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“Freya—”

“Good night, me Laird.”

And then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her.

She went straight to the nursery. She wanted to put as much distance between them as possible. The only thing that mattered was being alone.

But then she realized she didn’t want to wake the twins.

Her hand hovered over the latch. She heard the sound of their breathing, then Amelia fussing. Archer followed suit, unable not to.

The twins were happy to see her. She gently took each child out of their crib and settled them in her arms.

I’ll stay for the bairns.

Freya had meant it. She was going to stay for these children who had worked their way into her heart in such a short amount of time.

She glanced down at the two small heads tucked beneath her chin and knew she could not have left them if the castle were burning.

But she had wanted more. For that one night she and Evander had spent together, she had wanted more than he could give.

She supposed it was her fault. She should’ve known better than to get involved with such a man. He had never given her any indication that there would be anything between them beyond what he was willing to give. Or what he could give.

A tear slid down her cheek and dropped onto Amelia’s messy curls. Freya didn’t wipe it away. No one would see it but the bairns, and they would never tell a soul.

She started to sing. It was a song her mother used to sing to her and Skye when they were young. Her voice wasn’t steady at all. It wobbled on the first verse and caught on the second. She had to stop and press her lips together before she could go on.

Eventually, the twins fell asleep to the sound of her voice.

Freya couldn’t chance going out there and running into Evander again. It was safer to just remain in the nursery, left alone with all the thoughts that were threatening to undo her.

32

The ring was still in his fist when the singing started.

Evander hadn’t moved since the door closed after her. He stood in the middle of the chamber with the fire gone to embers, and the gold bit into his palm hard enough that he’d find the wolf’s head printed there come morning. He didn’t loosen his grip. He wasn’t certain he could.

Then, her voice drifted through the wall. It took him off guard, making him stop in his tracks.

How could that familiar voice still shake him to the core?

It was thin at first. It wobbled on the first verse and caught on the second, and he heard her stop, heard the small, ragged breath she took before she went on.

It was the same song about the girl and the boat and the lad who came home from the sea. He’d heard her sing it earlier through the nursery door while the pipes played below, and he’d stood on the stairs with a cup in his hand and forgotten to drink.

She sang it differently now, as though every word cost her something. She sounded sad. As if her heart had been broken.

It had been broken by him.

Freya was the one who had said she would call it off in three weeks. Things had changed with the arrival of the children, but it had never changed Evander’s thoughts on love. He couldn’t—and wouldn’t—give himself to another soul. It would bring nothing but misery. His father was proof of that.

He sat down hard on the edge of the bed. The coverlet still held the shape of her, where she’d waited for him in her blue gown with her hands knotted in her lap.

He’d walked in smiling. God help him, he’d walked in smiling like a lad, with some foolish tale about Callum and the cook ready on his tongue, and she’d looked up at him with those wild eyes gone flat and asked him whether it was true.

And eventually he’d told her that it was.

The hurt had flashed across her face in waves, tears pooling in her eyes. In the short time he had known her, she’d not been prone to tears easily. But things were different now, and it was his fault.