“No,” Messalina said slowly. “She was tied up in the stables. The groom who was guarding her says he received a letter from Christopher, but that seems unlikely, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Freya said, watching Harlowe’s back. She remembered the horrible story he’d told her the night before. Tess was always with him, wasn’t she? Almost like a talisman against the memories. “I don’t think he’d tie up Tess by herself. He’s very fond of her.”
“I can tell. She did not like being apart from him.”
“No.” Freya smiled at how at ease Harlowe looked now that he was with the dog.
Messalina lowered her voice, “Do you know who did this?”
Freya darted a quick look at her, thinking of the Dunkelder and who might want Harlowe scared away. “I might have an idea.”
“Who?”
Freya shook her head. “I think it better we discuss this tonight. Alone.”
The other woman raised her brows. “Very well.”
Lovejoy House finally came into view. Freya could see Lady Holland waiting by the garden with Regina and Arabella.
When Freya reached her, the older woman said nothing, but surprised Freya by folding her in her arms. “I was so worried for you, Miss Stewart.”
“Oh, Miss Stewart!” Regina exclaimed, and hugged her as well.
Arabella smiled shyly, taking her hands. “Thank God you are well.”
Freya nodded to them both, but she couldn’t help but notice that Lady Holland’s worried face hadn’t yet relaxed. In fact, her employer nodded significantly to someone over Freya’s head.
But when she turned, she couldn’t tell who had been the recipient of that silent communication.
The ladies ushered Freya indoors and up to her room, where she finally—thank goodness!—relieved her overextended bladder. A warm bath had been ordered, and she gratefully stripped off her clothes and bathed. Then she dressed, taking pains to make herself neat and assume once again the role of boring companion.
She winced.
After their discovery this morning she might never be entirely unnoticed again. Well, that couldn’t be changed, and perhaps it didn’t matter anymore. She was due to return to Dornoch in a little over a week.
Her heart sped as she realized how little time she had.
She gave herself a last inspection in the mirror on the dressing table and decided she could no longer avoid the rest of the party.
Taking a deep breath, she descended the stairs and found the salon, where it seemed the entire house party had gathered to discuss the morning’s events. Naturally everyone stopped talking and turned to stare at her when she entered.
Harlowe had been in discussion with Lady Holland. He looked up, meeting her eyes gravely. He, too, had refreshed himself. Tess was by his side, and he looked every inch the duke in a severe black suit and snowy neckcloth that made his blue eyes blaze.
For some reason the sight of him sent a tremor down her frame. For the first time in five years she rather wished she were wearing something fit for her true station instead of a dowdy companion’s dress.
Silly! she chided herself. She was a Wise Woman, and her mission was far more important than silk dresses.
Freya lifted her chin and crossed the room, ignoring all the other gazes on her, aware only that Harlowe watched her the entire time.
He stood and bowed as she neared, taking her hand in his.
She would not let her fingers tremble at a simple touch.
“Miss Stewart,” he greeted her. “If you don’t mind, I would like a private word with you.”
Freya frowned. They’d spent the night together—mostly talking, true, but still. What did he need to say now—and so formally?
But she nodded and followed him into a small sitting room across the hall.
“Please,” he said, indicating a chair.
She raised her eyebrows but sat.
“I think you must know why I’ve asked to speak to you,” he began, his blue eyes intent and serious.
She interrupted, her nerves frayed after the morning and after having run the gauntlet in the salon. “Actually, I don’t.”
He stopped and stared at her.
Then he crossed to her and gravely went down on one knee before her. “Freya de Moray, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Chapter Ten
’Tis well known that to make a bargain with a fairy is a perilous thing, but Rowan had no other choice if she wanted to speak to the Fairy King.
She took a silver dagger hanging at her waist and cut off a lock of her own fiery hair. “Will you take this in payment?”
“Oh yes,” Ash said. “Now close your eyes, take my hand, and kiss me.”
