This time her attention spun from Hughie to his companion, who was staring at his bare feet on the open floor, trying his hardest to avoid her death ray stare.
“Well, then, Alex? Is he gonnae kill the laird or he will he nae?” she looked keenly into the sandy-haired lad’s reluctant face, her blue eyes penetrating hard.
“Ah, um, I wouldha’ thought nae,” he finally said.
“Right!” exclaimed Nora. “At last!” she said, standing up and pacing slowly around the bare room. “So, then, lads, it looks like I might have to find someone else to dae it.”
“Ah, um, aye, I suppose,” said Hughie, about to get up to leave. “Well then, I’ve got tae be somewhere,” he added desperately.
“Aye, like the pub! Sit down. I’ll tell ye when ye can gae. Otherwise, there’s nae mair money for whiskey!”
Hughie paled visibly and sat down again. Nora saw their anxious faces and laughed a little, pulling her worn arisaid back up around her shoulders.
“Och dinnae fash, lads. I’ll dae all the thinking for us, an’ when it’s ready, I’ll let ye ken.”
“Let us ken what?” said Hughie, looking worried. Nora spoke slowly, her blue eyes connecting dangerously with Hughie’s bloodshot ones.
“Let ye ken when to kill the laird of Craig…”
* * *
The next day rolled around fast. The early morning light rammed its way into Wallace’s eyes from the opened window in the keep with what felt like an indecent haste.
Wallace opened his eyes, and put his hand up quickly to shield them from the too bright light. His head wasn’t much better—heavy and vague from the night’s whiskey. It took a while before he remembered where he was and when he did, he leaped out of bed, standing bolt upright beside the flattened straw mattress.
Freya! He had to speak to her!
With a growing sense of urgency, Wallace pulled his léine on and fastened his sporran. Then, stopping only to take a small drink from the jug, he set off. He was just about to head out when a nasty taste penetrated his mouth. The water—it was rank!
Hoping to find a fresh drink on his travels, as well as Freya, Wallace sped through the narrow corridors of the keep and down towards the door.
But there were so many rooms that he quickly became overwhelmed. Just as he thought he was never going to get out of the place, a door creaked open. Instantly, Wallace flattened himself against the gap behind it, narrowly avoiding having it strike his nose by a hare’s whisker.
Footsteps bounded down the corridor, but from behind the flung-open door, Wallace could see nothing. He held his breath, waiting for the person to pass. The last thing he wanted was to be discovered creeping about by the laird, or one of his lackeys.
Then, a sound that Wallace did not want to hear made its way towards him; footsteps, getting nearer. He dived behind the first thing he could find, a large stag’s head—a trophy from a recent hunting expedition. It was balanced on top of a high stool, in a cove just down from one of the bedchambers.
A low whistle sailed past his ears, and Wallace felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He was discovered! Mind whirling, he slowly turned around to face his captor. But the face he found was not the one he was expecting.
“Hum, I’m nae sure it suits ye really, I reckon yer own head fits better!”
The words burst from the dusky corridor, bringing with them a light amusement, contrasting starkly with the dank surroundings.
Slowly, Wallace pulled away the stag’s head, replacing it gingerly on the high stool. The fresh freckled complexion staring up at him positively beamed in the shadowy light.
“Freya!”
Freya laughed infectiously, a triumphant smirk running from one cheek to the other and drawing across her oval face. Wallace instantly burst into a grin.
“Dinnae look so surprised. What were ye expecting, prowling around by my bedchamber!” she chastised, but her green eyes sparkled with mirth.
“Is…is it? I didnae ken!” protested Wallace, immediately. “In truth, I didnae ken this was yer chamber!”
The lad’s heart was still beating every bit as fearsomely as it had been before, pumping hard and fast as Freya approached him.
She lingered just ahead of him. The sweet scent of her shampoo permeated the air around him. This morning, she wore her hair loosely tied back in a pleat, allowing some shorter wisps to curl up around her face, framing it crisply.
If Wallace’s heart had been giving him difficulty, now his stomach and nether regions followed suit. From the navel up, he tensed, feeling sick from last night’s liquor. But from the waist down it was another story; he was alive with sensation, a sweet, honeyed rush unleashed over his buttocks and groin.
Although the confines of the keep were hot and close, this wasn’t what made him sweat. It was the sight of her—and her scent—so close to him. It was overwhelming, and threatened to overthrow his reason.
“Is that so?” Freya said, swirling the ends of her deep red hair around her fingertips. “An’ dae ye expect my father to believe that?”
At the mention of Finlay, Wallace instantly jumped, but Freya only laughed. Wallace’s face contorted as if he was battling a bad memory.
She was near, so near. All he wanted to do was to take her sweet face into his hands and pull her down for a kiss. A thought flashed across his mind; of them together on a bed, thrashing to and fro, in a frenzy of passion.
Gadzooks! He had to get such an image out of his head and a grip back on reality. Painfully, Wallace managed to get a handle on his ardor and, very gently, withdrew himself from Freya’s grasp. There was something he needed to say.
