Chapter 1
Libertas Dulcis Est
It was raining, of course. Heavily, too. Freya’s grip on the wet stone ledge of her windowsill slipped, the toes of her boots curling over the edge, and her heart jumped into her mouth. She steadied herself on the sides of the window, the icy stone biting at her fingers.
It was a long way to fall.
Her room was on the third floor, high above the stone courtyard below. If she fell now, she might as well be dead. Even if she survived.
Holding her breath and tightening her grip on the ledge, Freya stretched out towards the branches of the old oak tree. Perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed to be stretching out for her, too.
“Be careful, Lady!” hissed the serving-girl, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot back inside Freya’s room. “If ye slip and break yer neck, I’ll be found out for sure!”
Freya resisted the urge to tell the girl that now was not the time for any of this— not now when she was stretched out between the window ledge and the tree, with rain sleeting down over her. If she did slip, there was no way the poor serving girl would be able to haul her back to safety.
The serving girl, Maggie, was young, barely seventeen, but she was the only person that Freya had dared ask for help. The only person who noticed that anything was wrong at all. Or, at least, the only person who cared.
It was no good. Freya was going to have to jump for the tree. She didn’t give herself time to think about the practicality of what she was doing.
Are ye going to jump? Or are ye going to stay here and marry that man?
She shuddered. That was no choice at all.
Gritting her teeth, she launched herself forward, arms outstretched as if the tree might catch her. She cannoned through thin branches, feeling the sharp stinging of errant twigs cutting the exposed skin on her face and neck in a dozen tiny places, but she landed chest-down on a thick branch. Freya’s vision blurred, and she very nearly rolled off again, saving herself with a yelp at the last moment.
Recovering herself, Freya regained her balance, and inched around to face back into the castle.
It was strange to look back into her old room, only a few feet away but seeming much, much further away now.
I’m free. For now, at least.
Her room was a large one, well-furnished and well-lit. Freya happened to know that it was a far, far nicer room than the tiny space that Maggie slept in every night. No furs for Maggie, no fireplace of her own, no fine gowns or jewelry. There was one key difference, though. Maggie could leave her room whenever she wanted. She could leave Keep Grahame whenever she wanted, and Laird Grahame wouldn’t care at all.
Stop it. Don’t think about him now.
“Ye should come with me, Mags,” Freya said, stretching out a hand. “Ye have already helped me so much, and I can’t bear the thought of ye being found out. Come with me.”
Maggie hesitated, but only for a second. She shook her head. “I can’t. My parents are old and sick. They need me, and they need my wage. Ye should hurry, Lady.”
“Why did ye do it, Mags? Why did ye help me? Nobody else in this cursed Keep would.”
Maggie chewed her lip, glancing away. It was clear that she was uncomfortable in Freya’s large, warm bedroom, and would rather be below stairs with the rest of the servants.
“My Ma reads her Bible a lot,” Maggie said at last. “She told me that we’re meant to treat others the way we want to be treated. That it’s a law, and an important one. I think that if I was in yer situation, Lady, I’d want someone to help me.”
Freya swallowed, and gave a brief nod. “Very well. Thank ye, Maggie. I won’t forget this.”
“Just be safe, aye? Get yourself gone from here.”
With that, Maggie glanced furtively around, and pulled the curtain across the window, shutting off the light. As they’d planned, she would start blowing out the candles and dampening the fire so that anyone passing by outside would assume that Lady Freya, daughter to Laird McInnes and averyimportant guest, had simply gone to bed at her usual time.
The rain started to fall harder than ever. She was running out of time. Gritting her teeth, Freya began to climb. She had a small satchel on her shoulders, the only supplies Maggie had been able to gather for her. They wouldn’t last her long, but it was better than nothing. Her dark green wool dress was simple and plain enough not to attract attention, and she wore a threadbare old cloak over the top. With any luck, people would assume she was simply a peasant girl, nobody significant at all. If the door Maggie had described to her was open, she would be able to slip through the walls of the Keep and into the forest beyond, and concentrate on putting miles between her and Laird Grahame.
With any luck, her husband-to-be wouldn’t notice that she was gone until the morning.
The rain was still falling,turning to icy sleet now. Pulling the hood of her cloak up over her head—Maggie had advised her to cover up her distinctive red hair as often as possible—Freya gritted her teeth and plowed on. McInnes lands were further south, inching towards the lowlands, where the weather was a little warmer. Of course, Freya had neverthoughtthat it was warmer, not until she travelled up to the proper Highlands of Scotland and discovered whatrealcold was.
How long have I been walking? An hour? Two? More?
