Then, a sudden ripple of wild grasses brought the hiss of voices. “Get down,” urged Wallace, pulling her behind a tree. “There’s someone there!”
For a moment, they sat in silence, listening, but there was nothing.
“Are ye sure?” asked Freya quizzically.
When Wallace turned to look, his heart almost skipped a beat. She was so close, he could almost taste her. Every fiber of his body ached to touch her, giddily drinking in her scent.
“I can’t hear anythin’,” she whispered. “Maybe they’ve gone…och, Wallace! The stag!”
Right on cue, a huge red stag materialized from behind a tree. Freya took her aim, staking out the deer and preparing to strike. But at the last moment, her hand wobbled, and her arrow went straight into the trunk of the spreading oak.
“Och!” exclaimed Freya petulantly. Her high young voice rose over the treetops and out into the wild blue sky beyond.
“Shh!” warned Wallace, tugging on her sleeve. He wasn’t certain that the footsteps had belonged to the stag, nor that they had gone. He was about to lead them back to the hunt when another sound alerted him. Again, he snatched Freya flat against the dried grass, without daring to even breathe.
In the distance, there were horses’ hooves, but they were quietening. Whatever it was had passed. However, Freya seemed shaken. Wallace helped her to her feet as she smoothed the creases and dirt from her plain arisaid.
“Just as well yer here. I’d most likely get kidnapped by brigands again. I keep forgetting we are close by the clanless …,” Freya said, looking crestfallen.
“It’s awrigh’,” said Wallace modestly.
“Nae, tisnae. I owe ye thanks, Wallace—first for pulling me out of that fire, and second, for rescuing me the first time we met all those years ago,” Freya spoke thoughtfully, invoking the memory of their first encounter all those years back.
“Nae bother,” Wallace said, his cheeks beginning to glow. He couldn’t help heating up under the glare of her bright eyes.
“Nae, I am a bother,” she said. “Thing is, I dinnae ken how I will ever manage to be as good a laird—or lady—of the clan as Father is now! I ken all the tales they tell about me. That I’m nae his real daughter and noo’ fit to rule. And sometimes, I cannae help thinking they’re right…”
All this launched out of Freya’s mouth like stones from a catapult.
“Who says that?” Wallace asked. But as the words left his lips, he felt an immediate shame.
Nora had filled his head up with tales of Freya’s incompetence—as well as Finlay’s wickedness. But now he had discovered the truth was nothing like what she had told him.
“They all dae,” said Freya dismissively, with a wave of her hand. “I think ye ken they dae,” she added, leveling her perfect cat’s eyes into his.
Wallace dropped his eyes. “Aye, well, they’re wrong. And if I ever hear anyone say it, I shall tell them. Yer more than good enough,” he added, patting her on the shoulder.
As he spoke, misgivings about his mission washed through him. He could see how wrong he had been, and feelings that had been stirring in him suddenly came to the fore. Within a second, Wallace had Freya in his arms. His heart beating fast, Wallace sensed her emotions. As her breath quickened, she reached in to kiss him.
They came within a breath of kissing when a rustling sound came suddenly towards them.
“Freya!”
The pair instantly sprang apart. Turning around, Wallace expected to be confronted with the sight of an angry Finlay. But there was an unexpected face flanked by the two doofuses, Brodie and Robbie.
In the center was the man with silvering hair; the one who had betrayed them all, whose name was a byword for Judas. And on his lips, a grin played mischievously.
“Wallace—so good it is to see ye again!”
Padraig.
Chapter Nine
“Padraig! Where did ye spring from?”
Freya addressed the silvery haired mentor with a cheery smile, but her mind was racing. Pulling the wool over the eyes of a canny operator like Padraig was not going to be simple.
“I bumped into this pair, um, ‘looking’ for ye,” Padraig said, motioning towards Robbie and Brodie standing behind him with a twinkling smile. “Or that’s what they said when they woke up…”
He tried to meet Wallace’s gaze with a friendly smirk, to put him at ease, but the lad rebuffed him.
“Those two couldnae catch a cold!” snarked Padraig, behind his hand to Freya. Robbie guffawed loudly, and Brodie elbowed him in the rib.
“But I’ve already got a cold!” protested Robbie, looking in confusion, as Freya laughed. She tried to catch Wallace’s eye, to make him laugh—but got a shock. Instead of following the lads’ excuses, he was locked into a duel of hate with Padraig.
She had seen that look before—on the faces of the clanless when they ambushed the keep. Just a child, she shivered as her father held against the assault, their grasping hands banging on every wall, door, and window. Even now, she could picture their hateful eyes.
Freya found herself wondering if Wallace’s face had also been at her window that fateful night. Then his demeanor changed, and now he smiled. But the change was so mercurial, Freya could not help but marvel at it. She had seen this sort of transformation in him before—the day he saved her from the fire.
“Yer a long way off the clan road,” Padraig said wryly, his blue eyes piercing deep into hers. It was hard for her to disengage from them.
