Chapter 4 #2
But she didn’t seem to notice. She sat quietly, plucking at her skirts, her gaze straying to the window behind them. Her profile was arresting, with her high cheekbones, a dainty upturned nose, a gently rounded chin, and fine, creamy white skin.
And that hair … when men waxed poetic about a woman’s crowning glory, this was what they meant.
She wore it bundled in a tight, untidy knot, the thick coil resting at the back of her neck.
It was not flattering, with every stray lock scraped away from her face the way it was, and secured by what must be dozens of hairpins, but the haphazard style did nothing to hide the beauty of those lustrous, red-gold tresses.
Not that he thought her beautiful. That is, she was pretty enough, if one admired tiny, pale, timid, redheaded lasses.
He did not.
Still, it was odd he’d overlooked her yesterday. Of course, he’d had a dirk pressed to his neck at the time, but even so, short of an actual slit throat, hers wasn’t a face a man failed to notice.
Or perhaps it wasn’t so odd. She was doing everything she could to hide herself.
It wasn’t just the severe hairstyle, but her clothing, as well.
Her gown appeared to be several sizes too large for her, and she’d added a fichu and kerchief, piling one piece atop another until she was drowning in layers of fabric.
The colors were drab, too—dark grays and browns on a lady who was, perhaps more than any other lady he’d ever seen, meant to wear bright, dramatic shades.
And that pinafore, for God’s sake. What was a lady of her age doing in a girl’s pinafore? Unless … did she wish to be mistaken for a dull, colorless chit of no more than fourteen or fifteen years of age?
If so, she was doing a fine job of it.
Yes, that was it. The hair and clothing weren’t an accident. Miss Freya MacLeod was trying to fade into the background. But why? God knew he was no expert on the whims and foibles of young ladies, but he had yet to come across one who went so far out of her way to escape notice.
Especially not one with that face.
It didn’t make any sense, and now he was curious, damn it, when the last thing he needed was to become curious about some lady he’d never lay eyes on again once he left this godforsaken castle—
“It grows dark,” she said suddenly. As if on cue, the grandfather clock on the second-floor landing chimed the five o’clock hour. “It’s later than I realized,” she murmured, her gaze still fixed on the window.
She remained still, but there was something watchful in her face as she peered out at the darkening sky, and a strange tension in her body. “Are you well, Miss MacLeod? Does your ankle pain you?”
“No, not at all.” She let out a little laugh and untucked herself from the settee. “I only wrenched it a bit. It feels much better.”
He said nothing, and for an instant, her eyes met and held his. It was the first time she’d looked directly at him since he’d arrived, and he felt it … God, he felt it everywhere.
She had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, a fresh, tender green, and as clear and innocent as the first shoots of snowdrops after the winter frost. But for all their sweetness, there was a depth to them, and a flash of something he hadn’t expected in such a fainthearted lady.
A hint of fire.
“If you’ll pardon me, Mr. Ross, I believe I’ll see to the mess in the entryway, and then perhaps I’ll go lie down for a while.” With that vague excuse she rose to her feet, offered him an awkward little curtsy, then fled the drawing room.
He turned, frowning at the door through which she’d just vanished.
What was that all about?
He turned toward the fire, shaking his head. Damned if he knew what had come over her. Perhaps he’d gotten too close to her hems, and it had sent her scampering around the corner like a pickpocket with a handful of coins.
If she’d been anyone other than who she was he would have been suspicious enough to go after her, but Freya MacLeod, a scheming vixen? No. If ever there was a lady less given to misbehavior than she was, he had yet to encounter her.
Such a docile, quiet little thing wouldn’t dare get up to any mischief.
This was a terrible idea. A dreadful, awful, foolish, risky idea.
Freya crouched in the shadows to one side of the staircase, her heart fluttering in her chest, and peered out at the long drive leading up to Castle Cairncross.
There wasn’t a single tree to hide behind.
It was as empty as a drive could be and seemed to stretch to infinity.
How had she never noticed how exposed it was before?
There was nothing but forest for miles around, yet there wasn’t so much as an obliging shrub or twig to hide her as she scurried down the drive.
Really, was a twig too much to ask?
She peeked around the edge of the staircase, but there were no lairds to be seen. Mr. Dunn had retired upstairs some hours ago, presumably to sleep, as he’d been awake for a good part of the night, pacing the entryway.
