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Chapter One
Callum
“You can’t just steal a bride, Callum.”
“Who says?”
Freya places a hand on her hip, pinning the material of her black dress against her slim waist, and studies my face. “Practically every young girl on the island was falling over themselves for you. Could you not choose one of them to marry? You’d think you’d be able to do one normal thing in your life?—”
I interrupt. “All but one.”
“All but one normal thing?” Her eyes twinkle at me. “When have you ever done anything normal, Cal?”
I shake my head, correcting her. “No. Not that.”
We stand side by side in the doorway of this magnificent Great Hall, which we’ve renovated, its floors and ceilings refurbished.
“What do you mean?” She eyes me. “All but one—what?”
“All but one girl,” I say, repeating her earlier words. “Were falling over themselves for me.”
“And that’s the girl you have to have,” she says.
I nod. “Aye.”
She has green eyes like mine, which now shine back at me with frustration. She flips her waist-length white-blonde hair over her right shoulder. “Of course.”
“Of course,” I parrot her words.
“And, of course,” Freya sighs, “you’d stop at nothing till ye have her.”
I nod. “Aye.”
“So you. So abnormal. So Callum Burnes.” Holding in an eye roll so hard her face almost pinches in pain, she gives me one last look of hers.
“Not so normal yourself,” I sniff. “You’re one of only three women who’ve left our island for a career in the city in the past five years. You should be barefoot and pregnant, chasing your bairns on the sandy shores and frying haddock for yer husband.”
“I shudder at the thought.”
I laugh as she gives a dramatic shake of her shoulders.
“Anything I can do to change your mind?” She brushes past me, entering the room that is our collective pride and joy. Trying to hide a smile, she teases, “Take you out to O’Malley’s Tuesday night for their speed dating event?”
I grunt. “No self-respecting man would be caught dead at O’Malley’s. They water down their whisky.”
In the center of a red-and-blue Persian carpet stands a massive oak trestle table held together by sturdy drawbore joints. She spent weeks hunting down the perfect one, finally finding this one in an antique store in a small Swedish village. The shop was called Farmors Vind—grandma’s attic in Swedish—where Freya also splurged on her collection of wee stone busts of Viking soldiers wearing helmets. She’s scattered the rock creatures through our front gardens.
The gleaming tabletop is covered with thick books filled with wallpaper and fabric samples, ready for Freya to make her final choices for wall coverings, curtains, and upholstery.
Freya's high heels echo through our stone-floored and -walled hall as she moves toward the sample books, the sound grating on my nerves. Her uniform as a solicitor is couture and stilettos. I can't understand why she insists on wearing those torture devices when she's already tall enough without them.
But she’s brilliant at design, so I keep me mouth shut right now, gritting my teeth at the sound.
My gaze rises to the magnificent ceilings of our Great Hall. Installed months ago, I’m still in awe of the intricate wooden beams carefully crafted and imported from Norway. I stood in this very room, watching as the barge delivered each beam to the docks by the shore.
My attention shifts to the iron sconces lining the walls. Their torches are ready to be lit with the push of a button, a clever invention Freya insisted upon installing for our annual All Hallows’ Eve party. When ignited, they cast a warm glow of reds and oranges against the clean, white plaster walls.
Still, she should have gone without heels today; she knows I have big things on my mind.
