Her finger stilled upon the metal clasp. She recognized that tent, that man.

Sam Oakham.

It was said that Sam could shoot the wing from a fly at a hundred paces and split a strand of hair from twice that distance. But it was his fists that earned him his bread and butter as he traveled from town to town offering to bare-knuckle fight any comers. For two long years after Mother’s death, Branston and she had made their lives among the itinerant players and fairfolk. Then Sam had asked for her hand in marriage following her seventeenth birthday. Her brother had refused the proposal, and soon after, they had left the road for lodgings in Bath. She’d not seen the fighter since.

A face appeared in her window, nearly stopping her heart in a wild moment of panic.

Dirt-smudged and rumpled, David leaned down in the saddle. “Miss me?” He grinned, though Callista noted that the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, which remained troubled.

“Where did you go? I was worried sick.”

He shrugged. “When the need arises . . .”

But Callista had seen the knife, caught the intent in David’s eyes. Something more than the call of nature had lured him into those woods.

He motioned toward the empty meadow. “Looks as though we missed all the fun. Fair’s over and packed up.”

She turned to fling one last sidelong glance out at the pavilion and the wagons and the man in his shirtsleeves bellowing orders. “I’ve not missed it at all,” she murmured.

* * *

“More wine?” David held the bottle over Callista’s glass.

She looked up from her dinner of stringy beef and burnt potatoes. They had decided to stay at this shabby down-at-heels tavern on the edge of town rather than the more comfortable posting inn near the market cross. Less traffic to notice them. Easier to escape should difficulties arise. Even so, the taproom was full, and David had offered the barman extra coins for a private room and his silence.

“It’s no Clos de Vougeot, but it’s better than the beer—barely,” he said.

She placed her hand over the rim of her glass. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to intoxicate me.”

“With this? Doubtful.” He leaned back in his chair. Poured another glass for himself. That had to be the fourth or fifth. He didn’t seem any the worse for wear, and after years spent living with Branston, she definitely knew the signs. Still . . .

“Should you be drinking so much?” she asked.

His eyes locked on hers, and she cringed. Haunted didn’t begin to describe the shadows filling his storm-gray stare—an expression replaced so quickly with his usual scoundrel’s twinkle, she couldn’t decide if she’d seen it at all. “I’m in a ramshackle tavern on the edge of some godforsaken town, being hunted by Ossine enforcers and dangerous Fey-bloods.” He lifted his wine to his lips as if he meant to toss it down in one gulp, then slowly placed it back on the table. “Probably not.”

“This isn’t a lovely spring fete for me, either,” she replied. “I’m just as uncomfortable and just as hunted. At least, if they catch us, you’ll only be killed. I’ll have to marry Victor Corey.”

For a moment he stared at her as if unsure how to respond. Callista’s nerves jumped and she dug her fingers into her skirt, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut. It wasn’t like her to talk back. She’d learned long ago to keep her own counsel and let none see what she truly felt. It must be fatigue and the awful weight of her fear making her waspish and presumptuous.

He continued to eye her, but she sensed no anger in his expression. If anything, it was amusement. Laughter lurked in his gaze and his mouth twitched. “Point well-taken, Miss Hawthorne.” He reached once more for his wineglass, but at a stern look from her subsided. “You win. No more wine.”

Instead, he pulled a chunk of wood from his coat pocket, a knife from a sheath at his waist. Slowly, he drew the blade across the wood. A long, thin shaving fell away. Then another. And another, the delicate curls falling on his lap and at his feet.

“What are you doing?” she asked, pushing her plate aside to lean her elbows on the table.

He looked up, a corkscrew curling up over his palm, knife stilled in his hand. “Not drinking.”

“I mean with the wood. Are you . . . whittling?”

He lifted his brows and a smile crooked a corner of his mouth. “Can’t pull the wool over your eyes, can I?”

He continued to shave at the wood, a little thinner at one end, rounder at the other.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“The army,” he answered without looking up. “Moments of sheer terror. Months of complete boredom. My friend Adam kept a journal to pass the time. I’m not nearly that scholastic.”

She leaned forward, amazed at his deft skill. For some reason, it was hard to equate this artistic aptitude with his muscular warrior’s build and predator’s stare. “You’re quite good.”

His lip quirked in a smile. “I spent a very long time in the army.”

Callista watched as he shaped and honed, pausing now and then to study the piece before he laid knife to wood once more. He’d shed his jacket early on during the meal. Now he sat with his shirtsleeves rolled back, his cravat wrinkled and barely knotted. Most men would have appeared disheveled and scruffy. David looked mouthwateringly stylish. Blond hair fell across his forehead as he bent over his work. He shoved it off his face with a quick scoop of his fingers. His eyes flickered up to hers, then dropped once more to the carving.

“Tell me about this aunt of yours,” he said.

She’d been so absorbed in the quiet intensity of the knife’s flicking in and out and the way his large, blunt-fingered hand cradled the wood in his open palm that she jumped at the sound of his voice, her cheeks burning as if she’d been caught at something wicked. She smoothed her hands down over her skirts and shifted in her seat. “What do you want to know about her?”

“Her name for starters. And where she lives. Scotland covers a lot of ground.”

“Her name is Deirdre Armstrong,” Callista said slowly, gauging his reaction as she spoke. “She lives on . . . Skye.”

“Mother of All!” He nicked his thumb. Sucked at the bloody gash, his eyes wide and accusing as they flashed to meet hers. “The Isle of Skye? She’s a damned Amhas-draoi, isn’t she?”

