Chapter 24
Balnagown Castle was as silent as a tomb. There wasn’t a whisper in the corridors, the shuffle of a tread on the staircase, or the clink of a teaspoon to be heard.
Callum sat alone in the breakfast parlor, an empty teacup and an untouched plate of toast on the table in front of him. He’d risen with the sun this morning—worry for Freya had driven him from his bed—but he was the only one eager for the day to begin.
The members of the clan who hadn’t stumbled off to their cottages in the wee hours of the morning were still in their beds in the castle’s guest wing and would likely remain there for the rest of the day.
There was no sign of Freya. Not in the breakfast parlor, in the library, or in the corridor outside her bedchamber.
He’d spent the better part of an hour wandering from one end of it to the other, feeling like an infatuated fool, but she hadn’t appeared, and there was nothing but resounding silence coming from the other side of her door.
He’d raised his hand to knock a half dozen times, then lowered it again.
It was his fault she’d been so fatigued last night that she hadn’t attended the dinner. He’d kept her at the folly too long yesterday afternoon, and he wouldn’t make it worse by disturbing her early this morning.
He’d just have to wait, that was all.
He poked at his toast with a finger, moving it about on his plate. He poured another cup of tea, then left it to cool in the teacup, listening to the clock on the mantelpiece mark the passing minutes.
Tick, tick, tick …
Was there anything more tedious than waiting?
Patience had never been one of his virtues, but nothing in the world was more tedious to a gentleman in love than the absence of the lady who’d stolen his heart.
It was absurd that he couldn’t think of a single thing to do with himself, and even more absurd that an entire room could throb with the absence of a lady he’d never laid eyes on three weeks ago.
But then love was absurd, wasn’t it? Absurd, and wonderful, and—
The clock chimed the ten o’clock hour.
Frustrating. Had time ever moved as slowly as this?
How ironic, that after three weeks of behaving with the utmost propriety toward Freya—er, for the most part, that is—and keeping his hands utterly to himself—er, mostly to himself—it was going to be these final few hours that would drive him to distraction.
He’d made it this far. Surely, he could survive for another hour or two.
But all he could think about was taking her into his arms. Now that he was at last at liberty to do so—to put to rest all the remaining secrets and obstacles between them—Freya had chosen to spend the morning tucked into her bed, her eyelashes brushing cheeks pink with sleep, her lovely red-gold curls spread out across the pillow, and—
He was going mad.
A footstep in the hallway made him straighten in his chair. He turned toward the door, a ridiculously lovestruck smile on his lips only for Gordon Corbett to stumble into the breakfast room, his cravat askew and his hair disheveled.
Gordon signaled to the footman for tea, then collapsed into a chair, running his hand down his face. “God above, mightn’t we close the draperies? The light feels as if it’s stabbing me in the eyeballs.”
Callum raised an eyebrow. “Good morning to you too, Corbett.”
Gordon startled, then peered at him, blinking. “Ross? Is that you? What the devil are you doing up so early?”
“Early?” For God’s sake. “It’s ten o’clock, Gordon.”
“Is it, indeed?” Gordon squinted at the clock. “So it is. Then the better question is, what am I doing up so early? Or is this considered late, if I haven’t yet been to bed?”
“I’ll leave that to you to decide.” Although Corbett’s bloodshot eyes and sallow complexion argued for the latter.
What had possessed the man to show up to the breakfast table in such a state was a mystery, but at least it gave Callum something else to think about other than Freya’s continued absence.
“I will never drink with Jamie Graham again.” Gordon pressed his fingers to his eyes with a groan. “How the devil can that man swallow so much whisky and live to tell about it? I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
Callum snorted, although it would be less amusing if Corbett cast up his accounts in the breakfast parlor, which seemed likely enough, given how green the man looked. “A touch too festive last night, were you, Corbett?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Corbett mumbled miserably, but after downing his cup of tea in one swallow, he produced a wan smile.
“Lovely dinner though, Ross, and a stroke of genius, making Miss Niven laird of Clan Ross.” He frowned down at his empty teacup.
“I don’t know why we didn’t all think of it sooner. ”
“No, neither do I.” It would have saved him a great deal of trouble and heartache if Alistair had simply made Lorna the laird from the start.
It was odd, really, that he’d never thought to pass the lairdship on to his daughter.
