Chapter 25
It was a mad spark of an idea, and yet in that madness lay its brilliance.
Freya clutched Calum’s arm as they followed the dark-haired maid through Castle Caolghlas.
Her heart thudded with every step. Soon she would stand before the Hebridean Shield—her first true meeting with them since being revealed as the Storyteller.
It fell to her to explain what Tyr had once planned, and what Calum planned now.
Could she make clans believe in impossible victories? Could she sow fear among enemies? Could she bring down the corrupt MacDonald king? If she could make the Shield believe, she could make the world believe.
The stone halls were dark and spare, the few furnishings worn with age. The maid’s eyes stayed lowered, as if hope had long since left her. Had she, too, suffered loss in the raids?
Freya cleared her throat. “Is there a lady of Caolghlas?”
The maid flicked her blue eyes toward Freya. “Not to speak of. Only myself. I am the housekeeper. The laird keeps a small household.”
The maid was a beauty—cream skin, dark hair gleaming in the dim light. Calum’s gaze lingered. “I feel I know you from somewhere.”
The woman angled her head away. “I dinnae think so.”
“Have you lived on Islay all your life? Perhaps we met on Mull, at Duart?”
Freya stifled a frown. The maid seemed evasive, as if she too recognized him.
“I’ve never set foot on Mull.”
They paused outside an oak door. Calum’s eyes narrowed. Freya’s stomach dropped. Was this her? The woman he had spoken of on their wedding night? The lass who had once held his heart?
“Skye,” Calum said at last. “You lived on Skye.”
The maid did not answer. She slipped inside and ignored him completely. “Your guests have arrived, my Laird.”
The interior of Angus MacKay’s solar was as warm and inviting as the rest of the castle was cold.
It felt almost like a one-room cottage, not unlike their small bothy.
Stacks of ledgers, manuscripts, and books scattered across chairs and furnishings, loose papers strewn between them.
A braided rug brightened the stone floor.
A stag’s head hung above the hearth, a bycocket1 perched jauntily between his antlers.
Charts and maps and sketches of herbs and leaves lined the walls.
In front of the fire Angus slept deeply in a crimson chair, long legs propped on a cabinet overflowing with curiosities—jars of berries, antlers, seashells, bird wings.
The maid stepped softly closer. “Laird MacKay?”
A book rested on his chest, his mouth agape as he snored. She knelt, touching his shoulder. “My Laird?” When he didn’t stir she jostled him again. “Angus?”
His eyes fluttered. His hand closed around hers for a moment before falling back to his lap. “Your guests are here.”
Blinking away sleep, he made a sharp startle. “Calum, Freya. How—how are you?”
He rose—tall, ungainly—and immediately tripped over a needlepoint stool, the book thudding to the floor. Freya stooped to retrieve it, noting the title: Ethics and Politics—Aristotle.
Disappointment pricked her. She had hoped for a cherished tale she might know, a way to win his favor. Aristotle was a name unfamiliar to her.
Bog crept forward, head low, growling at the stag on the wall.
Angus chuckled, pointing to it. “Easy, doggy—that’s only Bob. He willnae argue back. Though between us, he’s a fine judge of hats. Can ye sit?”
Bog thumped his tail and dropped to his haunches, eyes still wary of the stag. Angus crouched to rub his scruff. “Ah see, there ye are. A better listener than Bob.”
Freya stole a glance at Calum, wondering if he found this all as odd as she did. But he was already settling into a chair, warming his hands by the fire, paying Angus no mind.
Angus studied the dog’s ears, teeth, and long legs. “Exquisite wolfhound. Where did ye find him?”
Calum snorted. “He found us. A thief and a bed hog. If I roll too far, he slides in beside Freya. Still, he’s a fine hunter.”
Bog laid his head on Angus’s shoulder. Calum rolled his eyes. “Filthy traitor.”
Angus smiled. “A pity ye dinnae know his husbandman. I should like a dog like this.”
“You can have this one.”
Freya gasped, covering Bog’s ears. “Dinnae listen to him, Boggy-Woggy. Da doesnae mean it.”
“I am no’ that dog’s da!”
The maid giggled, breaking her solemn mask. Freya returned her smile, but she swiftly looked away.
Angus plucked the fallen book from her hand. “My Aristotle. Thank you.”
Trying to nurture their budding connection, Freya ventured, “Aristotle. How do you find his volumes? I thought them most interesting.”
Angus rose, turning the shabby book in his hands. “I didnae realize much Aristotle was read in Jura. I suppose it all comes down to two questions.”
Freya nodded. “Aye…the questions.”
He paused, and for a horrible moment she wondered if he expected her to pose them.
