Chapter 18 #2
As for what would happen next, there was no telling, was there? But something new awaited her. It would come, one way or another, but it wouldn’t be Callum Ross. For her remaining time here, she needed to keep as much distance between them as she could.
Because if she didn’t … if she didn’t …
She’d be leaving Balnagown Castle with a broken heart.
And there it was, the sad truth of it. Her heart was in danger, and she couldn’t afford to lose even the smallest piece of it. She’d need every bit of heart she had to get through whatever awaited her in Dunvegan.
But until then, she’d do what she did best.
She took one last look at the sketch, then crumpled the bit of paper in her hand and stuffed it back into her pocket. Above her, the clouds skimmed across the green sky, the strange color deepening as the light shifted.
It would be a day at most before the storm would come. Perhaps by tomorrow evening. Even now the chill was descending, the goose bumps rising to the surface of her skin underneath the thin wool of Cat’s threadbare cloak.
It was well past time to retire to her bedchamber.
She’d find Aila, warn her about the storm, and then make her way to her bed.
She turned toward the castle, the faint crunch of her boot heels on the graveled pathway loud in the silence, but she hadn’t taken more than a few steps before a tall shape detached itself from the surrounding darkness.
The gloom was too thick for her to make out his features, but that never seemed to matter with Callum. Somehow, she always knew him, regardless of the darkness or the distance between them.
What was he doing out here in the garden at such a late hour?
Unless …
Had he come here for her?
He stepped into the glow from the window behind them, and the faint light fell across his face. The straight nose, those stern lips, and finally, when he was close enough he could have touched her, his eyes, the pale gray deeper tonight, like tarnished silver.
How much time would pass, after she left here, before those eyes ceased to haunt her?
Would they ever?
Neither of them spoke. The minutes ticked by as he joined her on the pathway and they stood there together, side by side.
It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but it was a deep one, as if thousands of words were crouching in the darkness, waiting to leap into existence the moment they were spoken aloud.
“No stars tonight,” he said at last, and it seemed prophetic somehow, that he should say the very thing she’d been thinking only moments ago, as if Fate herself had put the words in his mouth.
But that was a nonsensical fancy only. There was nothing prophetic here, just two people standing in a dearth of moonlight, neither one of them looking at the other.
“No North Star.” He did turn to face her then, his eyes dark, mysterious pools lost in the shadows falling across his face. “How does one find their way, Miss MacLeod, when there is no North Star in the sky?”
It felt, somehow, as if he was asking something else, something other than the question he’d voiced, but that was just another fancy of hers. “You can determine the position of the North Star by the other constellations. The Southern Cross, or Orion, perhaps.”
“And if none of the stars are visible? What then?”
“Then I suppose you get lost.” She smiled, but it felt unsteady on her lips, as if it were trembling there. “It’s not such a terrible thing to be lost, is it, Mr. Ross?”
He didn’t answer right away, but stood quietly, his gaze back on the sky above them. “Not always,” he said at last. “Not if you’re found again. There’s a certain joy in finding what one’s lost, is there not, Miss MacLeod?”
“Indeed, especially those things one doesn’t realize they’ve lost until they find them again. But you don’t need the North Star for that. Anyone who can follow the rise and set of the sun can find themselves again.”
His low laugh reached her through the gloom, and a prickle of awareness ran down her spine. “Of course, but so can anyone with a compass. Yet there’s a certain beauty in the celestial method. A certain romance to it. Don’t you think so, Miss MacLeod?”
Did he consider himself a romantic, then?
A lover of beauty? She wanted to ask him.
Her mouth opened, the words hovering on the edge of her tongue, but she closed it again without speaking.
It wasn’t a question a lady asked a gentleman while they stood under the sky alone, at night.
It would sound as if she were flirting with him, and a flirtation with Callum Ross was no way to protect her heart.
He didn’t seem to expect an answer. At least, he didn’t prompt her for one. Instead, he fell silent again, his gaze still on the sky. A moment passed, then another, each one quieter yet somehow heavier than the one before it.
Finally, he drew in a breath. “The sky is a strange color tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it as green as it is now.”
“There’s a storm coming. Rather a bad one, I think.”
“When?”
“I can’t say, exactly, but sometime tomorrow, likely later in the afternoon. It may bring hail with it. Someone should see to it the cottagers are prepared.”
“You expect it will be as bad as that?”
She turned her gaze back up to the sky, and the green-tinted clouds rushing across it. “I do, yes. I hope I’m wrong, but green skies like this are a harbinger of storms to come.”
He nodded. “I’ll ride out to the cottages tomorrow morning.”
That was her duty discharged, then. There was no reason for her not to go up to her bedchamber now, and dozens of reasons why she shouldn’t remain here with him, alone in the darkness. “Very well. I’ll bid you good night, then.”
“Wait, Freya.”
Freya. Not Miss MacLeod, but Freya. She’d already taken a step away from him, but with that one word he held her suspended, her traitorous heart pounding.
