Chapter 25
Three weeks after she’d arrived at Balnagown Castle, Freya left Kildary behind her with as little fanfare as she’d left Skye so many days ago.
She and the Lelands made it to Plockton in good time, and without incident, and from there she went on to Dunvegan in the Lelands’ comfortable traveling coach, with Mrs. Leland’s rather terrifying lady’s maid, Mrs. Ashwell, and one of the Lelands’ sturdiest footmen as escort.
The entire journey took less than three days. In no time at all, she was standing at the bottom of the drive that led to the front door of Castle Cairncross. They’d dropped Mrs. Ashwell in Portnalong to visit her daughter, and the footman was already on his way back to Plockton.
Just like that, in the blink of an eye, her mad adventure with Callum Ross had come to an end. How strange that it should be over with so little sense of occasion, as if her entire world hadn’t changed in the time she’d been gone.
As if she weren’t a different person than she’d been when she’d left, but the same old Freya MacLeod, with her pencils and sketchbook and her lonely roof atop her crooked turret.
As if she hadn’t left her heart in Kildary, at Balnagown Castle, wrapped in Callum Ross’s hands. She was alone. It had never bothered her, being alone, but she’d never been as alone as she was right now.
Her solitude would be short-lived, however. Soon enough every villager in Dunvegan would know she’d returned, and then … well, God only knew what would happen then, but whatever it was, she’d brave it with her head held high.
She was a MacLeod, and MacLeods didn’t cower before anyone.
This was her home. She had every right to be here. The villagers weren’t likely to see it that way, but she’d face that challenge when it came.
Until then …
She gazed up at her beloved old castle with its cockeyed turret jutting into the sky like a scolding finger, and a peace that had eluded her these past few weeks settled over her like a warm hand on her shoulder.
Life went on, didn’t it?
It was all still here, the same as it ever had been. Castle Cairn cross was a crumbling old pile, to be sure, with none of Balnagown Castle’s fairy-tale charm, but it was home.
She pulled Cat’s old blue cloak more snugly around her neck and began walking up the drive. It was late in the day. The sun had nearly vanished underneath the horizon, but the last few rays bathed the windows in a golden light, as if a candle were aglow behind each pane of glass.
The worn heels of Cat’s old half boots crunched beneath her as she made her way toward the entrance. She was halfway to the door when it swung open.
She stopped, her breath held.
Catriona was standing there, her hand over her mouth, her russet hair limned in the dying sunlight. A moment later, a dark head and a pair of broad shoulders appeared over Cat’s shoulder.
Freya’s eyes slipped shut.
They were here. Catriona and Lord Ballantyne were home.
“Freya.” Her name left Cat’s mouth in a whisper, as if her sister feared saying it aloud would break some enchanted spell, and make Freya disappear forever.
“Freya.” Cat’s voice was louder this time, surer, and then in the next breath she was flying down the drive as if her feet had sprouted wings, her red curls streaming out behind her. Freya stopped, dropped the small valise in her hand, and opened her arms.
Cat ran straight into them, her own arms wrapping Freya up in a tight embrace, and there was nothing, not a single thing in the world that equaled being held in the arms of a beloved sister.
Freya laid her head on Cat’s shoulder, just as she used to do when she was a small child, and one of the jagged holes she’d been carrying in her heart since Cat had left Castle Cairncross closed.
She’d made it. She was well and truly home.
“Freya, thank God. Thank God.” Tears were streaming down Cat’s cheeks as she patted her face, her hair, her clothing, as if to make sure Freya was truly standing before her.
“I’ve been frantic, wondering what had become of you and Sorcha.
We only just returned a day ago, and when I entered the house and found you both missing, I thought—”
“I know. I know it, Cat. I’m sorry. Shh. Hush, now. It’s all right. I’m all right.”
Cat released her and drew back, her gaze roving over Freya’s face. “What of Sorcha? Where is she? Is she …” She fell silent, the tremulous smile falling from her lips when Freya shook her head.
“I don’t know. I don’t know where she is, Cat. I—I lost her.”
It all caught up to her, then. The fire, Sorcha’s disappearance, and her own desperate flight from Dunvegan. Balnagown, the fairy-tale castle without a happy ending, and Aila and Gordon Corbett and Mrs. Doherty, and Lorna Niven.
And Callum.
“Freya? Dearest, what’s happened?”
… and Callum, and Callum, and Callum …
The tight band around her chest snapped, and then she was sobbing in Cat’s arms—great, heaving sobs torn directly from her battered heart. She couldn’t hold them back any longer, and she couldn’t stop, and now she’d begun she might never stop.
Cat didn’t ask any more questions after that. She simply held her, murmuring soft words as Freya wept for Callum, and Sorcha, and a dream that had felt so real until it turned to dust in her hands.
“I’m going to have Callum Ross’s head for this.”
Lord Ballantyne was pacing from one end of the drawing room to the other, his hands clenched into fists. “Callum first, and then Keir.”
“No, Lord Ballantyne. You misunderstand me. Neither Callum nor Mr. Dunn are to blame for any of this.” Freya turned to Cat. “Oh, dear. I’m doing a dreadful job of explaining it.”
“I don’t think he means it, dearest. At least, not literally.” Cat paused and glanced up at Lord Ballantyne. “You don’t mean it, do you, Hamish? You don’t have any plans to behead Callum Ross, do you?”
Ah, so it was Hamish now, was it? Freya hid her smile. Cat and Lord Ballantyne hadn’t found her father’s treasure on their travels, but they hadn’t returned as empty-handed as she’d first thought.
They’d found something else, something far more precious than money.
“No, I don’t mean it.” Lord Ballantyne sank down into a chair with a sigh. “I realize neither of them are at fault, but dear God, what a mess they’ve left behind them.”
