Page 73 of The Scot's Secret Love
“’Tis not the case,” he managed to gasp.
“Tristan, stop.” Frida rose to her feet and stretched out shaking arms in entreaty.
“’Tis exactly the case,” Tristan spat. “I ask again, man, why else would you stay here so long?”
Because I love your sister!
The words were forming on his tongue when Tristan pressed his head closer to Callum’s, the hatred in his blue eyes all too visible. “I will tell you why, shall I?” He grabbed a fistful of Callum’s hair, forcing his head back with the blade still held firmly against his neck. “’Tis because you are a Scottish coward, like all of your kin who lie and creep around and kill.”
Callum let out a roar of pure outrage. “’Tis not the Scots who are cowards.”
Tristan’s voice was a low, menacing hum in his ear. “I have seen for myself the true calibre of those who follow the Bruce.”
He had seen for himself.
With dreadful clarity, Callum recalled his conversation with Jonah in the solar just days prior. When Jonah told him thatTristan had been in Scotland at the time of the siege on Kielder Castle, his family home.
I have to know the truth.
“Were you in the highlands this summer?” He wanted to look Tristan full in the eye, but could not manage it with the knife at his throat.
“I am the one asking questions.” Tristan gripped his fistful of hair more tightly, but Callum was beyond caring.
“At Kielder Castle.” His stare locked onto his captor. “Did you give the order?”
Tristan paused. For a moment all they could hear was the crackle of logs in the fire and Frida’s broken sobbing.
“You are asking if I ordered the siege of Kielder Castle?” Tristan’s voice was unreadable. If he knew what Kielder Castle was to Callum, he gave no sign of it.
“Aye.”
“I do not deny it.”
Anger blurred both his vision and his senses. Consumed with lust for revenge, he twisted out of Tristan’s hands, away from the knife, and headbutted him full in the groin.
Tristan swore as he went down, giving Callum enough time to somehow get to his knees, his movement made possible by sheer force of will. He would not lay on the floor and wriggle like a worm before his aggressor. He would face him with all the height he could muster.
“’Tis you English who creep around and kill, not caring how much innocent blood you spill in your endless greed.”
Tristan was still holding the knife, and within moments he would recover enough to wield it, but Callum no longer cared. In his mind’s eye he saw the fallen bodies of Arlo’s parents, together with the young and old of his highland village.
Tristan had been there, perpetuating violence against peaceful people.
He spat on the floor, pleased to see the spittle land close to Tristan’s hand.
The future Earl of Wolvesley rose to his feet, looking down upon Callum as if he were a small thing, worthy of naught but disgust.
“I shall kill you,” he said, calmly.
“Do want you want,” Callum roared back. “What is more Scottish blood on your filthy hands?”
At the last moment, Callum had one thought.Frida. But already Tristan’s long legs were striding towards him. There was a massive blow from above. Then the world turned black.
Chapter Seventeen
Some hours later,Frida stood in the dying light of the day in the deserted western corner of the courtyard, beside the old bakehouse. Behind that locked wooden door lay Callum. Though in what state, she hardly dared imagine. She had packed her basket with herbs and salves to treat a variety of ailments, unable to rest without at least alleviating some discomfort for the man she loved.
Aye. Still loved, despite all she had learned. So Callum had ridden to Ember Hall intent on killing an English lord. What did that matter, when to him the lord was nameless?
