Chapter 14 #2
She glanced at Callum, startled by the bitter note in the man’s voice, and found those disconcerting gray eyes on her. She had the oddest sensation that he could see through her, right through her skin to her blood and bones, and the pounding heart hidden inside her breast.
He contemplated her for a long moment, his gray eyes unreadable, then just as quickly dismissed her. “It wasn’t a kidnapping, although in the end, perhaps it amounts to much the same thing.”
She frowned at him. It wasn’t the same thing at all, and she opened her mouth to say so, but Callum had already turned away from her, and from that point on, he ignored her entirely, instead turning his attention to the man.
“My mother is here, James?”
The man’s lips tightened. “Aye, she’s here.”
“Good. Fetch Willis to see to the horse, and summon Mrs. Doherty as well, to assist Miss MacLeod.” Callum didn’t wait for a reply, but tossed the reins to James, who reached instinctively to catch them.
Everyone obeyed Callum Ross’s orders, it seemed.
Whether they wished to, or not.
Callum reached for her then, closed his hands around her waist, and without so much as a by-your-leave, lifted her down from the horse, depositing her in the graveled drive in her too big half boots, keeping one hand wrapped around her upper arm.
Her right foot had fallen asleep, and her legs threatened to buckle beneath her after such a long time on horseback, but she disentangled herself from his hold and straightened her shoulders.
What in the world was happening? Instead of the welcome Callum should have received, a strange tension crackled between the two men. James was still scowling, his hands now clenched into fists around the reins, and Callum had gone rigid beside her.
But she had little time to wonder about it, because Callum was already marching her toward the arched front door, leaving James in the drive, staring after them.
It was such a pretty place. With its gleaming white stone and the lush greenery of the land surrounding it, it looked like something out of a storybook.
But with her every step toward the door, her uneasiness grew. For all its beauty, there was something amiss at Balnagown Castle.
* * *
“What I don’t understand, Callum, is why you brought her here.”
God above, here it came. That hadn’t taken long, had it? His arse had hardly had a chance to touch his seat before James burst through his study door and threw himself onto one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“By all means, James, make yourself at home.”
James arched an eyebrow. “Did you suppose I’d do otherwise, Callum?”
“Damned if I know what you’re going to do anymore, James.”
He thought he’d known, once, but then he’d thought they were friends once, too. Good friends, even, but that had been when he and his mother had first arrived at Balnagown Castle, nearly a year ago.
God, was that all? It seemed like a lifetime had passed since then.
As it turned out, he and James hadn’t become friends. Whatever feeble chance there’d been of it had withered on the vine a few months ago, and it had yet to recover.
He didn’t know what they were now. Not friends, but not quite enemies, either.
He stared at the glass in his hand. Only a moment ago it had been filled with a generous measure of whisky, but now only a few drops of amber liquid remained in the bottom of the glass.
“Well, Callum? What were you thinking, bringing Rory MacLeod’s daughter here? Don’t we have trouble enough?”
We? Was the trouble theirs now? Just before he’d left for Dunvegan just over a week ago, James had made a point of letting him know his problems were his, and his alone.
He downed his second glass of whisky in one swallow and resisted the urge to reach for the bottle again. “What would you have had me do with her, James? Toss her into Loch Dunvegan?”
“No, of course not, but surely there must have been someone there who could look after her. Some friend of the family?”
“Not according to Ballantyne.”
James snorted. “Ah, Ballantyne. Of course. I might have known he had a hand in this. You should know better than to trust an English aristocrat, Callum.”
“Ballantyne’s been a good friend to me.” Callum met James’s gaze. “Loyal.”
His point wasn’t lost on James, but he didn’t rise to the bait, instead snatching up the bottle of whisky and pouring himself a generous measure.
Just as well, really. God knew there was nothing to say that hadn’t already been said a dozen times over. They drank in silence, and for a few moments Callum could almost convince himself it was just the same as it had been when he’d first come here.
“Pretty girl, Miss MacLeod.” James tossed back his whisky and set the glass on the desk. “What did she say her first name was, again?”
“Freya.” Freya MacLeod. Her name was going to haunt him well after she returned to Dunvegan. Whoever would have thought such a tiny lass could throw his life into such disarray?
He reached for the bottle again, even as the whisky he’d just downed was still burning his throat. It was going to take more than a few wee drams to erase the memory of sharing a saddle with her these last three days, her curved bottom nestled snugly between his thighs.
If ever there was a lass who could drive a man to drink, it was Freya MacLeod.
“Too damn pretty, by half.” James was watching him, his blue eyes seeing in an instant everything Callum was trying to hide. “If she’d been plain it might not matter, but that face? That face is going to cause trouble, Callum.”
That face, those eyes, that hair, those lips, and that was to say nothing of that shapely bottom. “Do you think I don’t know that, James? The girl’s life was in danger. There was no way I could leave her in Dunvegan.”
If there had been a way, he’d have found it.
“Tensions are high amongst the clan members right now, Callum. I don’t need to tell you that things are … delicate.”
Delicate. That was a polite way of putting it. A more appropriate word would be “disastrous.” “No, but you’re telling me anyway, aren’t you?”
He rose, abandoning his empty glass on his desk, and wandered over to the window. His back ached like the devil, an after-effect of keeping himself relentlessly upright in the saddle, so no, er … unfortunate parts of his anatomy happened to brush against any part of Freya MacLeod’s.
“What are you going to tell Lorna?” James reached for the bottle and poured himself another dram. “Or are you pretending you didn’t notice how attractive Freya MacLeod is?”
“I admit she’s not entirely unpleasant to look at.” If one admired long, thick red hair, green eyes the same shade as new spring leaves, and smooth, pale skin.
