Chapter 15 #2
Freya’s hand shot to her head, a despairing groan leaving her lips when she felt the tangle of curls. “I must look a fright.”
“Not at all, Miss MacLeod.” Mrs. Ross gave her a kind smile, steered her over to the dressing table, and pressed her gently down into the chair in front of the looking glass. “It just wants a little brushing, that’s all.”
Freya peeked at Mrs. Ross from under her lashes as she ran the brush through her hair.
Callum looked very much like his mother. Mrs. Ross didn’t have his intense gray eyes—hers were a soft, dreamy blue—but they both had the same thick, dark hair, and there was a similarity to their features, especially around the jaw and mouth.
Although Mrs. Ross smiled more than Callum did. At least, she smiled at Freya as she brushed out the tangled locks of her hair, but she didn’t hurry through the task. She worked through each curl with her fingertips before attempting to untangle the strands with the brush.
How long had it been since someone had brushed her hair for her?
Years.
Her mother had taken great pride tending to her daughters’ thick red curls. After she died, Cat had helped her for a time, expertly wielding hairpins and brush to tame the red-gold ringlets until Freya was old enough to do it herself.
She watched Mrs. Ross’s hands in the mirror, her graceful movements as she started at the root and dragged the brush down, down, down until she reached the final upturned curl at the end of each lock of hair, then set it over Freya’s shoulder before starting on the next one.
Then, to her utter shame and humiliation, tears sprang to her eyes.
She wasn’t going to start weeping, was she?
Nothing in the world could be more awkward than giving way to the tears pressing behind her eyelids, all because Aila Ross was kind enough to brush her hair? But try as she might, her eyes were blurring with them, and her nose was stinging, and …
Mrs. Ross’s hand stilled, the brush going lax between her fingers. She didn’t speak, but she met Freya’s eyes in the mirror, then deliberately set the brush aside, and laid her hands on Freya’s shoulders. “Callum tells me that you’ve had, ah … quite a trying time of it this past week.”
Freya sniffled, but after some effort, she managed a watery, “Yes. My sister Sorcha is—”
That was as far as she got before she broke off, because the truth was, she hadn’t the first idea how to finish that sentence. “I don’t know where she is.”
Dear God, what must Mrs. Ross think of her? She’d shown up at this delightful castle looking half wild without a stitch of clothing to her name, and now she’d burst into tears over her lost sister.
But if Mrs. Ross was scandalized, she hid it well. “You poor thing. Callum said that there was some sort of trouble in Dunvegan. A gentleman’s stables caught on fire?”
“Yes, and we—my sister Sorcha and I—happened to be there at the time, and the villagers think we had something to do with it.” A flush rose her in her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze to her lap.
She had nothing to be ashamed of. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but even so the shame always seemed to be there, lurking just under the surface.
“That is unfortunate, Miss MacLeod, but why would they blame—”
“Because they think we’re witches,” Freya blurted, then slapped a hand over her mouth, the reflection of her green eyes in the looking glass wide with horror.
Of all the things she might have said, why had that been what spilled from her lips? Mrs. Ross was sure to be horrified by that confession. She’d be well within her rights to bludgeon Freya with the hairbrush, then order her from Balnagown Castle at once.
“Witches?” Mrs. Ross lifted one dark eyebrow. “How curious that Callum didn’t mention that.”
No, he wouldn’t have, would he? No clan wanted to welcome a witch into their midst, and if the witchery weren’t bad enough, she was also suspected of arson and murder! She’d brought a world of trouble down upon Clan Ross simply by her presence here.
“I believe they used to say the same about your mother. About the witchcraft, I mean.” Mrs. Ross’s voice was calm, conversational even, and there wasn’t a hint of accusation in the blue eyes that met Freya’s in the mirror. “I recall there being rumors about it.”
“M-my mother?” Had she misheard? She was terribly out of sorts, but she would have sworn Mrs. Ross had just said—
“Your mother, yes. She was a Murdoch, wasn’t she? I grew up in Ayrshire, Miss MacLeod. The Murdochs were our neighboring clan.”
“D-did you know her?” Was it possible fate had smiled on her at last, and she’d happened to stumble across an old friend of her mother’s? Goodness, her heart was pounding! It seemed too good to be true, but perhaps—
“No, I’m afraid not.” Mrs. Ross squeezed her shoulder. “But I saw her once or twice. She had the most beautiful green eyes, just like yours. There were all sorts of wild rumors about the Murdoch women, back then.”
“Then, and now.” She and her sisters were MacLeods, not Murdochs, yet the rumors persisted and had done so for generations.
“Yes. It’s a sad fact that women with extraordinary abilities are often regarded with suspicion. As a midwife, I’ve faced similar unfounded accusations.”
“You’re a midwife? I didn’t realize.” It wasn’t any wonder, then, that Aila Ross understood her so perfectly. She was a peculiar woman herself!
“I am, indeed.” Mrs. Ross put the hairbrush aside, and her gaze met Freya’s in the glass. “I’ve never put much stock in rumors, Miss MacLeod, and I don’t intend to start now.”
She said no more about witches, but in those few words, she’d said everything.
“Freya.” Freya reached behind her and laid her hand over the hand still resting on her shoulder. “Please, you must call me Freya.”
Mrs. Ross smiled. “And you must call me Aila.”
* * *
Callum had spent half the morning pacing his bedchamber preparing for the moment Freya would enter the breakfast room.
It wasn’t enough time.
When she appeared in the doorway he went still, the cool, detached greeting he’d rehearsed freezing on his lips.
She was wearing a green dress. Of all the dresses his mother could have found for her, why did she have to choose one that made Freya look like a spring flower?