“I lost my path,” Freya asserted, albeit unconvincingly. She could tell that he didn’t believe her. Furtively, she shared a glance with Wallace.
Wallace gave Freya’s hand a gentle squeeze, tentatively watching for Padraig with great caution. She noticed that as soon as Padraig turned to look, he let go of her again quick.
A gentle breeze rippled all around the wild landscape, bringing with it a welcome relief from the burgeoning sun. There was a brief pause, in which Padraig coughed, and Wallace looked tense behind his fixed grin.
“Lost, aye. Ye could have been putting yersel in mortal danger,” Padraig continued, clearing his throat, before continuing in more sober tones. “An’ maybe the whole of the clan, too!”
Freya cast her eyes immediately downwards, and Wallace followed suit. She couldn’t help wondering what was really going on behind his strange demeanor.
“Aye, I’m right sorry, Padraig,” she said feebly. Padraig just smiled before drawing Wallace in with a glance.
“Och well, it was an accident, wasnae it?” he said, then blindsided Freya completely with something that she was not expecting: a wink.
* * *
Slowly, they moved through the countryside, parched and baking under the undulating heat. None of them were used to this climate, and the Highlands were crackling under the scorching of a heavy sun no-one had seen before. As Wallace cast an eye over the fading landscape, it was to see burns that were drying up and grass that was dying off.
For Wallace, grappling with a small but weighty deer, every step was a furlong. Sweat literally poured from his brow, drenching his cheeks and hair until it dropped on his face. However, he would have followed for miles if it meant being next to Freya.
The party walked on, through the deserted landscape until they came back inside the perimeters of the Craig clan, where neat little houses were smoking in the horizon.
Then, Freya did something surprising. She tugged at Wallace’s elbow. Disarming him with a smile, she said, “Wait, we have a delivery to make!”
Not expecting that, Wallace looked around. They were sidling down a dirt track which led to the small line of houses, tucked into a pocket in the glen.
“Eh?” said Wallace, circling his head around the valley and back again. “Where, what?”
Freya just laughed. By now, she had gained everyone’s attention. Even Padraig seemed puzzled.
“Here!” she said, pointing to the first house in the line. She smacked Wallace playfully ov
er the head with her hand, then pushed him in the small of his back towards it. The imprint of her hand was left buzzing on his skin, and a strange feeling took hold.
It was mad, he thought as he looked into her jewel-colored eyes, that he should even be here at all. A hot surge of something rose inside him—a heady combination of desire, shame, and guilt.
“Yonder,” she said, as Robbie, Brodie, and Padraig looked on. “No, with the doe!” she chided.
Wallace, who had momentarily put down the small but still heavy deer, looked at her quizzically.
Then, sharing a glance amongst themselves, the four of them watched intently. Freya, her long hair catching on the breeze, walked to one of the cottages and knocked smartly at the door.
Within seconds, the cracked door was unlatched by a short, squat man with balding hair and a perplexed expression.
“Here, Mr. McTavish. Dinnae let it be said that I cannae catch a doe!” she announced. The man’s quizzical look was slowly replaced with a broad smile.
“Och! I nae doubted ye, lassie!” he said, smiling. Then he called inside the house. “Hoo! Bessie!”
Wallace shifted his footing nervously and wondered what was going on. He didn’t know anyone in the Craig clan, but what if they recognized him as the son of Seoras? Fearful, he took a step back and tried to gather his thoughts.
A woman now came to the door. “Och, Freya! We cannae…” she began, but Freya rebuffed her.
“Nonsense Mrs. McTavish. I’ve no purpose for it—so ye have it. Maybe share it about if there’s enough…!”
“Och, there’s enough, alright!” tutted the woman. “But I cannae pay ye for this!”
“I dinnae want money! Just enjoy it. That’s payment enough!” laughed Freya.
Wallace sat back against the gate post—which was missing a gate—and marveled. How had it taken him this long to notice this amazing girl? He struggled to reconcile his mother’s description of Freya with the woman before him.
“Och, ye all should come in for a wee dram!” said the woman, bustling around in the doorframe in an embarrassed fashion.
Now that the sunlight pierced the darkest recesses of the small house, Wallace could see that the room was almost completely bare—not even a stool for the occupants to squat upon. Immediately, he thought of the cottage he shared with his mother; the stark walls, grubby interior, and concoction of smells swirling around.
From the look of her, the woman had not been expecting visitors, and was now swiftly pulling a wrap over her stays.
“Och, nae, I’m nae stopping,” said Freya sweetly as the woman tried her best to entice her into the narrow passageway.
Even from outside, Wallace could see into the empty cupboards and bare larder, and it gave him a shock. These people had nothing, just like them.
This was at odds to the tale told to him for the past twenty-one years, painting a picture of riches and plenty. However, there was one difference—a lairdship prepared to help their people wherever possible.
