Chapter 8 #2
He didn’t reply, only waited while she struggled, kicking out at him until at last she exhausted herself. He reached for her then, and to her everlasting shame, she curled in on herself, shrinking back.
But he merely took the dirk from her hand and set it aside, out of reach.
Then, to her shock, he released her ankle, muttering a curse as he glanced down at his bleeding hand.
The cut was a deep one, right across his knuckles, but he only pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it around his mangled hand and tied off the ends.
“Here. Put these on.” He snatched up a pair of black half boots from the top of the desk and shoved them into her hands.
She stared down at them. “These aren’t mine. They’re Cat’s. They’re too big for me.”
“They’ll have to do. We need to leave here. Now.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but reached down, caught her upper arm and hauled her to her feet.
“Leave here?” What, leave Castle Cairncross? “You’re mad! I’m not leaving here without my sister!”
He released her so suddenly she stumbled against him. “You can leave here with me now or take your chances with that mob of village men. Those are your choices, lass. Which will it be?”
Choices? But those were no choices at all! “I can’t leave Sorcha here to face them alone!”
“You can, and you will. Keir will take care of Sorcha. We need to get away from Dunvegan.” Despite her protests, he was already dragging her through the door of her father’s study and into Cat’s workroom. “It’s not safe here anymore.”
Not safe? This was her home. How could it not be safe?
But of course, she knew how. Those men with their torches, the way they’d chased her through the woods, the viciousness with which they’d spat her name.
MacLeod.
It all crashed down on her, then. The fire, and the villagers, and Sorcha’s headlong flight into the woods. In the space of a few hours, everything had fallen apart. With Sorcha gone, she had no one on her side, no one to help her but—
Callum Ross. Dear God, she was at the mercy of Callum Ross.
The man she’d just stabbed with her father’s dirk.
She’d stabbed him, and now she had no choice but to depend on him to keep her safe.
This wasn’t happening.
It was a nightmare, nothing more, much like all the other nightmares she’d had since her father’s death, and the luggers started coming.
It was easier to think so, easier to keep repeating this lie in her head as Callum Ross hurried her down the back staircase, through the kitchens and into the stillroom, where he half led and half dragged her toward a rough opening that had once served as the castle’s postern.
The cobwebs clinging to the crumbling stone caught in her hair as he helped her through it into the small courtyard beyond. She stopped, staring at the mossy stone wall in front of her. “How will we get over the wall? It’s too high.”
Callum came through the opening after her, his broad shoulders touching the sides of the hole. He had one of the kitchen chairs in his hand. He propped the back of it against the stone wall to steady it, then jumped on top of it and held out his arms to her. “Come. Quickly, Freya.”
Leaping into Callum Ross’s arms was the last thing she wanted to do, but what choice did she have? The men from the village were still outside, their shouts echoing in the night as they tried to breach the castle’s front door.
So, she took his hands, and he hauled her up onto the chair. “I’m going to lift you high enough so you can grab the top edge of the wall. Get yourself over as quickly as you can, then drop down on the other side and wait there for me.”
She nodded, gritting her teeth as his hands closed around her waist. Then she was in the air, her feet dangling for an instant before she dragged herself upward until she was sitting atop the narrow stone cap that ran across the top of the wall.
The ground looked as if it were miles away, but Callum was already scaling the wall behind her. Unless she wanted to share her ledge with him, she had no choice but to jump.
A cry lodged in her throat, but before it could escape she was in the air again, the ground rushing toward her. She landed on her bottom on the other side, and sat there in a daze, the wind knocked out of her, but then Callum was there, hauling her upright with a hand on her arm.
He turned her to face him. “Listen to me carefully now, lass. I’ve a horse lodged at the inn in Dunvegan.
We need to fetch him, but they’ll be looking for us.
It’s not safe to go through the woods, so we’ll have to go over the rocks that skirt the loch.
We need to move quickly, and quietly. Do you understand? ”
“I—I understand.”
“Good. Let’s go.” They crept around the eastern edge of the castle, the villagers’ angry voices fading behind them as they flew toward the cliff’s edge far above the loch. There was a pathway of sorts through the rocks, but it was a narrow, treacherous thing, and strewn with debris from the storm.
Freya stumbled blindly along, the rain lashing at her face, doing her best not to look down at the churning waters below them. Callum remained behind her, his hand around her upper arm keeping her steady.
The walk seemed to take hours, her energy flagging with every step, but at last they reached the Merry Maid Inn.
Callum didn’t bother with the proprietor. He took her directly to the stables, where he saddled the largest black horse she’d ever seen, crooning to the beast in soothing tones as he worked.
Then once again, his large hands closed around her waist, the warmth of them seeping through the layers of her clothing and lifted her onto the horse’s back.
He wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t rough, either.
He was businesslike, as if he were in the habit of tossing young ladies about and arranging them to his liking.
He swung up behind her and hauled her against a chest as hard and massive as the castle’s stone turret. A protest rose to her lips, but before she could gather her breath to utter it, he removed his heavy woolen cloak from his shoulders and draped it over hers.
Then he set the horse in motion with a brisk slap of the reins.
She looked back only once and could no longer see the turret of the castle jutting into the sky.
This isn’t happening. It isn’t …
But she couldn’t fool herself forever. Reality, alas, had a dreadful way of catching up to you, in all its ugliness. It had caught up to her now, and it was uglier than she’d ever imagined it could be.
When sleep came, she let it pull her into its arms. It was easier, this way.
It was so much easier, not to think at all.