He hastily lowered his gaze to his breakfast plate, but it was too late. The memory had already been seared into his brain.
“Callum. Here you are. Chocolate for me this morning, Bell.” His mother nodded to the footman, then took her usual place at the table, in the seat across from his. “Freya, would you prefer tea or chocolate this morning?”
“Tea, please.” Freya hesitated, but then slid into the seat next to his mother’s. “Good morning, Mr. Ross.”
“Miss MacLeod.” He offered her a polite nod, then jerked his attention to his coffee cup, which he was clutching with such enthusiasm he’d opened the gash on his knuckles again. “I hope you slept well.”
“I don’t know that she did.” His mother passed a teacup to Freya. “She’s a bit out of sorts, I’m afraid, but I daresay some tea will set her to rights.”
She did look paler than usual. Her cloud of red-gold hair had been brushed back away from her face and fastened into a thick coil at the back of her neck.
It wouldn’t have been a flattering look on any other lady, but everything, it seemed, flattered Freya.
The severe style emphasized her smooth, creamy skin, delicate features, and big green eyes.
A man could lose himself in those eyes.
But the violet smudges underneath them spoke of a sleepless night, and just like that, his every protective instinct roared to life. It was all he could do to stop himself from snatching her up, rushing her off to his bedchamber, and taking her to bed.
His bed. He’d lay her down in the soft sheets, brush her hair back from that exquisite face, and spend hours kissing those petal pink lips, and then—
No! Damn it, he was losing his wits.
He tore his gaze away from her with a wrench that made his neck crack and devoted his attention to pushing his cold eggs about on his breakfast plate. His appetite was gone, a casualty of his unhealthy fixation with a lady who wasn’t his, and never would be.
“I thought I might have a walk this morning, while the weather holds.” Freya took a small sip of her tea, then returned the cup to the saucer. “I’m curious about Balnagown Castle. I’ve never come across one quite like it before. It’s as lovely a place as I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s pretty, is it not? A walk is just the thing for you, Freya. The fresh air will put the roses back in your cheeks. I daresay Callum would be pleased to take you on a stroll through the gardens this morning.”
“I did notice a pretty little folly when we were coming up the drive, situated beside an ornamental pond. We don’t have any follies at Castle Cairncross, and I’ve always admired them. I’d quite like to have a closer look at it, if—”
“I’m afraid that will be impossible. I won’t have time.
” His tone was curt, but taking Freya MacLeod on a romantic stroll through the gardens was out of the question.
He may as well slice open the knuckles of his other hand as subject himself to such misery.
“I have a great deal of correspondence to see to this morning.”
“Well, no matter.” His mother waved this away. “This afternoon will do well enough. Or perhaps after tea, if the weather holds.”
“No. I beg Miss MacLeod will excuse me. I’m not available this afternoon, either. I’ve promised to take Lorna for a ride.”
Silence followed this declaration, one that dragged on for so long he reluctantly abandoned his contemplation of his coffee cup and glanced up.
His mother was frowning at him, and the tentative smile had vanished from Freya’s lips.
She gazed at him for a moment, the confusion clear in her eyes, but then she looked hastily away, devoting all her attention instead to spooning sugar into her tea.
But her shoulders had gone rigid, and when she set her spoon aside, her hand was trembling.
He’d hurt her feelings. She was taking pains to hide it, but her gaze remained downcast, and aside from two dull spots of red in her cheeks, what little color she’d had when she came into the breakfast room had drained from her face.
It was a hell of a way to find out that hurting her feelings would feel like trampling a daisy underneath his boot heels.
Brutal, and unforgivable.
But necessary, for all that it made him feel as if his heart was no longer an organ of flesh and blood, but a cold, heavy stone sinking in his chest, but squiring her around the estate would only encourage his preoccupation with her.
Beyond fulfilling his promise to Hamish, Freya MacLeod wasn’t his concern. If he repeated it enough times, perhaps he’d start to believe it.
He had to. The sooner he accepted it, the better it would be for them both.
She didn’t belong here. She’d be gone soon enough, and life would go on as it had before he’d ever laid eyes on her.
Before he’d gone to her cursed castle, and chased her through the woods, and discovered that the middle MacLeod sister, the one everyone overlooked, had a whole world of secrets hidden underneath her placid exterior.
Before he’d seen her and heard her. Before he’d felt her soft curves against him, and her mouth had parted shyly under his.
Before he’d fallen into a kiss unlike any he’d ever experienced before.
A kiss he’d felt not only in his lips but in his belly and his fingertips and the center of his chest, as if a shower of sparks had exploded under his breastbone.
“I beg your pardon.” He jumped to his feet, the coffee sloshing over the edge of his cup and pooling in his saucer. “Excuse me, Mother, Miss MacLeod. I have a meeting with my land steward this morning.”
“Well, then, I suppose you’d better go, hadn’t you?” His mother gave him a thin smile. “I daresay Gordon will be pleased to escort Miss MacLeod on a walk through the gardens this afternoon.”
Callum was halfway to the door, but he stopped in his tracks. “Gordon?”
“Yes, Gordon. Your secretary? You do remember Gordon, don’t you?” His mother took a dainty sip of her chocolate. “He’ll make an admirable escort. Unless you have some objection to him, Callum?”
“No, of course not.” No objection at all, if he put aside the fact that Gordon smiled too much, was a flirt and too charming for his own good, and hadn’t the first idea how to behave like a proper gentle—
“Yes, I think Gordon will do very well. Do make sure you allow him time away from his duties this afternoon, Callum. He’s a charming young man, and he has ever so many amusing stories about Balnagown Castle!
He’ll make an ideal escort for you, Freya.
” His mother patted Freya’s hand. “I daresay you’ll find him utterly delightful. ”