He’d bestowed it on Callum out of some misguided sense of loyalty to Callum’s father, but the truth was that Lorna was far better suited to the lairdship than he was.
In the end, what mattered was the good of the clan, and Lorna was, beyond any doubt, the best choice to bring the clan together. She was calm, steady, and intelligent. Even better, there wasn’t a single member of Clan Ross who didn’t adore her.
As for him …
He’d never wanted adoration, and he never truly wanted to be laird. It had taken some time for him to realize it, but after he met Freya, the truth had come to him as easily as breathing.
Since he was a child, all he’d ever wanted was to belong. That was all. To have something that was his, that he could call his own.
He’d thought the clan was it, and they were, in many ways.
He and his mother had found a family here, and he’d be forever grateful for it, but aside from his mother, the only person he really needed, the only person who mattered to his happiness, was Freya.
She was his future, his true North Star.
“It’s a pity Miss MacLeod wasn’t there to see Miss Niven declared laird of Clan Ross.” Corbett helped himself to more tea, cursing when it spilled over the edge of his teacup. “I think she would have appreciated it.”
Yes, she would have done, and so would his mother, who’d left the drawing room before the dinner bell was rung last night and hadn’t reappeared again. It was a bit odd, but she must have gone upstairs to take care of Freya.
“On our walk the day after she arrived, Miss MacLeod told me all about her father’s great aunt, Margaret MacLeod.
” Gordon dropped three lumps of sugar into his teacup, then set his spoon aside.
“It’s an amusing story. Margaret was the first female laird of Clan MacLeod, and still haunts Castle Cairncross to this day.
It’s a pity Miss MacLeod felt too ill to remain at dinner last night. ”
“Wait, do you mean to say that Freya—ah, Miss MacLeod, rather—did come down to dinner last night?” She had emerged from her bedchamber, then, and appeared in the drawing room? How was it she’d been there, and he hadn’t seen her?
“Yes, but only for a short time.” Corbett frowned. “It was a bit strange, now I think of it.”
“Why should it have been strange? She’s still recovering from her head injury.”
“Yes, I thought so too, at first, but she looked exceedingly well when she came downstairs last night. There wasn’t a hint of feebleness about her. She was all smiles and appeared to be in the pink of health. Her decline was quite sudden.”
“How strange.” That didn’t sound like fatigue. “What did she say?”
“Nothing of note.” Gordon turned his teacup in the saucer, his brow furrowed. “You came downstairs with Miss Niven, and I said … well, I hardly remember it now, but something about you and Miss Niven looking well together.”
It was an innocent comment, the sort people made all the time, but for some reason, it made Callum’s chest tighten. “Is that all? You said we looked well together, and Miss MacLeod was taken suddenly ill?”
“For the most part, yes. Or, well, I confess I did say something rather indelicate, about you and Miss Niven having handsome children together—”
“Children!” Callum shot to his feet. “For God’s sake, Gordon, why would you say something like that?”
Gordon was staring at him, his mouth open. “I beg your pardon. It’s not gentlemanly to speculate about such things. I do hope I didn’t offend Miss MacLeod, although now I think of it, it was right after that that she took ill.”
Callum pinched the bridge of his nose. God above, but the man could prattle. “What else did you say to her, Gordon?”
There was no way Gordon could have told Freya about the betrothal. No one knew about it but himself, Lorna, his mother, and Alistair Niven. There wasn’t even a betrothal to discuss, for God’s sake! For all the endless talk of marriage between himself and Lorna, they’d never actually been betrothed.
If there had been any sort of understanding between them, he would never have kissed Freya. He wasn’t a perfect man—not by far—but he wasn’t some scoundrel who’d betray his betrothed, or trifle with an innocent young lady.
But the way Gordon was staring at him, his cheeks devoid of color and that horrified expression on his face …
He’d found it out, hadn’t he? Somehow, Gordon had found out about the betrothal, and he’d told Freya. Callum knew it, even before Gordon opened his mouth.
“Oh, dear. I’m afraid I’ve made a dreadful mistake. I didn’t realize …” Gordon gulped. “You and Miss MacLeod are, er … the two of you are…?”
“Yes.” Callum took care to keep his tone even. None of this was Gordon’s fault—not really. This was what came of keeping secrets. They never remained secrets for long. “What did you say to Miss MacLeod, Gordon?”