Chapter 20 #2
Yet she was nowhere. Not on the front drive, or on any of the garden pathways she’d visited with Gordon yesterday.
He ran the entire perimeter of the castle, once and then again, turning in hopeless circles, praying for a glimpse of a worn blue cloak or a red curl whipping in the wind to guide his steps.
But there was only dark gray surrounding him on every side. He raised his head and searched the sky, but there was nothing reassuring there, just more unrelenting gray.
Anyone could get lost in this gloom, and Freya didn’t know the estate grounds well.
If she’d got turned around, she might stray into the open fields while thinking she was heading back toward the castle.
A single misstep, and she could be wandering aimlessly for miles, getting farther from the castle with every moment.
But there was nothing for him to do but to keep going.
Time slipped away as he passed the courtyard, and the walled garden and ornamental ponds beyond it.
She hadn’t taken refuge in the granary or the icehouse, and the wind had torn part of the roof off the old dovecote, leaving nothing but destruction behind.
A half hour passed, then an hour. After that the minutes blurred into each other until he no longer knew how long he’d been searching.
Long enough that the dark day was edging into an even darker evening.
The temperature dropped, then dropped again until his teeth were chattering with the cold, the rain turning to icy pellets that stung his skin, like thousands of tiny needles all sticking into him at once.
“Freya!” The wind snatched his voice and sent it flying into the vortex, but he kept calling for her until he grew so hoarse his voice was a whisper scraped from the deepest recesses of his raw throat.
How long had he been searching? Hours, days, his entire lifetime? He could no longer gauge the passing of time. His mind dulled as the cold sank into his bones, and his thoughts grew hazy, until he could no longer tell which way he’d already gone, and which way he was going.
All the while the wind became more frenzied, tearing at the tree limbs and sending detritus flying in every direction.
There was no rhyme or reason to it, just chaos, and it would only grow worse once ice accumulated on the branches.
Even those that might have withstood the wind would come crashing down then, bowing under the added weight of the ice.
And he was no closer to finding her than he’d been when he set out.
She wouldn’t have gone to the river, would she? His heart shot into his throat, but no, Freya wouldn’t be so foolish as that. She knew the storm was coming, and no one was more aware of the dangers of such a tempest than she was.
Yet once the fear had ahold of him, he couldn’t shake it loose. It gnawed at him as he ran blindly through the grounds, one disastrous image after another all swarming him at once until panic threatened to steal the last few shreds of his reason.
The river would have overflowed its banks by now, and anyone who happened to be too close would be swept up in a torrent of freezing water.
Think. He had to think. Where would she have gone?
Not to the river. Freya was too smart for that. The fields beyond the stables, then? It didn’t seem likely, but he’d looked everywhere else.
He’d go to the stables, and fetch Titan. He was getting nowhere on foot. The longer it took for him to find her, the more dire her condition would be.
Such a tiny, slender lady couldn’t withstand this cold for long.
The pathway to the stables was flooded, the water rushing down the shallow slope, taking the gravel with it and leaving mud, leaves, and other debris in its place.
He stumbled along, his boots slipping out from under him at every step until at last he reached the copse of oak trees halfway between the castle and the stables.
He stopped and stared.
A limb as thick as his thigh had torn loose from one of the taller trees, leaving a raw, gaping hole where it had once been. The wind had hurled it to the ground with enough force that a dozen branches had broken off and lay half buried in the mud, their leaves dancing in the wind.
He started to pass by, but he’d taken only a few steps before something made him turn back.
That was when he saw it. A fold of blue wool, fluttering in the breeze.
Freya’s cloak.
“Freya!” He rushed forward and dropped down onto his knees beside her. “Freya, thank God.”
But his thanks came too soon. She was lying on her front, her face turned toward the ground, and she wasn’t moving. Long locks of her hair were tangled in the branches, and from the state of her cloak, it looked as if she’d been lying there for some time.
“It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
He didn’t—not yet—but he would. He tore at the branches, snapping them off one by one, his hands shaking as he worked to untangle her. Cold and fear made him clumsy, and it took him a lifetime to free her.
But he managed to get her loose one branch at a time, until he was able to drag the heavy limb away from her. “Freya? Can you hear me?”
There was no answer.
He dropped to his knees again, caught her shoulders in his hands, and as gently as he could, he rolled her onto her back. “Freya? It’s all right now. You’re going to be—”
He broke off, the words dying on his lips.
There was a long, jagged gash on her temple.
Blood was smeared across one side of her face, and her left eye was swollen shut.
The limb had hit her, hard enough to knock her down, and she’d likely been lying unconscious ever since, the mud creeping closer to her open mouth with every drop of rain that fell.
“Freya.” Her name fell from his lips in a whisper, his hand hovering over her face. She was so pale, so still, he was almost afraid she … but no, her chest was rising and falling. Her breaths were shallow, worryingly so, but they were there.
It was enough, for now. Just for now, he wouldn’t ask for anything more than that.
He gathered her into his arms, taking exquisite care in case of broken bones, and staggered to his feet with her clutched against his chest. She didn’t open her eyes, nor did she wake, but she stirred. Only slightly, but she …
He tightened his arms around her, his heart swelling in his chest.
She burrowed into him and rested her cheek against his chest.