“Wallace?” questioned Freya. He could see in her jade eyes that she was dismayed, hurt even, by his apparent frostiness.
“Freya, it’s not that I dinnae want to,” he began. Her eyebrows raised themselves pertly as he said this. How he loved it when she did that. A thrilled tingle went all the way through Wallace, pinging from the soles of his feet to the tip of his head.
“…But?” she said, sensing his next words.
“But, but, I need to tell ye something. It’s about me and my clan. An’ how it all just—but, nae here, like this,” he began. Then, from somewhere on the other side of the corridor, a door slammed, ramping up his panic immediately.
“Quick, in here,” said Freya, and dragged him immediately into her bedchamber. Before he had a chance to protest, she had shut the door softly. And now here they were—together, alone, in her bedchamber.
All manner of unnecessary feelings burned through Wallace. Freya smiled at him, alluring warmth in her eyes.
“Well, then, what is it ye wanted to say?”
It wasn’t as if Wallace needed much invitation. The feelings which were inside him gushed to the fore. He drew her close in an embrace, unleashing a kiss that was as hot as the sun that shone outside.
She tasted soft and sweet, and he never wanted it to stop.
Wallace had never experienced anything like this before. Where he came from, tenderness was regarded as a weakness. None of his rude encounters with others had ever come close to offering the feelings he was getting from this amazing girl right now.
Freya burrowed in deep, making Wallace’s pulse race and brow perspire even more. They were kissing hard, as if their lives depended on it.
It was passionate and sweet, burning like a flame all the way through him. An image of him throwing her onto the bed once more flashed into his head, but this time, he couldn’t get it out.
“Well?” she teased gently, pulling away from him a little.
Amazed, Wallace opened his mouth to speak. It was all about to come tumbling out—the story of himself and his mother. About the hate that he had been taught to believe in all his life. About the noxious mission he had been set on. About his change of heart and decision not to follow it. About the feelings stirring in his heart for her…
“Freya, I—” he began…
Then the door slammed open. There stood
Padraig.
Chapter Thirteen
“Padraig!” Freya and Wallace leaped apart faster than stones from a catapult; Wallace jettisoning himself against the far end wall of the bedchamber, and Freya stepping drastically back again.
Freya extended the door fully, expecting to see her father standing there. But thankfully, he wasn’t there just yet, although hasty footsteps on the stairwell told them that someone was approaching.
Casting a prescient eye around the room, Padraig summed up the situation with a single raise of the eyebrow. Then, before he could speak, he pushed Wallace outside, shutting the door on Freya.
“Stay there, lassie,” he murmured from the other side. Freya could just make out the shape of Padraig pulling Wallace closer to him. He hissed at her through the door; “I dinnae care, but yer father’ll blow like a powderkeg!”
Freya watched as Padraig propelled Wallace down along the corridor at some considerable speed, and as far away as possible from the bedchamber, escorting him along the narrow space. Then, straining her ears, she heard her father approach.
“The lad’s helping me,” she heard Padraig say. She could not see Wallace’s expression, but she could picture it!
Freya held her breath and prayed that her father would think nothing strange of Wallace’s appearance so close to her bedchamber. To her relief, it seemed as if he did not.
“Och, good, my man,” Finlay said, slapping Padraig hard on the shoulder. Then he stood facing Wallace. From behind the oak door, Freya could hear their breathing, particularly Wallace’s. It was coming hard and fast, in gulps, as if taking air suddenly proved particularly difficult.
For Freya within the silent bedchamber, it was barely any better. It didn’t help that the windows were permanently bolted shut by order of her father, in a state of paranoia about her safety. Freya tensed when she remembered just how long it had taken for him to let her ride alone. Even then, she had to put up with those two tremendous dunderheads, Robbie and Brodie!
A terrible thought crossed her mind; if he was suspicious of Wallace before, then what would he be now, having discovered the lad so near to her bedchamber?
However, her father didn’t sound suspicious when he spoke. In fact, to Freya’s surprise, he sounded almost genial.
“Och. I’m glad I found ye, laddie,” he said, in a tone that approached friendliness but didn’t quite knock on its door. “Because there’s something we need to have a wee chat about!”
Freya stiffened. This sounded ominous. Sensing that something similar was about to happen, Freya’s stomach clenched tight. Thoughts hurled into her overtaxed mind. Up until last night, Wallace had been a friend. A friend she had had feelings for, but one that she could never be with. But since then, everything had changed.
The kiss they had shared had truly surprised her with its passion. And yet, he was edging away from her now. Every time she reached out to him, the further away he got. His eyes said one thing, but his mouth another.
As she strained to hear their conversation, Freya became overwhelmed. This feeling was like nothing she had ever known before, leaving her giddy and queasy. If she didn’t know better, she would say she was sick.
And it was starting to dawn on her that she had no control over her feelings. They were entirely arbitrary and something she was stuck with. If she could have chosen it otherwise, there was no way she would opt to be in love with the son of the man who had tried to kill her father.
