat brushing over my back. “There’s too much…tension…between us.”
“But you like the fight as much as you like the chase, ma chérie.” He slips a hand along my face, cupping my cheek in that lovely way that only he’s ever done. He pulls me in for a kiss.
And I let him .
The kiss has sparkle and magic and lingers on my lips. His taste is clean and manly, and I now know firsthand why they call it French kissing. He’s a god at it. He holds my face as he kisses me, then lets me go.
Too soon.
I pull away, flushed and bothered. Shaken, I stand, smoothing my pants. “Shall we continue our tour?” I leave the pavilion, getting a few meters head start to cool off.
“Wrong direction.”
“Eh?” I look over my shoulder at him.
He points to the other side of the property, away from where I’m headed. “We’re going to the gardens.”
I catch up to him, taking his arm, and we stroll to the walled gardens behind the castle. We don’t get to explore them, though, because there’s a line of sleek, shiny, brand-new sports cars parked on the stone patio before the garden, blocking our path.
“Fredrick,” I say. “Is there a car show in town?”
“I thought you might like having a car here in Inverness. To drive around the property, of course,” he adds. “Pick whichever one you want. The others I’ll return.”
“I’ve never owned a car,” I say in shock.
“Freya Burnes? Big shot lawyer, no car?”
“No car. In fact—” He’s going to have a flippin’ field day with this one. “I never learned to drive one.”
“How old are you again?”
“Eh? Twenty-and-none-of-your-business years young,” I snap. “We didn’t need a car on the island—we weren’t allowed to go anywhere the bus couldn’t take us. Then, Callum and the Kings were in Glasgow, now wealthy and buying bikes and cars. He always drove me to university. Besides messing around and driving Baynes’s Toyota truck on the farm, I’ve never driven.”
“Pick one.” His gaze scans the line of shiny new cars. “I’ll teach you.”
I picture the two of us in the red Ferrari, him trying to explain the mechanics to me, me running us off the road, us arguing all the while. “Och,” I laugh. “That’ll go over well.”
If my non-existent driving skills don’t do us in, we’ll probably end up killing one another anyway.
“You think we can’t work together well enough to maneuver a car? How are we to run an estate together once you’re my wife?”
“Easy. I’m nae going to be your wife.”
“Madam.” The easy grin creeps over his face. He’s so sure of himself, confident he will be my future husband.
I go to correct him. “It’s MAD—you know what? Never mind.”
“We will be married. Mrs. Freya Frisque. Has a nice sound, oui?”
“No!” Gah! “You are infuriating. And Freya Frisque, while having a lovely alliteration, is only a fantasy in your extremely addled brain.”
I storm away before I even get to fight with him from behind the wheel of one of the lovely vehicles, calling over my shoulder, “And the cars, while lovely, will not change my mind.”
And, of course, he follows me.
How we’ve gone so quickly from our peaceful picnic to this is precisely why we are not a match. “Freaky Freddie the stalker,” I murmur to myself, struggling through the grass as I aerate the lawn with the sharp points of my heels.
He rushes to my side, slipping an arm into mine. I would reject it, but the alternative is slipping the heels off and going barefoot, and that’s not the look I’m going for. I allow him to assist me to the paved walkway.
“We still need to tour the wine cellars and the horse barns; you haven’t even met Joyeux Halloween,” he says.
At the word Halloween, I stop in my tracks, turning to face him. “Did you just say Happy Halloween in French?”
“Oui. Or, aye.” He grins. “My Joyeux.”
“Who,” I add, remembering the wee bit of French I learned in Paris, “or what, is your Happy Halloween?”
“Mon chat.” His tone fills with adoration. “My kitty.”
My jaw drops. “You have a cat?”
“I do. He rode all the way here from Glasgow right in my lap. Unfortunately, Morvan has horrid allergies, and she’s banished him to the barns. She says everyone at Inverness has a job, and Joyeux’s job is to catch mice. I don’t have the heart to tell her he’s no mouser and that the only gift he’s ever left on my doorstep was a moth.”
“He sounds like a sweetie.” The man I found so infuriating a moment ago now tugs my heartstrings. “Halloween…so he’s all black?”
“Yes. Well, no. He has a tiny white fur bow tie just here.” He runs a finger along the hollow at the base of my neck. My skin responds with a trail of heat in the wake of his touch. “Other than that, he’s your favorite color of couture: midnight black.”
“He sounds very handsome.”
The quaint barn is painted a soft brown with white trim and large windows, a place you could host a rustic wedding.
Fredrick calls the cat’s name once. A moment later, a black streak is running right toward him. He scoops up the tiny cat, holding him in the crook of his arm as he tells me how, on a stormy night in Glasgow, he was taking his trash down to the bin behind his apartment above the distillery—he takes out his own trash?—and heard a distressed meow coming from the street.
In the pouring rain, he got down on his belly, reached into a storm drain where he heard more meows, and coaxed the little kitten into his hands.
Happy Halloween is obsessed with the man. Like Ginger, he wants NOTHING to do with yours truly. Seeing Fredrick so tender, caring for the helpless little kitten, knowing he had no parental love to mimic? The gentle display gives me a few healthy throbs in my uterus.
“I like your cat.” I press my thighs together, telling my minge to shush. “You know I have a soft spot for All Hallows Eve.”