“That’s right, Freya,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her cold cheek. “It’s all right now. I have you, and I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise it. I’m taking you back to the castle.”
It was only a short distance from the oak grove to the castle’s front door, but it was the longest walk he’d ever taken.
His mother must have been watching for him, because she was waiting for him at the door. Lorna was with her, her eyes wide as she peered over his mother’s shoulder.
“Callum, thank God! Is she—”
“She’s alive, but unconscious. The wind tore a heavy limb from one of the oaks near the stables, and it hit her. She’s …” His voice broke. “She’s so cold.”
“Dear God.” Lorna stared at Freya’s still form, her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide with horror. “There’s so much blood.”
“Heads bleed.” His mother was already springing into action, orders falling from her lips.
“We’ll have to see to the wound, of course, but the main thing now is to get her warm.
Lorna, my dear, tell Mrs. Doherty what’s happened, won’t you?
Tell her we need a hot bath as soon as possible, then gather as many spare blankets as you can find.
Take Freya upstairs to her bedchamber, Callum, and then you may leave her to us. ”
“No. I’m not leaving her.”
Lorna had hurried from the entryway, scrambling to do his mother’s bidding, but she paused and turned back to stare at him.
She said nothing, but an expression he’d never seen before passed over her face, there and then gone in an instant.
He didn’t have time to wonder at it before she turned and rushed toward the kitchen.
“You’re right, Callum. She’s much too cold.” His mother pressed her fingertips to the pulse point behind Freya’s ear. “Her pulse is weak. I’m afraid she must have been lying out there for some time. Take her upstairs. Quickly, Callum.”
He took the stairs two at a time, taking care to jostle her as little as possible, his mother right on his heels. “Put her on the bed, then leave us, Callum.”
“No. I told you, I won’t leave her.”
His mother was wrestling Freya out of her soaked cloak, but she turned for an instant, and her face softened when she saw his expression.
“It’s only for a short time, Callum. I need to get these wet clothes off her at once, and you need to get warm yourself before we have two patients on our hands. ”
“I’m not cold.” It was true, somehow. Every inch of his body had gone numb.
All but his heart. It was thrashing about in his chest like a wild bird uselessly beating its wings, trapped. He eased closer to the bed and gazed down at Freya. “She’s so pale and still.”
“Yes, that’s likely the head injury, and not the cold, but we won’t know much until we examine her.
” His mother braced her hands on his shoulders and turned him toward the door.
“You only hurt her further by staying, Callum. I will not remove this young lady’s clothing with you standing here gawking at her. ”
It was her sternest voice. One didn’t argue with his mother when she used that voice, especially not in a sickroom. “Only if you’ll let me come back in.”
“Yes, yes. You can come back when she’s decently tucked into her bed.” His mother waved a hand at the door, then turned back to Freya. “Now go.”
It was the last thing he wanted to do. Fear was gnawing at him, and doubt whispering in his ear that if he took his eyes off her she’d somehow fade away, but he did as he was bid and turned toward the door.
He opened it, and nearly ran right over the top of Mrs. Doherty, who was standing on the other side, a pile of blankets in her arms. Behind her was a parade of footmen, two of them carrying the copper bathtub, and another four with steaming pitchers of water.
“This way,” she said briskly, sweeping past him and gesturing to the footmen to follow her. “Make haste.”
Freya was in capable hands. Until he found his way back to her, that would have to be enough.
The exhaustion caught up to him as he staggered down the staircase to the family wing, and from there into the hallway that led to his rooms. He didn’t bother to order a bath.
It would take too long. He stripped off his wet clothes and hurried into warm, dry ones, and then rushed back to Freya’s bedchamber.
The door was closed, and a dozen or so servants were gathered outside it, whispering to each other. They fell silent when he appeared, and shuffled back, away from the door.
He gave a cursory knock but entered the bedchamber without waiting for a reply. Mrs. Doherty was standing beside the bed, her expression grave, and his mother was leaning over Freya, fussing with the coverlet and blankets.
“How bad is it?” His voice was so hoarse he hardly recognized it.
“That gash on her head is a nasty one. It will certainly leave a scar, which is a pity, but as bad as it looks, it appears to be superficial. I daresay she won’t suffer any lasting effects from it, but we’ll know more when she wakes up.”
“She hasn’t woken yet?” He crept closer to the bed.
Freya was tucked under the coverlet. The cut on her temple had been cleaned of blood and neatly bandaged, but his heart gave a wrench at the sight of her lying there, so pale and small and still.
“Not yet, no.” His mother smoothed Freya’s hair back from her face. “It’s a bit worrying. Such prolonged exposure to the cold …” She shook her head and said no more.
But she’d said enough.
Freya hadn’t woken. She might never wake—
No. He wouldn’t even think it. She would wake up.
She had to. He wouldn’t allow anything less.
“There’s nothing you can do here, Callum. Why don’t you go down—”
“No.” He grabbed the chair by the dressing table, dragged it to the side of the bed, and sat down. “I’m staying with her.”
His mother and Mrs. Doherty exchanged a glance, and he tensed for the moment one of them would say he couldn’t stay, that it wasn’t proper.
But his mother, who knew him better than anyone, took one look at his face and said only, “Very well, Callum. You may stay, if you like.”
There was nothing to do then but sit and wait.