Chapter 11 #2
He stared down at the playing cards spread out atop the trunk. “Why, Miss MacLeod, do I feel as if I’ve just stumbled into a notorious gaming hell?”
She gave him a demure smile. “I couldn’t say.”
By God, the chit was a card sharp. “I find that hard to believe.”
“You may believe whatever you like, Mr. Ross, but it doesn’t change a thing.” She tapped a finger against her lip. “Now, what sort of burning secret can I compel you to divulge?”
“I don’t have any secrets, Miss MacLeod.”
It wasn’t true, of course. He had dozens of them, each one deeper and darker than the last, but he didn’t want Freya MacLeod in his head. She’d already worked her way under his skin, and that was bad enough without her getting a peek into his thoughts.
“As I already said, Mr. Ross, everyone has secrets.” She leaned back against the settee and fixed him with that sharp green gaze. “But if yours are so dark and deep you’d rather not reveal them, we can play for truths instead.”
She had an answer for everything. “Truths?”
“Yes. Whoever wins the hand may ask the other a question, and he—or she, as the case may be—must answer it truthfully.”
“I see. But what’s to stop me from lying to you?” She didn’t know him well enough to distinguish his lies from his truths.
“Your own moral compass, Mr. Ross.” She cast him a shrewd look, her eyes narrowed. “I’ll know it if you lie. Your face will give you away.”
Doubtful. He was an accomplished liar. “Very well. Ask your question.”
She considered him for a moment. “All right, then. How long have you known Lord Ballantyne?”
That was her question? How dull. “That’s hardly a secret, Miss MacLeod.”
“We’re not playing for secrets, Mr. Ross. We’re playing for truths. Even so, you don’t seem all that keen on sharing, so I thought we’d start slowly, and build up from there. Your answer, sir?”
It was a harmless enough question, considering what she might have asked him. “Since I was a child. So many years that I can’t recall a time when I didn’t know him.”
“Your fathers were friends, I think?”
“Yes.” A smile twitched at his lips. Wily chit. “But that’s two questions, Miss MacLeod.”
“So it is.” She flipped over the two cards that were still face down, frowning when she turned over a six of clubs, then a nine of hearts. “Fifteen, dash it.”
He turned over his own cards. “The king of spades, and the ace of clubs. That’s twenty-one, Miss MacLeod. Now it’s your turn to share a truth. Did you really twist your ankle the other day in the entryway?” He already knew she hadn’t, but he wanted to hear her say it.
“No,” she answered at once. “I feigned the entire episode, from the stumble to the injury. I rather regret smashing that teapot, if it’s any consolation to you. It was one of my favorites.”
“Ah, I thought as much, and you confess the truth without even a hint of a blush on your cheek. Have you no shame, Miss MacLeod?” He was certainly teasing her. Awkwardly and rather stupidly, yes, but teasing, nonetheless.
“That’s two questions, Mr. Ross. You’ll have to win another round to get your second answer.” She gathered up the discarded cards and dealt them out, an impish smile twitching at her lips, but it vanished an instant later when she turned up a four of clubs to his queen of hearts. “Blast it.”
“This game is more fun than I anticipated. My earlier question has already been asked and answered. You have no shame.”
Her eyebrows flew up. “That’s rather a hasty conclusion, I think. How have you reached it?”
“No blush, Miss MacLeod. It tells me all I need to know, and since I already have the truth, I reserve the right to ask a different question.”
She let out a heavy sigh. “These underhanded tactics do you no credit, Mr. Ross, but very well. What is your question?”
“Why did you sneak out of the castle?” He’d wondered about it, more than once. She knew how dangerous it was, so why had she risked it?
“You’re no longer asking for a truth, Mr. Ross.” She toyed with the cards, not looking at him. “Now you’re asking for my secrets.”
He was, and that he wanted rather desperately to hear her answer meant he should never have asked the question at all. He shouldn’t want to know Freya MacLeod’s secrets, or anything else about her.
