Chapter 14
Kildary, Scotland
It shouldn’t have been as easy as it was to leave the Isle of Skye behind.
There should have been a squall as they crossed Lochalsh, with dark clouds above them and roiling waters below. There should have been lashing rain and violent winds that threatened to turn the boat over and send them tumbling into the sea.
Something. It was the first time she’d ever left Skye, and it shouldn’t have happened with so little sense of occasion. It wasn’t right that she could leave her home and her sisters behind with no more fanfare than lacing up her boots or brushing her hair.
They reached Balnagown Castle on the evening of their third day of travel.
There was a significant distance between the Kyle of Lochalsh and Kildary—nearly eighty-five miles—and Callum had taken a circuitous route to confuse any thief-takers who’d decided the bounty on her head was worth a chase through the Highlands.
The journey should have taken longer than it did, but Fate had been on their side, the fickle creature, much as she had been when they’d crossed Lochalsh. Fate, who’d declined to interfere in her family’s favor these past months, had made quick work of Freya this time.
Balnagown Castle was not what she expected. That she’d expected anything at all was rather a surprise. After three days traveling on horseback with nothing but a silent Callum Ross to distract her, she hadn’t thought of much of anything aside from the increasing ache in her backside.
And Sorcha. She’d thought of Sorcha, and Cat, and Cairncross Castle.
Her home had never been as far from her as it was now, and the loss of it was an ache inside her, an empty, throbbing ache where her heart had once been.
But when she caught her first glimpse of Balnagown Castle as they approached, she sat up with a gasp.
This was the seat of Clan Ross, one of the most powerful clans in Scotland? This was the home of Callum Ross, a man so grave, so solemn he looked as if he’d emerged fully grown from one of those horrid, Gothic castles, like Athena from Zeus’s head.
He should have been the product of dark gray stone with sharp, pointy turrets and a foreboding slab of thick, iron-studded oak in place of the front door.
A castle like Castle Cairncross, in fact.
But this? No, surely not. “This is Balnagown Castle?”
For the first time since they’d left Strathpeffer this morning, Callum spared her a glance. “Do you see another castle about, lass?”
Her eyebrows rose. My, someone was a bit touchy about his castle, wasn’t he? She considered her companion from her place in the saddle. He’d dismounted and was standing in the neatly graveled drive with a scowl on his face so fearsome it was a wonder it hadn’t chased the birds from the trees.
And trees there were, each more picturesque than the last, what was left of their summer leaves fluttering in the breeze. The white stone castle was nestled amongst all this perfection with such flawless symmetry one could almost believe the hand of God himself had placed it there.
There were turrets and battlements, and all manner of castle-like appendages, but it was more of a manor house than a proper castle, despite the tower rising from its center.
There was a lovely wilderness on the eastern side of the castle, and beyond it, formal gardens with a view of Balnagown River to the north.
From there, lush parklands stretched out in every direction, as far as she could see.
Why, even the sky itself didn’t dare frown on such a place. It arched overhead, the blue of the day giving way to the setting sun. It tinted the sea of puffy white clouds a brilliant pink as it sank below the horizon.
It was nearly winter in Scotland, and winter meant rain, but dark, dreary rain clouds wouldn’t do for Balnagown Castle, it seemed. Never in a thousand years would she have imagined a man like Callum Ross could come from a fairy-tale castle such as this.
“It’s delightful, isn’t it?” Indeed, she’d never seen a prettier place in her life.
“Delightful,” he repeated, his tone flat, as if it were the last word he’d use to describe it, and his brow lowered even farther, if such a thing were possible. “If you like,” he muttered, adding a grunt for good measure.
God above, that scowl. He’d been wearing it for the better part of the last day, and she was weary of the sight of it. He was spoiling the vision in front of her with that derisive twist of his lips, and that grunt didn’t help, either.
If she never heard that blasted grunt again, it would be too soon.
She hadn’t wanted to come here, and she didn’t wish to be here now. During their three days of travel, she hadn’t once ceased thinking of Sorcha and the threat of the thief-takers hanging over her head, but for the first time since they’d left Dunvegan behind, her heart lifted.
Just a touch. A lovely castle didn’t solve any of her problems—they’d all be waiting for her when she left here—but it was difficult to believe anything dreadful would befall her in such a place as this.