But she couldn’t, and she was.
Freya sat on her box bed in stunned silence. There was no choice about this. She loved him, and was willing to sacrifice everything to be with him.
But by the time that Freya emerged from the bedchamber, it was far too late. Wallace had already moved off from the top of the corridor, with Padraig at his side.
On the guise of moving something from one of the bedchambers, the laird followed on as Wallace dragged a heavy box along the dank hallway.
“Aye, laddie. Ye see, ye and me have got something in common, an’ I think it is high time ye kent it,” Finlay said mysteriously, as Wallace grappled hard with the weighty box. “Dinnae look so worried,” he laughed. “We just need a chat, about, well, family. Ye ken, Wallace, the thing is that for good or bad, Seoras was my uncle and we are blood. In short, ye are the only thing I have got near to a son…”
The words which came from Finlay’s mouth were unexpected. As they rounded the final corner, Wallace nearly dropped the box right onto the laird’s toes.
But the laird didn’t seem to notice. It was as if he didn’t even care much about the errand. And Wallace looked up, wiping the beads of sweat from his nose, to realize that Finlay was watching him quizzically.
Wallace battled against the unwieldy box in vain, trying hard to position it between his callused hands and drag it into the correct position. However, judging by the expression on his face, Finlay had already forgotten about it.
“Wallace,” said the laird thoughtfully. He came over and placed his hand on the lad’s shoulder for just a moment. Instantly Wallace’s body tensed. Sensing his anxiety, Finlay’s face relaxed into a smile. “It’s nae anything to worry yer head about, just…” he started, and then gave a small nod in the direction of Padraig.
Wallace quickly turned his head around to witness Padraig, eyes glinting conspiratorially with the laird. A residual mistrust gnawed down on him.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a vision of Seoras came to him. Even though he had never met his father, he had heard so much of him that his face seemed real. In that second, Wallace swallowed down a dram of cold sick as he thought of the slimy lieutenant who had betrayed his father. He didn’t know why, but this man stuck deeper in his craw than the laird himself did.
“Aye, say, why dinnae ye come with us for a wee walk around the keep,” he said genially. Padraig pulled a perfect smile to Wallace, who tried to stamp down on his sudden desire to take his knife to the cur.
Eventually, he got his feelings under control, but was somewhat taken back by the depths of them. Maybe he had decided to abandon his mission for the sake of Freya, but it didn’t mean that he had forgiven everything, especially not from Padraig.
Somehow, with gargantuan effort, Wallace buttoned his rancor back down and presented a calm face to the counselor.
“Aye, that’d be braw,” he said, as if he had been given any choice in the matter. And then the pair of them walked with him on either side, just close enough to talk discreetly but far enough away not to be brushing against each other.
“Aye, so, I hope yer chamber is satisfactory for ye,” said Padraig kindly. “I’m afraid it hasnae been cleaned in a wee while, but if ye need anything, ye only hae tae ask!” he continued.
“Thanks,” muttered Wallace, immediately thinking of the stale water jug. But he didn’t say anything, just falling into step with the laird and his advisor as they walked.
Wallace sensed the men wanted to wait until they had reached the outside before they talked freely. Sure enough, as soon as the squeaking keep door opened to reveal an untamed midsummer sun, the laird’s tongue seemed to loosen.
“Wallace.” His tone was direct, as though sharpened as soon as they were away from the main areas of the keep. Although it was early, the barracks were a hive of energy. Soldiers and guards milled around with a sense of purpose, dogs roamed without one, and they even caught the sudden intervention of a flock of geese unexpectedly creating a roadblock in the yard. Padraig was forced to shoo them away as the men passed through the iron gates to the Craig lands.
For several minutes, they walked on in studied silence, Wallace taking in the vast landscape from the vantage point along the path to the keep.
There was still no break in the weather, and it was shaping up to be another burning hot day, the likes of which the Highlands had not seen for many years. The trio walked past the tiny burn which surrounded the keep, providing its drinking water—it was all but dried up. Just a tiny trickle tinkled through the dry, rocky r
idge, bringing a much-needed calm to the glen.
Thirst scratched at Wallace’s throat. The sight of the running stream was too much for him and overcome, he knelt at the burn to cup his hands.
Wallace brought the clear water to his mouth and drank down the welcome coolness. For a moment, it was all he could think about, but it wasn’t long before he remembered himself. Instantly, he stood up apologetically.
“Excuse me, my lord,” he said to Finlay. Immediately, Wallace castigated himself for his rashness. He had worked hard to get the laird on side. The last thing he needed to do was to offend him with bad manners. But to his immense relief, Finlay just smiled.
“Nae bother, lad. In fact, we should all do that,” Finlay said, crouching down beside Wallace. “Padraig, refill the flasks!” he commanded to the silver-haired counselor, still standing at the bank side.
Highlander’s Twisted Identity (Highlanders 0f Clan Craig Book 2) Page 11