“I’m aware. ”
“I really like his name. I’m just surprised you would choose something so…fun.” I stare at the adorable kitten. “I’m thinking, Cat. Maybe Mr. Cat. Or if you were feeling frisky, perhaps Midnight?”
“You don’t think I’m fun?” he asks, bemused.
“You’ve spent the first half of the morning rattling off dates and facts about the history of the town of Inverness.”
Flashing a wicked grin. “You find me quite amusing when I’m under your skirts.”
“Och. Boy.”
“Here’s a fun fact,” he says. “Did you know the name Frisky Whisky was because I lost a bet? My friend knew I would hate it, so he bet me twenty grand in a card game. If I won, I got the cash. If he won, he got to name my brand.”
“I can see why you wouldn’t have wanted that name,” I say. “Not a fun fact, though. Not as fun as naming your cat after my favorite holiday.”
“I know it’s your favorite—I’ve been to your party. Twice.” He grins. “I especially like the taste of the dessert I stole at the last one.”
I blush. “You’re mad.”
“Top three?” he asks.
I raise my brows. “Holidays?”
He nods, nuzzling his cheek against the cat.
“I think you can guess my number one. Then Christmas. I go over the top at Norse Garden. Fresh greenery, red bows, about ten thousand strings of white lights. You should see it.” I go quiet momentarily, realizing this mess may not be cleared up by then. “Anyway. And number three, being a loyal Scot, St. Andy’s Day.”
“Ah—St. Andrew’s Day, the feast of the Apostle Andrew,” he confirms.
“The very same. Also lovingly referred to as St. Andy’s for a beloved tennis player of ours—you know what? Never mind. You can call it whatever you like as long as you partake in the festivities.”
“Years ago, I arrived in Scotland for the first time on November thirtieth. That was quite an experience.”
I try to picture Fredrick in his dark gray suits and perfect manners, trying to navigate sidewalks filled with inebriated Scots. The image tickles me with a giggle.
“On behalf of Scotland, I do apologize. Every Scot you bumped into was probably dead blootered,” I laugh. “We go to church, of course, but after service, St. Andy’s Day is an excuse to get wreaked and stuff ourselves silly with our beloved traditional foods.”
“For you that means mounds of sweets and pounds of crumbly tablet, which I quickly learned not to call fudge.”
“I eat sausage!” Happy Halloween looks up at me, and I take the opportunity to reach out and let the little cat sniff me. He seems content enough with my presence, so I stroke him under his silky chin. He doesn’t seem to mind.
My fingers brush against Fredrick’s skin as I pet the kitten. He doesn’t seem to mind, either. I ask him, “What’s your favorite holiday?”
“Oh. Hmm.” His voice drops. “Honestly, holidays for me are a bit like driving for you. I don’t have much experience in celebrating them.”
The thought of not celebrating holidays hits me square in the chest. It’s unthinkable. “Like, any of them?”
He shakes his head.
Aghast, I pry further. “What about birthdays?”
“My father didn’t believe in frivolous—his words, not mine—silly sentiments. He saw celebrations as time wasters.”
That’s cold. Ice cold. Island waters in the dead of winter cold. “And your ma? Did she not wish ye a happy birthday?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Not that I remember of her anyway. She died when I was young.”
Gah! “I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?”
“No, it’s just truth. It’s what happened. My mother died. My father realized a child wasn’t a tiny adult. He didn’t know what to do with me. I was shipped off to boarding school at a very young age. Not a lot to celebrate, unfortunately.”
“Would you like to celebrate holidays? You have your own grand house now. You can host half of Glasgow here.”
“I’d need a wife for that. Wouldn’t I?” He turns those deep brown eyes on me. While holding a kitten.
I shake my head. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“You looked phenomenal in that wedding dress.” He leans over so Happy Halloween can jump down. The cat rubs his ankles. “Let’s not waste such a gorgeous gown. ”
Ah. The dress. The one that would have had to be ordered weeks ago.
“It’s lovely,” I agree. “The loveliest I’ve ever seen. And it fits me like a glove. Sheer perfection.”
“You are sheer perfection. The dress is just a bow on a perfect package.”
“Pretty words, but they bring up a pertinent question.”
Happy’s green eyes and Fredricks’s brown eyes stare at me in unison. “Which is?”
“You only brought me here yesterday. A dress like that? Hmmm.” I look up at the blue sky as if calculating days. “It takes some time, aye?”
Realization settles uncomfortably on his face.
I narrow my gaze, going in for the kill. “Who ordered the dress, and when?”
He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I fear I’m not at liberty to say.”
“It’s Callum. Isn’t it?” Hands go to my hips. “He didn’t just fear for me after the court case. He’s been planning this forever.”
He doesn’t answer. His gaze says it all. Callum and he had been planning this way before I represented Jack Maclean.
I give a low moan of frustration. Happy meows. Fredrick sighs.
Callum’s not trying to save me. He’s trying to get rid of me. The realization hits hard .
Awkwardly, I say, “Thanks for letting me meet your sweet kitty. I’ll head to the house for a bit to warm up.” I leave the barn, rushing toward the castle for the solace of my room before the tears come.
Since Fiona moved in with us and christened our place Norse Garden Estate, I thought things were even better than when it was just Callum and me, as if he had gained a wife and me, a sister.
I likened us to the three musketeers.
Maybe I’ve had it all wrong.
Maybe…three is a crowd.