“As if it’s nae bad enough that they took yer father’s life—but they also took his wealth, too,” his mother had told him. “An’ now all we have got left is this...”
His mother opened the palm of her hand, revealing the silver tinderbox, the sole remaining memory of Seoras. Since then, it had barely been out of their sight. Wallace clutched at the small box, running an anxious finger over its embossed lid, and felt a spark rise within him. Inside, a battle of loyalties raged—his family honor versus Freya. But as hard as he tried, he could not quash the flames he felt for her.
Preoccupied, he almost did not notice the couple bidding Freya farewell and their party moving slowly back over the bone-dry landscape again.
Freya’s spirit billowed out in front of them, leading the way. She shone like a brightly-colored star, her flame-tinted hair and colorful checked tartan setting her apart from the fading landscape.
Freya laughed and tugged Wallace’s arm, seemingly oblivious to the expression on Padriag’s face—but Wallace saw it. It was cool and appraising, and the sharp glance bolting towards him, directly in the eye, told him in no uncertain terms that he had been unraveled.
Wallace’s heart gave a jolt. He wondered just how much Padraig knew. He had been shrewd enough to pick the winning side in the fight between the clans, after all.
And then, there it was again—that familiar jab of pain, like a shard of ice in his ribs. No matter what else, he would not forgive this act of treachery.
Then, Freya smiled, and in an instant, all the rancor and the acrid bitterness swirling around inside of him had gone. Like a cold dram of a single malt on a hot day, she both cooled him down and warmed him up at the same time. Either way, she was as an antidote to his mood. It must have been obvious to everyone how he felt, even Robbie and Brodie. He was so unable to take his eyes off her that even the two louts could see it clearly.
“Och, hold yer tongue back in, laddie!” remarked Padraig, sniggering.
Instantly Wallace turned around, staring daggers into his face. The cur seemed to take amusement from his anguish. Wallace’s temper rose inside him. His mind turned to his sword in its leather sheath. For one delicious moment, he had visions of slitting Padraig’s throat.
But it vanished, and Wallace got a grip on himself, quashing down his beating heart. He turned to face Padraig with a perfunctory smile.
“I just have to follow out the Laird’s orders, son,” Padraig told him, in genial tones which unwittingly provoked a further torrent of rage within Wallace.
A shame ye didnae follow my father’s commands so well! he thought, but just managed not to say it aloud. Instead, he heard his own voice saying, “Aye.”
Now they were at the at the pebble path leading to his small croft, its distinctive stench calling across the parched landscape. Never once had the sun flinched from the sky all the way back, and suddenly, Wallace was exhausted.
From the look on Padraig’s face, it was clear that not only was he in total command, but that he understood only too well his intentions.
“So then, I’ll bid ye a good e’en,” said Padraig stiffly, raising his bonnet to him. Then, following the trace of his gaze, he added, “an’ ye’ll be wise to keep afar away from the keep, lad.”
Wallace turned around, but did not say anything. Before he knew it, the old man was just a silver-colored speck snaking its way across the horizon.
“Aye,” he said, to himself as he watched him go. “An’ a good riddance to ye!”
Then he set about looking around the makeshift croft that he had been designated. And although Padraig’s men had dropped some meager supplies off to him, it remained mean and inhospitable, with not so much as a stool to sit upon.
As Wallace rested upon a cushion of hay, he gazed out through the broken door as the midsummer night sky deepened in the glen side.
Bit by bit, the steep hills on the horizon were making themselves invisible. If he didn’t light a candle soon, it would be impossible to see what he was doing.
Wallace reached into the familiar grip of his sporran for the silver tinder box. There it was, like a good friend, secure and firm in his grasp.
Lighting the tallow candle, Wallace mused. The laird had made himself clear enough by giving him this faraway croft. He might have been grateful to Wallace for saving his daughter, but he did not think that he was worthy of her.
Worse still, Wallace himself was starting to believe the same thing.
Chapter Ten
“Och come on, it’ll do ye good to get out of here. The fair’s in town!”
Padraig’s tones cut across the dismal living area of the croft. A full day had passed, and once more, the reluctant midsummer sun nestled low over the skies.
Wallace scowled with uncertainty at the silver-haired man’s friendly gesture. It felt like he had become a permanent presence in the ramshackle croft, ever since Wallace had arrived.
Today he was more hectoring than usual, standing there at the entrance
to the croft, his plaid billowing around his rather hairy knees.
“I’m nae sure,” stalled Wallace, staring out into the horizon, as if there were a million reasons that he could not come out. “There’s the flock to tend to…”
In giving Wallace the croft, the laird had also allocated him a flock of sheep to oversee. Having never been a shepherd before, Wallace was finding it to be more work than he was expecting.
“Ah, well, I’ll have to tell Freya to come with Robbie instead then!” Padraig quipped slyly, without turning his face back around to the lad. He gave it a moment, then paused on his heel to walk out.
Highlander’s Twisted Identity (Highlanders 0f Clan Craig Book 2) Page 8