All she had to do was stay here and wait.
The heavy tramp of booted footsteps jolted her from her reverie. This time there was no doubting Tristan’s quick, intentional tread. He flung open the door of the solar and stood for a moment, framed by the archway. His golden hair, curling just above his shoulders, was streaked with sweat. His emeraldgreen tunic was creased and shadows smudged his eyes, but even when fatigued and foiled, Tristan de Neville continued to exude a charismatic energy that filled the room.
“We did not find him,” he said.
His words brought Frida a sharp rush of relief.
Mirrie rose to her feet. “Come and sit down,” she urged. “I will fetch you some wine.”
Tristan shook his head. “I will take refreshment in the great hall, not here.”
Mirrie looked nonplussed. “As you wish.” Her hazel gaze swung to Frida. “We can all go and sit by the fire there.”
“Nay.” Tristan’s voice was emphatic. “I will not sit and sup with my sister, pretending that all is well between us.” Mirrie flinched, as if she was the one bearing the brunt of his anger. Tristan looked fleetingly contrite, but then he steeled his expression into granite again. “’Tis your doing, Frida, that near twenty of Wolvesley’s best men were forced to spend fruitless hours searching the lands surrounding Ember Hall for a man who had already fled.”
She shook her head, bristling with emotion. “’Twas not my doing, Tristan. I did not give that order.”
“You set him free.” His voice rose. “A treacherous Scot who brought violence to your door.”
This time she could not contain her anger. “Callum brought no violence to my door, brother. The beatings and threats only began when you arrived here.”
Tristan stepped forward menacingly but Frida held his gaze, refusing to be cowed.
“Enough,” Mirrie stepped between them, her arms outstretched entreatingly.
“You are right, Mirrie, enough.” Tristan’s voice was calm although he still glowered at Frida. “This experiment of you bothliving at Ember Hall has conclusively failed. You must return to Wolvesley.”
Frida’s blood roared in her ears. “You cannot make us do that. You have no authority here, Tristan.”
Tristan smiled thinly. “Mayhap not, but our father does. It’s your choice, Frida. Either you return to Wolvesley voluntarily, or I will send a message to our parents to inform them of recent events.” He smiled, evidently pleased with her stricken expression as realisation sliced through her. “Then you will have to return to Wolvesley, at the earl’s command.”
Chapter Twenty-One
As the daywore on, Callum saw more patches of sludgy green emerge from beneath their blanket of early snow. The northern borderlands were waking up from icy slumber, with birds beginning to sing their plaintive winter songs. Gradually, the landscape was changing from unending white to a patchwork quilt of wooded copses amidst rolling moorland.
His healthier, stronger self would take pleasure from this evidence of renewal. But Callum was weak, his body racked with pain. ’Twas naught he had not experienced before, but coupled with gnawing hunger and an enduring feeling of faintness from the blow to his head, he was uncharacteristically despondent. And the melting snow caused patches of mud which slowed him further.
Where am I even going?
He couldn’t answer the most basic question of all. He simply put one foot in front of another in an effort to increase the distance between himself and Ember Hall.
At first, Callum had thought he would head for home. But where was home? Kielder Castle had always held that name, but even when it was whole and sound, it had provided little in the way of calm and comfort, presided over, as it was, by Rory Baine, the most bloodthirsty and embittered clansmen the highlands had known for many a year.
And now… Did what little remained of the once proud stronghold still count as home? E’en though most of the friends he’d known there were either dead, fled or held captive?
Callum stopped, hands on hips, watching the rare sight of a graceful herd of roe deer picking their way through the trees. Their long legs found easy purchase along the rutted tacks, liquid brown eyes glancing around in a constant hunt for predators. It was a wonder they had not kicked up their heels and bolted over the moors at the first sight of him.
Once the last deer had disappeared, Callum resumed his wanderings. Mayhap he should become a creature of the woodland, laying his head wherever he found himself that night? But that would be folly at this time of year, with winter creeping ever closer.
Mayhap Egremont House then. His mother’s family home. The place he had spent his childhood and grown to a man.
Aye, that was the home where he had last been happy and carefree. But for all he knew, the house had been bordered up since his mother’s death and his father’s return to Scotland.
Callum scratched at his growth of beard, trying to remember. Had his father said that Egremont House would be let to some kinsman of his mother’s? His memories skittered just out of reach. And thinking caused waves of pain to ripple through his temples.
Callum would simply walk. He was heading north, in the direction of both Scotland and Egremont House. If he reached either, it would be a miracle.
He came out of a wooded valley to be greeted by a scene of destruction. A small village had once stood by a crossroads. His tired eyes counted the remains of a dozen dwellings. What looked like a church. All of them ruined now, broken beams blackened by fire. Doors hanging loose on hinges, roofs gaping open to the sky.