“I can’t argue with that. It is rather a mess, isn’t it? But you do understand that it wasn’t Call—er, Mr. Ross’s fault, my lord?” Whatever else happened, she had to make sure he understood that. “He did nothing wrong. Indeed, Lord Ballantyne, he saved my life.”
And he’d broken her heart, but she’d rather Lord Ballantyne not attempt to behead Callum, so she kept that part to herself. No one needed to know how foolish she’d been, and even if she wished to, she wouldn’t know where to begin.
Love, as it turned out, defied every logical explanation.
“I suppose I would have done the same in Callum’s place. Right, then.” Lord Ballantyne rose and began once again to pace the room. “We’ll go and see the magistrate tomorrow and find out the details about this fire at Stewart’s.”
Cat nodded. “Yes, I think that would be best. Mr. Anderson is a reasonable man. He won’t see two innocent women sent to the gibbet merely because some of the villagers demand it, and we’re not entirely without friends in Dunvegan.”
“No indeed, and any of the villagers who attempt to wrongfully accuse or otherwise harm a MacLeod sister will be obliged to explain themselves to me first.”
Freya let out a breath. She’d made up her mind not to let any of the villagers ever shame or cow her again, but goodness, it was nice to have a tall, intimidating marquess on one’s side.
“As for Sorcha, we’ll find her. I daresay she’s in the woods, and it may be that Keir is with her. They might return to the castle on their own once they see we’re back.”
“Do you think so, my lord?” If only Sorcha would return tonight! Right now, even. She’d relived the moment when Sorcha had fled into the woods a thousand times and carried the weight of it on her shoulders ever since.
She wanted her younger sister back. Whole, in one piece, and as irreverent as she’d ever been.
“I hope so, Freya, but whatever happens, I promise you both, not a single stone or branch in Dunvegan Wood will be left unturned until we find her.” Lord Ballantyne grinned. “It may come to that, too. No one knows those woods better than Sorcha. I daresay she’s well hidden.”
“Thank you, Lord Ballantyne. Neither Cat nor I can ask for anything more than that.”
“On the contrary, Miss Freya, you may ask for anything you like. But I must insist you call me Hamish, rather than Lord Ballantyne.” He smiled at Cat. “I’m to be your brother, after all.”
“Are you, indeed?” She’d expected it, of course. Anyone with eyes in their head could see that Cat and Lord Ball—er, Hamish—were madly in love. “Why, how fortunate we are, to have gained such a brother! But are you quite sure, Hamish? You may have noticed that the MacLeods are a bit of a handful.”
“I’m sure.” Hamish gave Cat a smile that didn’t leave a shred of doubt as to his feelings for her. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Well, he was properly besotted, wasn’t he? All was as it should be.
She turned to Cat, taking her hands and laughing at the blush staining her sister’s cheeks. “How wonderful, Cat. I couldn’t be more pleased for you.”
Tears glimmered in Cat’s eyes, and she squeezed Freya’s hands. “Thank you, dearest. But you must tell me all about what happened in Kildary. My goodness, Freya, what strange adventures you’ve had!”
“I have indeed, and I promise I’ll tell you all about it, but tomorrow, all right, dearest? Forgive me, but I’m dreadfully fatigued, and I’ve rather missed my bed these past three weeks.”
“Of course.” Cat pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Go on up to your bedchamber, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
Freya mounted the stairs slowly, but she didn’t go to her bedchamber. She bypassed the third floor entirely and instead made her way into the alcove and up the turret staircase to the roof.
It looked just the same as it always had. Her little corner where she sat to sketch and daydream her days away was just as she’d left it. Even the notebook she’d set aside when Callum and Mr. Dunn came up the drive was still there, waiting for her.
She crossed to the low wall and picked it up, intending to turn over a leaf or two, but the pages were stuck together from the rain that had fallen since she’d been gone, and all the sketches inside were ruined.
Not so very long ago, such a loss would have broken her heart.
Before she knew what a broken heart was.
Had it only been three weeks? It seemed impossible that so much could have happened in such a short time.
Nothing less than everything had changed.
This was her home, still. Of course it was.
Castle Cairncross would always be her home, but it would never be the same again.
It couldn’t be, because she wasn’t the same.
After everything she’d seen and done, everything she’d been through, she was no longer content to while away her days on the roof.
To sit and sketch life, instead of living it.
Callum had given that to her. He’d saved her, and in so many ways. Too many to count. She’d saved him, too, but perhaps he didn’t know it yet.
Perhaps he never would, but that was all right, too.
She knew, and that was what mattered.
And then, he’d broken her heart. Yet as badly as it hurt, as much as it felt like her chest was cracking in two, she couldn’t begrudge him the breaking of it.
How could she when he’d given her so much in return?
She didn’t regret a moment of knowing him. Not a single moment. If she had these last three weeks to do over again, she would, without hesitation.
The sky had gone dark while she’d been with Hamish and Cat. The sun had set, and the stars were making their appearance in the sky, like millions of tiny lights winking on at once.
Ursa Minor and Cepheus, Cassiopeia and Draco.
The serpent and the queen.
The North Star.
She braced her arms on the top of the wall and gazed into the sky until the stars blurred in her eyes. And if she thought of Callum, and imagined him gazing into the same sky, well … no one needed to know about her silly dreams but herself.
An hour might have passed, or half a dozen of them. The wind had picked up and a chill had settled over her by the time she came back to herself.
She let her dreams go, one by one, setting them loose into the night.
She’d make new dreams, in time.
But not tonight. Tonight, she’d go to bed, just as she’d told Cat she would.
She’d just turned back to the staircase when she heard it.
The clop of a horse’s hooves over the graveled drive below.