“Aunt Deirdre lives at the convent there,” she fought to explain. “She’s a priestess of High Danu.”

“Witch or warrior—does it make a difference?” he argued. “Either one would mount my head on the wall without blinking an eyelash.”

“Aunt Deirdre wouldn’t do that. Not if I tell her what you’ve done for me. How you’ve helped me.”

“Right. That should do it. A thousand years of hatred wiped out in five minutes of hurried explanation.”

“You promised to escort me to my aunt. You can’t go back on your word now.”

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“A lie of omission . . . my dear.”

He had a point, which only made her feel worse and thus angrier. “I knew you wouldn’t agree if I’d told you the truth, and I was desperate. You said yourself Victor Corey is a dangerous man.”

“Right, while the brotherhood of Amhas-draoi are a cozy basket of kittens.”

She forced herself to remain calm despite an overwhelming urge to weep or shout or both. This wasn’t how and when she’d meant to tell him. She’d wanted to be closer to the border. Farther from London. “And if I’d told you? If I’d explained the whole situation and relied on your sense of honor to convince you? Are you telling me we’d be sitting here having this conversation? I don’t think so. I think you’d be floating in the Thames and I’d be . . .” She couldn’t finish.

He snorted, his expression still thunderous, but he took up his knife again and began to whittle, the long spirals falling faster, his mouth pressed into an angry line, his jaw tight. “Is your aunt a necromancer as well?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” she answered, tensing for another explosion. She wasn’t disappointed.

“What do you mean you don’t—” His face was a mask of shocked disbelief. “You’ve never met the woman, have you?”

She looked down at the table, suddenly very interested in her empty plate, refolding her napkin. “It doesn’t matter. She’s—”

“A complete stranger and a witch.” She could almost hear his teeth grinding as he fought to keep his temper. “Does she know you’re coming?”

Callista’s face must have belied her attempts to remain composed. David gave a hard brittle laugh, tossing the knife and the carving on the table with a clatter. “Hell and damnation! You’ve never met the woman and she has no idea you’re headed her direction with a villainous mob hot on your tail. You don’t even know if she’ll take you in. It’s just as likely she’ll hand you back to your betrothed with a wink and a smile.”

Anger and embarrassment crawled hot over her skin. “Aunt Deirdre is the only family I have left. She won’t turn me away. Not when I tell her I want to join the sisterhood.”

That seemed to startle him. “You, a bandraoi priestess?”

“I’ll be safe at Dunsgathaic.”

“Locked away in a fortress on Skye forever? That’s your idea of freedom? To trade one prison for another?”

“What would you know of prisons and free will? You’re wealthy. You’re a man. For heaven’s sake, you’re a shapechanger who can turn into a wolf at will. You’ve never known anything but freedom and choices. You’ve never suffered or been trapped with no way out.”

He lurched to his feet, eyes blazing in his face. “Is that what you think? Truly? You have no bloody idea, Callista. None at all.”

With another muttered oath, he grabbed up the wine bottle, swung on his heel.

“Where are you going?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

His smile was cold, but his eyes held heartbreaking sorrow. “To get pickled drunk.”

Rather than storming out in a temper as Branston would have done, David offered her an oh-so-formal courtier’s bow and departed in ominous silence.

Should she chase after him or give him space to work off his temper? Would he return or did his rigid back and clenched fists signal the end of their tenuous alliance? She rose from her chair, grabbing her shawl from a hook by the door. Got as far as laying a hand upon the latch before she changed her mind. David would stay or he would go. It would hardly be the first time she’d placed her trust in someone and been disappointed. If she woke to find herself on her own, she would manage. Freedom was what she’d wanted. She’d not shrink from it now that it stared her in the face.

Despite David’s accusations, she knew without a doubt that her deception had been necessary. If what he’d told her about the violent animosity between Other and Imnada was true, there was no way he would have agreed to her proposal if he knew what he was agreeing to exactly. And as for writing to Aunt Deirdre, well . . . she had begun half a dozen letters, all of them ending in the fire. It seemed so much easier to show up unannounced, leaving her aunt no opportunity to come up with excuses to turn her away. Once on her doorstep, Callista could plead her case in person. Her aunt would have to acknowledge her. She would have to let her stay.

Callista rubbed at her temples, which had started to throb. Her eyes were tired and achy, her body sore from the days cramped in the coach. She rose from the table, catching back a gasp when her gaze fell on the half-whittled piece of wood David had abandoned. Even rendered in the quick sharp strokes of a blade, the similarities were uncanny. The high bones of her cheeks. The deep-set eyes.

It was her face David had carved.

A frisson of delicious excitement shivered up her spine.

Perhaps she hadn’t completely ruined everything. Perhaps there was still hope—but for what?

* * *

David lingered in the stable’s doorway, the untouched wine bottle resting at his feet. He didn’t have the stomach for even a sip. No light shone from the tavern’s windows, and even the most thorough of drunkards had already stumbled to bed. A far-off clock tower struck the half hour. He was alone with nothing but his thoughts and a bony cat for company.

He’d half expected Callista to come running after him with apologies spilling from those completely kissable lips, that wild riot of dark hair tumbling loose from its pins to cascade over her shoulders like a cloud.

He shook his head in hopes of dislodging that uncomfortable image. Callista’s hair, lips and every other luscious part of her were no concern of his. Once they reached Gray at Addershiels and David handed over this blasted book, he’d pack her onto a convenient mail coach and send her on her merry way north. Bargain or no bargain, he wasn’t about to traipse into the heart of Fey-blood power to have his head whacked off by an overzealous Amhas-draoi.