All that, and an arse like a work of art.
God, he needed another whisky.
“Not entirely unpleasant?” James snorted. “High praise, indeed. And here I thought you’d try and convince me you never spare a glance for any other ladies since you became betrothed.”
“I’m not betrothed.” He wasn’t, not yet, but he may as well be. The thing was as good as done. But of course he’d noticed Freya. Any man with eyes in his head would notice her.
“Perhaps not yet. I don’t know what you’re waiting for. Alistair Niven made his wishes perfectly clear. Why don’t you just get on with it?”
James knew well enough why he wasn’t yet betrothed to Lorna Niven, despite her father’s final wishes.
Because he didn’t love her. Not the way a man was meant to love the lady he married.
And because James did.
For all that he spoke casually, James couldn’t hide the pain in his voice. Callum heard it, as surely as he saw the bleakness in his friend’s eyes.
Former friend, that is. He’d made a mistake, telling James about the betrothal. No one else at the castle knew of it aside from Lorna, not even his mother. But in a weak moment he’d confided the truth to James, and that confession had marked the beginning of the end of their friendship.
Callum turned away from the window. “You know why.”
James had been staring into his empty glass, but now he looked up, his gaze meeting Callum’s. A long silence unfolded between them, but what was there left to say? Alistair had made his wishes plain, just as James had said.
Despite the man’s good intentions, Alistair had made a bloody mess of everything.
Finally, James looked away with a shrug. “The marriage is what’s best for the clan.”
Was it? Alistair Niven had certainly thought so, but Callum wasn’t so sure. Marriages were one way to bridge the divide between feuding clan members, and had been for centuries, but the chasm that had separated Clan Ross since Culloden was as deep as it was wide.
“We’ve got another problem, as well,” James added, setting his empty glass down on the edge of the desk.
Of course they did. There was no end to the problems. “We?”
James rolled his eyes. “Yes, we. God knows you’ll cock it up if I leave it to you, if you haven’t already.”
Callum smothered a sigh and returned to the chair behind his desk. In some ways, it would be a great relief if he did cock it up, and beyond the fixing of it. “What’s the problem now?”
“I should think that was obvious. You’ve spent the past week alone with Freya MacLeod—a lady not lacking in personal charms—traveling here from Dunvegan. At a guess, I’d say Lorna isn’t going to be pleased about it.”
Right. That. Lorna wasn’t the sort of lady to rush to conclusions—she was far too sensible for that—but it was a delicate business and destined to become more so.
“I don’t know what you’d have me do, James.
I promised Ballantyne I’d look after Freya.
I wasn’t going to leave her in Dunvegan to be torn apart by that mob that was after her. ”
“Mob? What did that little slip of a thing do to get a mob after her? It can’t be because of her father. Rory MacLeod is much beloved by the Scots, especially on Skye.”
“It’s nothing to do with Rory. Not entirely, although the villagers didn’t care much for the swarm of smugglers invading Dunvegan’s shoreline after he passed.”
Whether that treasure would ever be found, or if there even was such a treasure, was anyone’s guess. Ballantyne seemed to think there was, though, and he trusted his friend’s judgment.
Or he would have, if Hamish didn’t happen to be madly in love with the eldest MacLeod sister, Catriona. Love made a man stupid, and Ballantyne had been besotted with the lady. He’d thought his friend was a damned fool at the time, but that was before he’d kissed Freya MacLeod.
It made more sense now.
“Smugglers?” James’s eyes went wide. “Good Lord. How do the smugglers come into it?”
Callum propped his feet on top of his desk, heedless of the dust and mud on his boots. He was too exhausted to care. “It’s a long story, and it’s not mine to tell.” God knew the less that was said about that business, the better.
Especially the part about the MacLeod sisters being suspected of witchcraft. He’d rather keep that information from his mother, whose protective instincts would rush to the fore if she found out about the, er … alleged witchery.
He couldn’t blame her for it. As a midwife, she’d battled similar suspicions, but this business was already complicated enough, without her interference.
“Freya’s here now,” he went on. “There’s nothing I can do about it but do my best to make sure her presence causes as little fuss as possible before she can be safely returned to Ballantyne’s care.”
James settled back in his chair, his narrowed gaze on Callum’s face. “Is that all, then?”
Callum let out a mirthless laugh. “Isn’t that enough?”
“I was just wondering if you were going to confess to the rest of it.” James shrugged, but his shrewd blue eyes were flinty.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No?” James leaned forward.
Damn it. He knew that look. It didn’t bode well for him. “No.”
“I’m talking about the fact that you’re besotted with Freya MacLeod. Not that I blame you. There’s no denying the lady is fetching.”
“I’m not besotted with her.” That is, he did spend quite a lot of time thinking about her. Watching her, too. It was difficult to tear his gaze away from her. He’d dreamed about her last night, as well, about those stolen kisses under the willow tree.
But none of that meant he was besotted with her. He desired her, yes, just as he had other ladies before her. There was no denying she lingered in his mind in a way none of the other ladies had, but that was only because they’d hardly spent a minute out of each other’s company over the last week.
But besotted? The very idea was absurd.
“Very well, Callum, if you say so, but I suggest you stay as far away from Miss MacLeod as you possibly can while she’s here. Lorna’s not a fool.”
No, she wasn’t. But could he keep away from Freya? Could he live here in the same castle with her without talking to her, or gazing at her, or God forbid, kissing her again?
It was going to be a long, torturous few weeks.
Perhaps he’d have that third drink, after all. He snatched up the whisky bottle, poured the last of it into his glass, and swallowed the whole of it in one go.
James watched, a small smile on his lips. “I hope we’ve got plenty of whisky.”