Chapter 8
For such a small lady, Freya MacLeod could run, even in those ridiculous slippers.
He’d lost sight of her amongst the trees, but in the end, there was no escape for her.
He’d catch up to her soon enough, either in the woods or at the castle, yet still he ran as if the devil were on his heels, into the thick copse of trees now as dark as midnight, the branches reaching into the sky shutting out the orange glow from the fire.
He was so intent on catching up to her, it was some time before he noticed the rumble of dozens of footsteps behind him.
Damnation. The village men were charging through the woods now, and there was no question where they were going, with their torches held high and their shouts echoing among the trees. They were on a witch hunt, and they were headed straight for Castle Cairncross to find themselves a witch.
Whether Sorcha had set fire to Stewart’s stables or not no longer mattered. From what Hamish had told him, the citizens of Dunvegan had been looking for a reason to chase the sisters out of the village for weeks now.
Now they had one, and the truth was nothing compared to a man’s thirst for vengeance.
Except it wouldn’t be banishment from the village now. No, it would be far worse.
The MacLeod sisters’ chances had run out.
But as luck would have it, a rabble of infuriated, torch-wielding men couldn’t make their way through a dense wood with any speed, and he easily outpaced them, reaching the edge of the drive leading up to the castle while they were still bumbling through the trees.
Even so, there was no time to lose.
The castle loomed over him as he ran, his mind a blur of whirling thoughts. If Freya MacLeod had any sense at all, she would have bolted the front door behind her. It would be no easy task to get inside the castle.
Or out of it again, come to that.
No easy way, no, but there was a way. They’d barred the doors, yes, but yesterday morning, after Hamish and Catriona had left for Ballantrae Bay and Keir was watching the front door, he’d poked into every corner of the lower level of the castle and had found just what he was searching for.
Castle Cairncross had a postern gate. It was nothing but a crumbling hole now, dusty and disused, but it let out into a private courtyard that was invisible from the outside of the castle. It was a tight fit, but he could squeeze through it if he had to.
Except when he reached the castle door and grasped the knob, it turned easily in his hand.
God above, was the girl mad? She must have heard the villagers coming after her. Did she not realize the danger she was in? At best, that mob would drag her to whatever dirty hole stood for a prison in Dunvegan, toss her inside, and bolt the door behind her until the next assizes.
At worst, they … no, he wouldn’t think of it.
Hamish would have his head if a single red-gold hair on Freya MacLeod’s was disturbed. She’d lied to him, yes. She’d schemed her way right out the front door, despite knowing it wasn’t safe, but he’d fight tooth and nail against that mob to keep them from putting their hands on her.
He slipped through the front door, closing and bolting it behind him, then paused in the entryway. It was dark and deserted. He opened his mouth to call for her, but then closed it again. There was a greater chance the village men would hear him than that she would answer.
There wasn’t a sound to guide his steps. The entire castle throbbed with silence.
She was here, though. He could sense her, hiding somewhere in the darkness, waiting and listening. But where? There were dozens of nooks and alcoves into which a small slip of a thing like Freya MacLeod could tuck herself, and she knew this castle inside and out.
He might search for hours, and never find her.
But he had to try. He had to reach her before the men from the village found her, and then … well, he didn’t bloody know what he’d do once he discovered her, but he’d decide on that later. He had to find her first.
As for where she might have hidden herself …
Hamish had said something about the roof, hadn’t he? Yes. He’d mentioned that Freya spent a good part of her time on the roof of the castle, studying … something. Rain? Or variations in temperature? He hadn’t paid much attention, as it all sounded like nonsense to him.
But the roof was as good a place to begin his search as any.
Freya jerked awake a short time later, the darkness still pressing against her, her head swimming with grogginess. Where was she? It was so cold, and her body was so heavy, as if she were being held to the floor with a great weight.
It came back to her in fits and starts, confused images flickering against her eyelids of sparks shooting into the night sky, the glow of torchlight and angry male voices shouting, and …
Sorcha, fleeing into the woods, and Mr. Stewart’s stables a writhing mass of flames, and the men from the village coming up the drive toward the front door of the castle, their torches glowing in the darkness, and …
Had it been a nightmare? She squeezed her eyes closed, her heart pounding.
