Page 44

The cèilidh had been nothing but a success, all smiles and dances that made her feel like she could fly. Perhaps it had seemed too soon, but she certainly had not wanted it to end. Marriage had seemed like the next step.

And then he had asked her to walk with him.

Freya’s hands tightened on the sides of the tub. That was as far as she let the memory go these days. That’s what she tried, at least.

The music behind them had grown fainter with every step. The dark line of the stables. His voice, still sweet, saying her name. She had built a wall there, years ago, brick by careful brick, and she did not look over it.

What she knew was this: she had gone out into the night a girl who believed in love stories, and she had come back with blood on her knuckles and no such belief.

Freya had never acted that way before. She had balled her fist before she realized what was happening and swung it at the young man’s face. He hadn’t expected her to do that, but her brother had taught her a few things at her insistence. One never knew when one would need to protect oneself, so she wanted to be ready.

The young man had fallen over, clutching his nose and calling after her. He uttered words she had only heard her brother shout when he was frustrated or angry, but she did not turn around.

He had boasted to his friends that by dawn, the Muirs would have to give her to him. Later, she heard that her father had broken off the betrothal, and that he and her brother had beaten the lad.

As far as she was concerned, he had deserved it. But that had done nothing to heal her heart.

He was the one who had tried to kiss her. He had tried to push her up against the tree and press his lips against hers. From that moment on, Freya had been determined never to marry. She would never obey or make herself small for a man.

None of that had prepared her for Evander; that much was sure. Running into him that night at the inn had been a stroke of luck, since he had protected her, but their marriage was never supposed to be part of the plan.

Her past had soured her on romance completely, but now she was married to a man known as the Wolf and helping him care for his niece and nephew, whom he hadn’t known existed until a few days ago. The children hadn’t existed much longer than that. They were only in this world ten months before their parents had been cruelly ripped from them.

The water had gone lukewarm by the time Freya finally let herself sink back into it, and she told herself she didn’t care, though goosebumps rose along her arms.

It had been a long day of new rooms and new names—Jack at the gate, solemn and watchful, looking at her as though she were a puzzle he hadn’t yet decided how to solve; a maid leading her up a staircase that smelled of beeswax and old stone, unfamiliar in a way that made her feel absurdly homesick for a home she’d never much liked living in; the babies’ room set right beside her own, close enough that she could hear, even now, Brigid’s low humming through the wall, a small comfort amid all this strangeness.

She thought of Evander and what would become of him if this all came undone in two weeks. He’d need to find a wife, she supposed, if she went back to Muir Castle as she’d promised herself she would. A proper lady, someone to help with the bairns, to stand beside him at feasts, to⁠—

She stopped that train of thought, annoyed at herself for even starting down that path. A tinge of jealousy coiled deep within her, something she didn’t even want to consider.

If not Freya, someone else would have to. There was no other choice. Evander couldn’t do it alone. He was far too busy, and he had never handled a child. It was obvious whenever he held the twins, almost as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

But one thing was clear: he would never harm a hair on either of their heads.

And yet it didn’t erase the jealousy that rose in her every time she thought of him taking another wife to care for the twins.

The idea of some other woman in this tub, in this room, wearing her ring—no, Evander’s ring, given to her in a moment of whisky-induced stupidity—didn’t please her.

Freya couldn’t say why it didn’t, except that he had stolen her first real kiss in years, and she still hadn’t decided how she felt about it, let alone what it meant that she kept turning it over like a coin she couldn’t stop checking her pocket for.

“Well,” she said to the empty room, as if saying it might make it true, “he didnae steal it, exactly.”

She felt her face heat at the memory regardless, the water suddenly feeling far too warm despite having gone cold some minutes ago.

She had been kissed before, and it had been nothing like the kiss she shared with Evander. When that bastard had kissed her in the past, it had been sloppy and made her recoil in disgust. After giving him a piece of her mind, of course.

He had had more coming, but Freya had been in such a panic that all she could think to do was put as much distance between them as possible. She was only glad her brother and father had acted quickly in her defense, never pushing marriage on her.

Then Evander had swept in and captured her lips in a rough, bruising kiss. But she hadn’t felt any disgust or anger. She had responded eagerly, pressing himself against him and wanting everything he had to offer.

The door opened.

“Who’s there?” she demanded, sinking lower as the water sloshed over the tub’s edge.

“Just me, wife.”

Freya squeaked, freezing in place. She wanted to say something, anything. To warn him not to come in. They might be married, but it wasn’t the kind of marriage where he could wander into her chamber and see her like this.