Rowan did as he said and pressed her lips against his chilly mouth.…
—From The Grey Court Changeling
Despite having been married once before, Christopher had never proposed. That was because his last engagement had been a fait accompli by the time he was informed of it. The entire thing had been arranged by his father and Sophy’s mother. Even her brother hadn’t heard until he was called home from London to attend the hasty wedding.
So Christopher had never before contemplated how best to propose to a woman. Though if he had, he would’ve acknowledged that a hasty, forced-by-circumstances proposal probably wasn’t the ideal option—especially for a woman such as Freya.
After all, she’d not only challenged him to a duel, she’d won.
Still, even knowing she wouldn’t be happy about his proposal, he wasn’t entirely prepared for outright refusal.
“Are you insane?” Her green-gold eyes blazed at him as fiercely as if he’d suggested running nude through the sitting room.
He blinked, nonplussed. “I—”
“No,” Freya said calmly, if a bit lethally, “I won’t marry you, Kester.”
He tried to rein in his irritation. Did everything have to be difficult with this woman?
“We spent the night together, Freya,” he said through gritted teeth. “Even if nothing truly happened, the tale will get out. If you don’t marry me, people will talk about you. I don’t want that.”
“You’re concerned that people will talk about me?” she replied mockingly. “Don’t you think they might talk if a duke marries a penniless companion?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “Wonder at a formally disgraced lady marrying a duke is not at all the same as speculation that I seduced and abandoned you.”
“This sounds very much as if you’re worried over your own name,” she drawled. “You needn’t fret. Most couldn’t care less about a poor companion.”
Try though he did, he felt his own ire rise. “Damn it, Freya. You aren’t a companion. When you marry me you can resume your true name and your place in society.”
Her eyes went wide, and for a fraction of a second he thought his logic had prevailed.
Then her upper lip lifted, revealing perfect white teeth that bit out, “You presume to know what I want. Has it never occurred to you that I’m perfectly happy as I am? That I don’t want to take back my name and position?”
“No,” he growled back, “because that’s ridiculous. You’re the daughter of a duke. Why the hell would you want to continue serving those inferior to you in rank?”
“You don’t know me, Christopher Renshaw.”
“Don’t I?” For some reason those words made his irritation boil over into anger. He braced his hands on the arms of the chair she sat in and leaned into her, staring into those gorgeous eyes. “I know your family and where you grew up, Freya de Moray. I know that your tongue is sharp enough to cut to ribbons any man so foolish as to cross you. I know you hide a tender side under your thorny exterior, because you spent all night in my arms just to calm me. And, Freya, I know what you taste like when I kiss you.”
He suited action to word by leaning forward and catching her lips in a brief, hard kiss.
She didn’t protest, but she didn’t a
ctively return his passion.
Which should’ve been a warning to him.
When he pulled away, she was lounging back in the chair, as cool and unmoved as a queen about to pronounce sentence upon some filthy peasant.
“You think embracing me is the same thing as knowing me?” she whispered. “What of my wishes, my fears, my dreams? You don’t know anything true about me, Harlowe. That’s proved by the very fact that you think I’d want to marry you because of social mores.”
And now she’d regressed to calling him by his title. How could he desire such a contrary woman?
Because she challenged him. Because when her anger rose so did her passion. Because he’d caught a sweet light in her eyes more than once when she gazed at him.
Because beneath all those sharp thorns lay an intelligent, warm woman. He inhaled, trying to calm himself. “I don’t want to marry you only because of society—”
“Would you have proposed had we not been locked in the well house?” she interrupted sweetly.
“You know damned well I wouldn’t have!”
She raised haughty brows. “Then I think this discussion over.”
He took a deep breath, trying to reclaim reason. He had to protect her. “Freya, I’ve compromised you.”
“I won’t marry merely because you feel guilty.” She stood, making him rise as well and give her room. “Frankly, your guilt is not my problem.”
He closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept last night, not really, and had spent most of the hours in a state of high tension because of the dark and the cramped little house.
He was exhausted.
Christopher opened his eyes and looked at her. “I failed your brother. I failed Sophy. I will not fail you.”
Her lips were trembling now. She was no doubt as tired and irritable as he. “Not marrying me isn’t failing me. If it makes you feel better, I very much doubt that even Lady Holland truly expects you to marry me.”
He took a step forward, standing close enough that he could smell the faint traces of her honeysuckle perfume, and said desperately, “I am not proposing for Lady Holland or anyone else. I want you as my wife because of who you are.”
She cocked her head. “And who do you think I am?”
“Lady Freya de Moray,” he replied, quietly, but with heat, for his patience was wearing thin. “The daughter and sister of the Duke of Ayr. A lady of considerable heritage. A lady who deserves to be married when she is compromised. I want what is best for you.”
Her sweet mouth flattened almost as if she were hurt. “If you wanted what was best for me, you would not insult me by proposing for society’s sake.”
“I am proposing because it’s what’s right,” he said helplessly. Their conversation was unraveling in his hands and he had no idea how to put it back together again. He didn’t know the words to convince her. “I’m proposing because if I did not, I would no longer be an honorable gentleman. Can’t you see that?”
Her eyes went wide, and for a fraction of a second he thought he saw tears in her eyes.
Then she turned away, hiding her face. “Perhaps,” she said as she swept from the room, “you should worry less about your honor and more about my feelings.”
* * *
That night Freya took a deep breath before tapping softly on Messalina’s door.
Messalina immediately opened it and beckoned her inside.
Freya walked in and turned, feeling nervous.
The strange thing was that Messalina seemed nervous as well, her smile tentative as she gestured to a chair and a settee by the small fireplace. “Will you sit?”
Freya lowered herself to one of the chairs. Messalina was wearing a lovely jade silk wrapper embroidered with cranes. Her hair was in a single smooth braid. Freya felt a pang as she remembered all the times when as children they were allowed to sleep at each other’s home. Messalina had always had glossy, straight black hair—hair easily tamed into a smooth braid for sleeping, unlike Freya’s own wild curly hair.
Freya inhaled and looked at her dearest childhood friend. “I think I need to begin by apologizing to you.”
“What?” She appeared to have caught Messalina by surprise. Her eyes widened as she sat on the very edge of her chair. “Why?”
“For the way I’ve treated you for the last fifteen years. I’m sorry.” Freya gripped her hands together. “I think when it happened, I was in shock. We feared that Ran might die, you see, and then with Papa’s death…”
“I understand,” Messalina interjected. “Truly I do. You don’t have to go on.”
“But I think I do,” Freya said softly. “I need to tell you that I’m sorry—so very sorry—that Aurelia died. I’ve never believed that Ran killed her, but that doesn’t stop me from mourning her. I need to tell you all this so that there won’t be any more lies or hurt or confusion between the two of us.”
Messalina half smiled. “Can we really do away with all hurt between us?”
Freya answered her smile with her own. “We can try, I think. I can look at you and understand that none of this was your fault—any more than it was my fault. We both suffered. We both lost family members. But when I should’ve gone to you for comfort I turned away instead. I thought that you must have taken the side of your brother and uncle. That you were my enemy now.”
Messalina sighed. “I’ve never been your enemy—even if I still love my brother Julian.”
“And I’m not your enemy, even if I still love Ran,” Freya said softly. “I’m sorry for being scared. For assuming instead of talking to you.”
Messalina blinked rapidly, her eyes shining. “Well, I think I can forgive you if you promise to talk to me in the future.”
“Yes,” Freya said, her voice wobbling. “Yes, I can do that.”
Freya didn’t know how she came to be standing, but Messalina had her arms wrapped around her neck and they were hugging as if they were still girls, their hair down, running over the Scottish hills, and it was good, so very good to know that Messalina was her friend again.