But it was too late now. “The question stands, Miss MacLeod.”
He knew she’d gone to fetch her sister, of course. That was the truth of it, but like so many truths there were a dozen secrets hiding beneath it.
Still, she hesitated. “You’ve changed the rules of the game during the play, Mr. Ross. If we’re to play with secrets, then I should be permitted to offer up a secret of my own choosing, as penalty.”
“I don’t see why. When the game began, I wasn’t permitted to choose my truths. Anyway, it’s far more diverting to play this way, don’t you think?”
“It’s more dangerous, certainly,” she murmured, gathering up the cards.
“Danger is always diverting, Miss MacLeod. But you haven’t answered my question. I’ll have your secret, if you please.”
“I’m afraid you’ve just wasted your question, Mr. Ross. It’s no secret. Indeed, you already know the answer. I left the castle to go after Sorcha. She has a troubling habit of making the villagers … uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortable? That was putting it in the most agreeable terms. Half of Dunvegan believed the MacLeod sisters were a trio of wicked, redheaded witches.
It was absurd, of course, but a good number of the villagers believed it, and they especially believed it of Sorcha, who seemed to encourage rather than attempt to dispel their fears. “Does your sister make the villagers uncomfortable because they think she’s a witch?”
Her hands went still on the cards.
It wasn’t his turn. He had no right to ask her the question. He wouldn’t blame her if she refused to answer him.
But that wasn’t what she did. She was quiet for some time, but then she said, “It’s not just Sorcha, Mr. Ross. There are those who think all three of us are witches. To hear them tell it, Cat spends her days brewing poisons in a witch’s cauldron, and Sorcha can command the animals.”
How curious, that she’d left herself out. “What of you, Miss MacLeod? What powers are you meant to have?”
“It’s too ridiculous to even mention it.”
“No doubt, but indulge me, if you would.”
“For pity’s sake. Since you insist, they think I can control the weather.”
“The weather,” he repeated. No, surely not.
“Yes. According to the rumors, I can summon thunder and lightning and control the wind and the rain with a twitch of my magical fingers. I did warn you it was ridiculous.”
She had, but this? Good God. “Where did they get such an idea?” Surely anyone dull-witted enough to believe such a thing must lack the creativity to invent it.
“There was a sudden squall the night the first lugger sailed into Loch Dunvegan. Such squalls are common, but once the rumors of witchcraft started, the squall took on a mythical quality. It became a part of the narrative and was added to the tally of our sins.”
“Ah, I see. Then you’ve been aware from the start that the villagers view you and your sisters with suspicion.”
“They haven’t been subtle about it, Mr. Ross. Of course I’m aware.”
“But you went after your sister anyway, even knowing what they think of you. At night, alone. Weren’t you afraid of what might happen?”
“Afraid?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’m always afraid, Mr. Ross. Every hour of every day.”
Her answer bothered him, but why should it? He hardly knew her. Freya MacLeod’s secrets and fears were no concern of his.
“Then why?” He tried to clamp down on the words, to catch them between his jaws and grind them down before he could say them, but they were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Why did you go after her?”
She continued to busy herself with the cards, still avoiding his gaze. “You don’t have any sisters or brothers, do you, Mr. Ross?”
“No.” He had his mother. That was all. “Although I’m curious why you’d assume such a thing. Am I so transparent as that?”
“Transparent? You, Mr. Ross, are deceptively transparent, in the same way Loch Dunvegan is. It appears clear enough at first glance, but the truth lies far below that, invisible to the eye. The surface matters very little. It’s what’s invisible that makes it what it is.”
That was … uncomfortably specific. “Very poetic, Miss MacLeod, but you didn’t answer my question. Why would you assume I don’t have siblings?”
“Because if you did, you never would have asked such a question.” At last, she met his gaze, the cards in her hands forgotten.