As for Callum Ross, he hadn’t yet realized he’d been duped, but he would, and sooner rather than later. This was her only chance. There was nothing for it but for her to gather what little courage she possessed and seize it before it was gone.
She sucked in a deep breath and crept from her hiding place to the front door, snatching up the cloak she’d left draped over the banister yesterday.
There. That was one step over with. Only another three or four hundred more to go before she reached the end of the drive. The woods were directly beyond it. Once she passed the tree line, she’d be invisible to any large, outraged lairds who happened to glance out the window.
She could manage a few hundred steps, for pity’s sake.
She wasn’t such a coward she couldn’t even walk down her own front drive.
Really, it wasn’t as if she were doing anything wrong.
A lady was allowed to take a walk. Why, ladies all over Scotland did it every day, and none of them fell into a panic over it.
Of course, none of those ladies had been accused of witchcraft.
Still, there was no help for it. No good would come of letting Sorcha run wild.
So, she threw her shoulders back, straightened her spine, and with a final furtive glance down the hallway, she turned and darted out the door, pausing only to close it quietly behind her and mutter a quick prayer that she wasn’t making a dreadful mistake.
Fleeing the castle without a word to either of her captors—er, that is, her protectors—wasn’t the way to earn their trust or endear her to them.
Why, even now Sorcha might be tramping through the forest, on her way back to the castle. There was no evidence that the smoke she’d seen through the window rising in a thin gray curl from the west side of the village had anything to do with Sorcha.
Even so, her steps quickened on the pathway, because somehow, Sorcha was in the middle of whatever new catastrophe was unfolding. She knew it as surely as if warning bells were clanging in her ears. The skin on the back of her neck only ever puckered as it was when something was amiss.
The only question now was, how bad would it be this time? Would it be a minor infraction, like the time Sorcha threatened to cast a spell on Mrs. MacDonald when the nosy old woman accused her of consorting with the devil in the dark depths of Dunvegan Woods?
Sorcha had been dragged off to the magistrate that time, and it had taken a pretty piece of coaxing for Cat to get her released.
It had been an ugly incident, one that hadn’t improved their reputation amongst the citizens of Dunvegan, but no weapons had been brandished, and no threats had been made.
Or would it be like three days ago, when Sorcha had leapt on the laird of Clan Ross’s back, pressed a knife to his throat and threatened to spill his blood all over the front drive?
If only she could lie to herself! It would make everything a great deal easier.
Because she already knew the answer. She could sense it in the same way she could sense an impending storm even when the sun was shining, and the skies were clear blue.
It was like a cold finger tracing down her spine, the threat of impending disaster, and that curl of smoke she’d spotted from the drawing room window did little to ease her mind.
Where there was smoke, there was a good chance Sorcha was nearby, fanning the flames.
She glanced into the sky as she hurried along the pathway, damp seeping through the flimsy soles of her slippers. She hadn’t dared take the time to put on her boots.
Not with Callum Ross mere steps away.
The sky had turned its usual winter gray as the light faded, and the smoke was nearly invisible against that leaden gloom, but … was it thicker now? Had those filmy wisps turned into clouds? Or worse, billows?
Billows of smoke were concerning, indeed.
She stopped several paces from the edge of the woods, a chill gripping her like a cold hand around her neck. It was as dark as night under the thick canopy of entwined branches. Once she ventured inside, she’d hardly be able to see at all, and would be at the mercy of whatever dangers awaited her.
Sharp branches, exposed tree roots, disgruntled woodland creatures …
Her sisters adored these woods, much as their mother had done when she was alive. There were few things that gave Cat more pleasure than foraging in the woods for plants with medicinal value.
As for Sorcha … well, no one knew quite what Sorcha got up to in the woods. She’d always been cagey about her comings and goings, but whatever it was she was doing, it took up a good deal of her time.
Freya did not love the woods. She was the only one of her sisters who regarded them with a creeping sort of horror. It wasn’t surprising, really. Of all the generations of MacLeods who’d lived at Castle Cairncross, she was the only one who’d turned out to be a coward.
But there was nothing to do for it this time but plunge ahead. That worrying curl of smoke was coming from the direction of the village, and the woods stood between her and it.
There was no way to go, but forward.