Freya felt tears sliding down her cheeks, which was simply silly. She didn’t know when she’d last been so happy.
When Messalina finally let her go, she drew Freya down to sit on the settee close beside her. “Oh, I’ve missed you so! What has your life been like? Why are you acting as a paid companion, and why the name Miss Stewart? I confess I’ve been dying to ask for the last four years.”
Freya looked at her and opened her mouth to tell her the usual lies, but instead what came out was, “I’m a Wise Woman.”
It was such a relief to say it aloud that she grinned.
Though, of course, her statement led to an explanation that took nearly an hour.
“Good Lord,” Messalina said after Freya finally ran out of words. She was lounging on the settee. She’d produced a bottle of wine sometime in the last half hour and was now sipping from a tiny, delicate wineglass. “I had heard the rumors, of course. One can hardly grow up on the border and not hear whispers about Wise Women, but for them to be true.” She shook her head. “And you say that’s why you were locked in the well house? Because of a Dunkelder in our midst?”
“It must be,” Freya said, swallowing a mouthful of wine. “I think it was a warning to me.”
“Who do you suppose it is?” Messalina mused. “Have you a guest in mind? I’d point to Lord Rookewoode myself. That man is far too handsome for his own good.”
Freya laughed. It was so nice to be able to discuss this with someone else. To discuss it with Messalina. “I’ve wondered about Lord Stanhope—he seems so dour and disapproving. But Lord Lovejoy actually talked about witches and he at least is from the area.”
“Of course it could be Christopher,” Messalina said innocently.
Freya shot her a baleful look.
“No, I suppose not.” Messalina grinned. “Whatever is going on between the two of you?”
“Nothing,” Freya said, attempting to sound innocent.
Messa
lina arched a disbelieving eyebrow.
Freya wrinkled her nose. She’d never been able to pretend with Messalina. “He proposed.”
“No!”
“Yes.” Freya shrugged and sipped her wine to cover her sudden pang of sadness.
“And I take it you refused.” Messalina seemed thoughtful.
“Why do you say that?” Freya hedged.
It was Messalina’s turn for the look. “One, because you’re as stubborn as a mule. Two, because Christopher would’ve announced the engagement at dinner had you accepted, and instead he spent the meal glaring at his peas, poor man.”
“I see you’ve already taken his side,” Freya grumbled.
“Not at all.” Messalina waved her wineglass rather recklessly. “I merely feel sorry for him because he should’ve known that asking for your hand out of a sense of duty was guaranteed to make you decline—even if you truly were interested in him.”
Freya felt heat mount her cheeks. “Who says I’m interested in Harlowe?”
“I do because of the way you stare at him when you think no one is looking,” Messalina said slyly. “When I first arrived, your stares were nearly all angry. Lately they’ve revealed an entirely different emotion.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Freya said, though her face felt as if it were burning now. Was it true? Was she betraying herself every time she glanced at Harlowe? Because she knew that Messalina was right in one respect: she no longer hated him.
And if he’d asked her to marry him without the threat of scandal hanging over her head? Well, she wouldn’t have accepted him, of course.
But she might’ve told him so in less harsh terms.
Freya cleared her throat. “We’ve rather gotten off the subject of the Dunkelder and my mission for the Wise Women.”
“Mission?” Messalina cocked her head inquisitively. “What mission is that?”
Freya bit her lip, but she’d already told Messalina everything else. “When Parliament reconvenes in the autumn, some members intend to propose an act making witch-hunting not just legal again, but encouraged.” Her mouth twisted. “The Witch Act that Lord Stanhope mentioned the other day at breakfast. It’s meant as a morality measure—eradicating the ungodly from Britain. That sort of thing. In the past, though, the Dunkelders have made no distinction between witches and Wise Women. They believe we are witches—evil worshippers of the devil. Obviously, I can’t let that act be passed.”
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