Angus’s hazel eyes were alive, radiating restless intelligence.
“How do I live well? And of course, how should we live well together? Just as a soul rules a body, so must law and justice guide the people, that all may live rightly. Virtue, of course, is the answer in both cases—the mean betwixt all extremes. Excellent reading for a chieftain.”
“Aye…virtue betwixt…” At once she realized it had been a mistake to wade into such scholarly depths and trailed off.
Calum looked as if he were physically biting his tongue to keep from laughing, so she quickly shifted the topic. “Are we the first to arrive?”
The maid began edging back. “Aye—Laird MacKay, may I be relieved of duty? I still have a headache.”
Angus blinked, startled, then hurried past her, weaving through stacks of books. “Of course. Take the day. Adam will—”
He swung the door open and froze. Chief and Lady MacKinnon stood before him. “Léo. You’re early—”
The maid visibly wilted, clutching the back of a chair. Freya touched her shoulder, unsettled by the fear in her eyes. “Are you all right?”
Léo’s eyes boggled. Aileen pushed past her husband, signing rapidly in front of the maid, tears springing to her eyes.
The maid flushed. “I’m sorry, I dinnae ken what you’re saying. If you’ll excuse me—” She slipped out, toppling a tower of ledgers. Freya stooped to gather them, baffled.
Shamefaced, Angus turned to the steward boy hovering in the doorway. “Adam, wait and bring the others in together, aye?” The lad nodded and hurried off. Angus shut the door, then composing himself, he turned. “How—erm—how was your journey?”
Léo gaped. “Angus, that was Ardis.”
Angus dragged a hand down his face, pressing his forehead as if steadying himself. “Shh. We dinnae call her that here.”
Aileen signed furiously, her face stricken.
“Aye, I know,” Angus admitted, flushing. “But I couldnae leave her. She lives on the fifth floor. The whole floor to herself. I stay here. Nothing unseemly.”
Calum inclined his head. “Still, mate, be cautious. You’re a new chieftain. It might look improper.”
Freya sank into the velvet chair, the ledgers heavy on her lap, watching as if it were one of her tales playing out before her eyes. Clearly Léo, Aileen, Angus, and Calum had all known Ardis two years ago on Skye, likely during the MacKinnon overthrow.
The dispatches had never mentioned a woman. What had happened? Why must Angus be cautious? And why was his face darkening with anger?
Aileen looked affected, gesturing rapidly. Freya couldn’t follow, but her grief was plain.
Angus stomped over, snatching the ledgers from Freya. “You think I havenae thought of it? What safer place is there than here?” He dumped the stack into a basket that promptly toppled into a corner. “She needed quiet. Time to heal. And I needed a housekeeper. It is only me here.”
Léo dropped onto the couch opposite Freya, offering her a wan smile, while his wife signed furiously at Angus.
“More than a year now, everything as it should be,” Angus shot back. “I didnae tell you because of Fingon. The fewer who know, the better.”
Aileen’s hands flew, outrage plain.
“Of course I trust you, Birdy. But she willnae live in Castle Maol. Too near Dun Ringill. Too many memories. With the new king and the restrictions, it is too risky to bring her—” He broke off, glanced at Freya, then switched to signs.
Flustered, Freya looked away to the fire. She felt out of place, weighed down by their secrets and camaraderie. They had fought together, spoke their own language. How could she ever belong?
Léo leaned toward Freya, elbows on his knees, his warm voice a shade too loud. “What are your thoughts on King Dómhnall, Lady MacLean?”
The room froze, all suddenly remembering she was there.
Sweet juniper. He was taking pity on her, drawing her in.
And she couldn’t summon a single intelligent thought beyond—he’s a few trolls short of a fjord.
Heat rushed to her face. She glanced at Calum, mind blank, desperate for a strong first impression.
The Storyteller inside her straightened, swept the room with a look, and shrugged.
“I em…” she chuckled nervously. “Maybe we should ask Bob?”
No one laughed.
A knock pounded on the door. David MacKenzie pushed into the room, plowing toward the fire. “It’s as cold as a rat’s tail out there!”
Iain, Hector, and Murdoch followed, with a good-looking man two heads shorter than the rest, filling the crammed solar.
Thank God. Freya gave up her seat, squeezing into Calum’s chair.
He wrapped an arm around her and snorted, murmuring out the side of his mouth, “Ask Bob?”
She groaned, burying her forehead into her palm, hissing back, “I panicked.”
Léo clasped the newcomer’s hand. “Eoghan! What are you doing in the Isles?”
The man grinned, blowing into his hands. “Freezing my rump off.”
Calum stood to greet him. “You came. I wasnae sure the missive would reach you in time.”