Please let it have been a nightmare.
But any hope she might have had that she’d dreamt it vanished in the next moment at the squeak of a door hinge.
A chill seized her, the pounding of her heart deafening in the silence.
It was no nightmare. She was under her father’s desk, hiding from an angry mob of villagers from Dunvegan who believed she or Sorcha had set fire to Mr. Stewart’s stables.
And now one of them had found her.
The dirk. What had become of the dirk? She’d fallen asleep with it in her hand. She patted the floor around her, and … yes! Thank goodness it was there, beside her. She snatched it up, the brass handle slippery in her clammy hands, then went as still as she could, her breath held.
But there was nothing, not a sound to be heard. Perhaps she’d dreamt—
Squeak.
No. This was no dream. She’d heard that squeak dozens of times before. It was the hinge on the door of her father’s study, and then the unmistakable click of the door closing.
Someone had found her hiding place.
Could it be Sorcha?
Before she even had a chance to mutter a quick prayer that it be so, her hopes were dashed. Footsteps approached, and they were far too heavy to be Sorcha’s. The steps crossed from the door to the window, the heels of a pair of boots ringing against the stone floor.
He—for it was a man, and a big one, with that heavy tread—didn’t say a word.
She huddled against the back of the desk with the dirk clutched in both her hands and did her best to control her breath as the boots moved away from the window, the footsteps coming closer.
He paused when he reached the desk. It was as dark as a dungeon, so dark he didn’t cast a shadow, but she could see his boots from where she was hidden, the heels and toes splattered with mud.
Those boots. There was nothing distinctive about them—they were the same black leather gillies worn by men all over Scotland—but for one thing.
The size. They were massive, the bit of the laces she could see straining against the muscled calves they attempted to contain. She’d only ever seen one pair of boots that size, and there was only one man she knew of who could fit into—
“Oh! No, don’t!” She scrambled backward as an enormous hand appeared, but the desk was already against her back. There was no place for her to go.
The hand found her ankle, grabbed hold of it, and tugged.
“Let go!” She struggled for purchase, but the sides of the desk and the worn stone floor beneath her were smooth, and there was nothing to grab on to.
She kicked out, but the rough fingers around her only tightened, and then she was being dragged, her skirts riding up her thighs as Callum Ross hauled her out from under the desk.
“Don’t—”
“Quiet.” A large hand came down over her mouth. “Not a word.”
This time, there was no chasing away the panic. On some level she recognized it was far better that he’d been the one to find her rather than one of the village men, but alas, her wits had deserted her.
Her mind went blank, the panic shutting off all rational thought as if a lantern had been snuffed, leaving nothing but pure animal instinct, and she reacted as any trapped animal would.
She struck out, raising the dirk and bringing the edge of the blade down across his knuckles. And thus, the question of whether she’d have the courage to defend herself with a weapon was answered.
She did. She had.
He snatched his hand back, a low grunt leaving his lips, staring at the blood welling from the gash and falling in dark red drops onto the stone floor.
But even an open, bleeding wound wasn’t enough to stop Callum Ross from dragging her from her hiding place.
She was whisked across the floor as if she weighed no more than a feather, and the next thing she knew, he was kneeling over her, so close she noticed for the first time the thick ring of black that surrounded the pale gray of his irises.
“You’ve gotten us into one devil of a mess, Freya MacLeod.”
He waited, those cold gray eyes pinned to her face. But for what? For her to speak, to plead with him, or burst into tears?
She had no tears. Not for this.
She gazed up at the giant of a man looming over her, his knees pinning her to the floor, his brow lowered in his usual scowl, and she said nothing, because what was there to say? The worst thing she could ever imagine had happened. There were no words for that.
At last, those stern lips parted, and he broke the spell. “I’m trying to help you, Freya.”
“I—I don’t want your help! I don’t want anything from you.”
“I’m all you’ve got, lass.” His face was inches from hers. “Stop fighting me.”
But she couldn’t stop. While he still held her, his fingers as unrelenting as an iron trap around her ankle, she continued to writhe and thrash like a rabbit caught in a snare. “Let go of me!”