She paused, her feet stilling on the pathway. “Yes?”
“This afternoon, in the corridor outside your bedchamber. I never should have …” He paused, dragging a hand through his hair. “It was wrong of me, to accuse you of flirting with Gordon Corbett, and I beg your pardon for it.”
It had been wrong of him, yes, and it had hurt her feelings. She hadn’t realized how much until her chest loosened at his words. “Your apology is accepted, Mr. Ross, and I beg your pardon for calling you arrogant and high-handed.”
His brows drew together. “You didn’t call me arrogant and high-handed.”
“I assure you, I did.” Her lips gave a traitorous twitch. “Good night, Mr. Ross.”
Once again she turned to go, and once again, he stopped her. “Wait, Miss MacLeod.” He bent over and picked up something that had fallen on the gravel drive and held it up. “Is this yours?”
It was her sketch. “Yes. It must have fallen out of my pocket.”
She held out her hand for it, but he didn’t give it to her. Instead, he carefully opened the crumpled bit of paper. He stared down at the drawing for some time, then looked back up at her. “Why did you crumple it up?”
“Because it’s destined for the bin.” When he said nothing, only continued to stare at her, she added, “As you can see, it’s not a good likeness.”
“On the contrary. It looks just like you, Freya.”
Of all the things he might have said, it was, somehow, just the right one.
“I’ve never seen the lightning bolts, of course.” He was still gazing down at the sketch. “Just as well, really. They’re rather terrifying.”
A surprised laugh fell from her lips. “I’ve never seen them either, but I’m looking forward to their arrival.”
He chuckled, and they stood there for a moment, gazing at each other before they both looked away at once.
She should go, scurry up to her bedchamber before something … untoward happened.
Another kiss, perhaps.
But that wasn’t what she did. She remained where she was, so close to him she might have reached out and touched him, the smooth slide of his warm skin under her fingertips.
Only moments ago, she’d promised herself she’d keep her distance from Callum Ross.
Yet somehow they found themselves here again, the strange green light above them and the night surrounding them, with all the unsaid words still suspended between them.
He’d only come in search of her because he owed her an apology.
That was what Callum told himself as he’d made his way from his study to the barren gardens on the east side of the castle, but as soon as he saw her, he knew it for the lie it was.
He hadn’t come in search of her because his mother had insisted on it, or because he owed her an apology for the ridiculous accusations he’d flung at her this afternoon.
He’d come for her because he couldn’t not come for her. Because somehow, he seemed to be destined to always find his way back to Freya MacLeod.
She was standing on the pathway, her slender figure limned by a lantern in the window behind her, but her face lost in the shadows. She was very still, her head turned away from him, and he paused, drinking in the sight of her.
She’d turn soon, and see him, and the moment would be lost.
“No stars tonight,” he murmured, revealing himself at last.
She turned then, a smile trembling on her lips, and said … something. Something about the stars, and the sunrise and sunset, and the strange green hue of the sky. She told him there was a storm coming, that the green sky portended it.
They spoke of being lost, then being found again.
He offered her his apology.
Didn’t he? He thought so, but the words fled his mind as soon as he’d said them.
They didn’t matter. Only Freya mattered.
Freya, with her lovely face and soft green eyes. Freya, whose maddening kisses had changed everything. But she seemed anxious to be free of him, and he couldn’t blame her.
What had he ever done, to earn her trust?
Yet he couldn’t let her go, either. He couldn’t bear it.
And so, he remained still, his body rigid with the effort it took not to call her back to him as she turned to make her way back to the castle.
But Fate decided otherwise when something fell from her pocket. “Wait, Freya.” He reached down and picked it up.
It was a sketch. A rough one, clearly done in a hurry.
A sketch of her face. Wide green eyes, dark winged eyebrows and the mischievous smile he’d seen once or twice before, a slight upward quirk at the corners of her lips, and her soft, pink lower lip with that wicked curve.
And … a laugh rose to his lips.
Lightning bolts, shooting from her fingertips.
He gazed down at the sketch, resisting the urge to trace her lips.
“… not a good likeness.”
Not a likeness? Did she think the sketch didn’t resemble her? But how could she, when every line, every curve, every bit of shading was the essence of her? Sweet, mischievous, powerful, witty, and a little bit wicked, all at once.
“On the contrary. It looks just like you, Freya.”
The air around them went still, the darkness pressed closer, and for one aching moment it enveloped them, wrapping them up in its arms.
Then she stirred, breaking the spell. She took a step toward him, rose to her tiptoes, and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Callum.”
Then she was gone, melting into the shadows beyond the light spilling through the window, leaving him with the green-hued sky above him, her drawing still clutched between his fingers, and the imprint of her lips on his skin.
Another kiss. Except this kiss wasn’t like the kiss they’d shared under the willow tree.
This kiss felt like a goodbye.