“There are different levels of fear. Have you ever noticed that? The truth, Mr. Ross, is that I was afraid to go after Sorcha that night, but I was more afraid of what might happen to her if I didn’t. ”
She shrugged, as if this answer was the only one that made any sense, as if it were obvious that love would always overrule fear, every time. It wasn’t true. He’d seen men give up everything—their names, their legacies, and even their families—out of fear.
And here was this tiny bit of a lass, braver than all of them.
“Are you afraid of me, Freya?” Damn it, where did that question come from? He hadn’t meant to ask it. How many times did he have to remind himself that her fears and hopes, her truths and secrets and worries had nothing to do with him.
He didn’t even want to know the answer. He should stop this game, now. He’d only learn more about her if they kept on with it, and he already knew too much.
Already felt too much …
It wasn’t a good idea to know her. There wasn’t any room in his life for Freya MacLeod. There was hardly any room in it for him anymore.
But he’d asked the question, and it hung there, suspended between them.
“I was. That first day at the castle …” She trailed off, shaking her head.
It was no more than he’d expected, but her answer pierced him still, as if she’d plunged that dirk through his breastbone.
“But I’m not afraid of you anymore. Not since …” She glanced up at him, the blush that had been missing before now staining her cheeks.
He leaned forward. “Since?”
“Since you found me under my father’s desk.”
“You stabbed me, Miss MacLeod.”
“I did, yes. I, ah, I beg your pardon for that. I thought you were one of the villagers who chased me through the wood. When I realized it was you, I was … relieved. I don’t pretend I wanted to leave Castle Cairncross, Mr. Ross.
I didn’t.” She met his gaze. “But I was glad you’d come for me.
I realized then that I was no longer afraid of you. ”
She didn’t seem to expect an answer. She gathered his cards up, added them to the pack, and replaced the deck in the wooden box.
“Are we finished playing already?” He tried to keep his voice light, to offer her a smile, but something heavy had sprung to life between them, and he could see by the way she dropped her gaze again that she felt it, too.
“I think it’s best, don’t you?”
This was what came of telling secrets. “Perhaps it is.”
They sat there for a moment, neither of them speaking a word, until he rose and crossed to the window to gaze out at the waning gray light. It must be nearly teatime, by now. “Are you hungry, Miss MacLeod? I can prepare tea for us.”
“No, thank you. I find myself fatigued. I believe I’ll see if I can sleep a bit more.” She rose, but halfway across the room she turned back to him. “It was good of you to play cards with me, Mr. Ross. I know you didn’t want to.”
With that, she retreated to the bed, and buried herself in the blankets until not even the tip of her nose was peeking out, leaving him standing there, staring after her.
Why had he ever imagined she’d be the easier of the two younger MacLeod sisters? She wasn’t as violent as her sister, no. She hadn’t tried to behead him, after all. She wasn’t the villainess Sorcha was, but she was … complicated.
Timid one moment, and too brave for her own good the next.
And sweet—that coaxing voice of hers could charm a bird from its nest—and yet for all the honey dripping from her tongue, there were barbs there, as well.
Thorny, sharp ones.
There was no rhyme or reason to Freya. She was one thing at one time, and in the next instant, the precise opposite of that thing. It made him wonder about her, and the last thing he needed was to be wondering about Freya MacLeod.
It would be far better for them both if he never thought of her at all.
Or looked at her. Or touched her.
He turned back to the window and listened to Brodie’s clock tick off the quiet minutes one by one until her breaths turned deep and even.
He crept closer to the bed, taking care not to wake her with the thud of his boots against the floor, and peered down at the unmoving pile of bedclothes in the middle of it.
All he could see was a mess of sheets and blankets, but he heard the soft sigh of her breath over the murmur of the waters of Lochalsh washing against the rocks at the edge of the coastline, and he caught a glimpse of a red-gold curl peeking out from under a thick blue blanket.
It would do him no good to become preoccupied with Freya MacLeod. Once he delivered her safely back into Hamish’s keeping, he’d wash his hands of her.
Until then, another long, empty day stretched out before them tomorrow.