It was too beautiful for that.
Perhaps all might yet be well. Callum was a grunting, stone-faced menace, to be sure, but he was a man of his word. He’d return her to Dunvegan when the danger had passed, and Cat and Lord Ballantyne would see to it that no harm would come to Sorcha.
They would, because anything else was unthinkable.
Her home wasn’t lost to her. Not yet.
But until she could return to it … well, perhaps she’d make a friend or two here. It had been so lonely at Castle Cairncross these past few months, ever since the smugglers started coming. Surely, only the most agreeable people lived in such an enchanting castle as—
“Hell and damnation. What the devil are you doing back here so soon?”
Her head jerked up. A man was standing in the open door of the fairy-tale castle.
He was nearly as big as Callum, and had the same dark hair, but despite his handsome face, he was hardly the prince such a castle deserved.
His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, and a scowl dark enough to rival Callum’s sat on his lips.
A scowl he made no effort to hide.
It deepened as he took in Freya, carving a groove into his forehead and the sides of his cheeks. He was a young man, about Callum’s age, or perhaps a little younger. Certainly not more than twenty-seven years or so, but his cold expression made him look older.
He abandoned his slouch against the doorframe and strolled down the steps, joining them in the drive. “You made quick work of your business in Dunvegan. We didn’t expect you for another few weeks, at least.”
“Plans change.”
It was hardly an explanation, but Callum didn’t elaborate. He left it there, the insultingly short reply making it clear he didn’t intend to explain himself.
“So I see.” The man came toward them, taking in Freya with a pair of watchful blue eyes as he came closer. “Who’s the lass?”
“My name is Freya MacLeod,” she said, before Callum could speak. “I’m the daughter of Rory MacLeod, of Clan MacLeod,” she added, lifting her chin as she spoke her father’s name.
The man’s blue eyes widened slightly. He’d recognized the name.
It wasn’t surprising. There weren’t many people in Scotland who hadn’t heard of the infamous smuggler Rory MacLeod, but if this scowling gentleman was surprised to find a MacLeod in his front drive, he got over it quickly enough.
“Is that so? And what are you doing at Balnagown Castle, Freya MacLeod?”
What, indeed? It was a simple enough question, but one without an easy answer.
She’d spent the past three days wondering how she’d account for her presence when they arrived here, but alas, she hadn’t come up with a satisfactory explanation.
Only some creative stories, all of which were designed to hide the ugliest parts of the truth.
Lies, in other words, but she’d always been hopeless at lying, and when she opened her mouth, the truth tumbled out. Or a version of it, at any rate. “Certain, er … unexpected circumstances made it necessary for me to leave my home in Dunvegan. Mr. Ross took me away and brought me here.”
The man’s eyebrows rose. “What, you mean to say he kidnapped you?”
It had felt that way to her at the time, and goodness knows Callum had been high-handed enough about the business, but despite how cross she was with him, she couldn’t bring herself to hurl such an accusation.
Not because of the kiss they’d shared, of course. Why, she’d hardly given their kiss a single thought these past few days. No, she wasn’t such a fool as to let a handful of sweet words and a few careless kisses cloud her mind.
But because Callum hadn’t had any other choice but to take her away from Dunvegan, and to claim otherwise was a lie. “No, I don’t mean to say that at all.” She held the man’s eyes. “I went with Mr. Ross willingly. It wasn’t a kidnapping.”
It had been a rescue, and a heroic one, at that. He hadn’t done it for her, but because of the promise he’d made to Lord Ballantyne, but in the end his reasons didn’t make a bit of difference.
Not to her.
If he hadn’t been the one to find her that night, if it had been one of the men from the village who’d pulled her out from under that desk … a shudder raced down her spine and the hairs on the back of her neck stood upright.
They would have found her, one way or another.
That night, or perhaps the following day.
They wouldn’t have given up until they did.
They would have torn the castle apart, and perhaps not only the castle.
They might have torn her apart right along with it, but for Callum, and that was what she told the man with the angry blue eyes. “Mr. Ross saved my life.”
It had been nothing less than that, and she wouldn’t ever forget it.
“That’s our courageous laird.” The man’s lips curled. “Ever the hero, eh, Callum?”