Page 107 of The Speed of Lightning
The cool gray of his eyes misted over her, and he lingered. “Perhaps I should stay home today.”
Her chest ached at the thought. A whole day with him—his presence, his protection—was what she craved, instinctively, elementally, like air or water. Every fiber of her longed to melt into him, to be soothed and safe.
But was she clinging to him only to quiet the truth of what she feared she was—a curse? When he learned about Rory and Papa, what would he do?
She shook her head, forcing herself back to reason. He should go about his day. There was nothing either of them could do about Papa or Rory. “No…though perhaps you could walk me to Gavina’s this morning? I’m sure she wouldnae mind keeping me company. I’ll bring my embroidery.”
She spent the day at Fraser and Gavina’s, and Calum came for her in the evening. Surprise flickered in his eyes to find her still there.
“I simply felt like company today. I’m sorry I havenae gotten your supper.”
Suspicion stirred in his gaze, but he said nothing. She followed him home, set about preparing a simple supper, and then returned to her embroidery. When he asked for a tale, she shook her head. “I’m tired,” she murmured, unable to face telling any more stories—even for him.
When they dressed for bed and lit the night-watch candle, she slipped under the blankets beside him. This time, he would not let her retreat. Gently, he turned her face to his, tracing each feature with tender fingers.
“What is it,mo rionnag?1?”
“I suppose the past few months are weighing heavy on my mind.”
Understanding softened his expression, and her love for him deepened. He said nothing, offered no empty reassurances. Instead, he gathered her close, holding her tight. Her defenses crumbled, and she clung to him, squeezing her eyes shut. “I wish I could make everything disappear.”
When he released her, the air grew charged, alive with a pull she could neither name nor resist. She could read his thoughts as if they were her own, just as he could read hers. One thing layunfinished between them—one thing that would, for this night at least, make everything else disappear.
With one long look, he’d touched her cheek, her ear, her neck. Absently, her fingers slid over the ridge of his shoulder. He kissed her slowly, dragging his lips over hers in a tender caress. For a few moments all she could recognize was how right it felt. The scratch of his beard against her chin. The weight and warmth of his hand traveling to her waist. The arm that cradled her close. The way his kiss began to build.
She wanted to belong to him with all of her heart. But it wasn’t right. It had never been right. Memories haunted her like tormenting spirits. The skiff. The stories. The pledge of fealty. Their dance. The night he’d saved her. Their wedding. The attack. The sacrifice of his clan. It should never have happened.
He threaded his fingers through her hair, pulling her closer, his forehead pressing against hers. His lips brushed hers, just barely, as if testing the line between restraint and abandon. His voice broke on a whisper. “Please… lass… will you… have me?”
It was the question she had longed to hear since the night he’d surrendered his chieftainship. And yet… she couldn’t say yes. She couldn’t take from him the only chance he had to undo what she had done—the one path that might free him from this marriage, bound to a curse he had never asked for.
Tears spilled, hot and unbidden.
He froze, braced above her, confusion and apologies tumbling from his lips before she could form a single excuse.
“I’m sorry. Och, lass—you’re not ready. Forgive me. I’m a numpty—please dinnae cry. I feel dreadful.”
His swift contrition, tender and unguarded, only made things worse. Soon she was shuddering with sobs, clutched against the steady wall of his chest while he stroked her hair, letting her weep it all out.
“I’m sorry, Calum—I wish I could explain?—”
He gathered her close, attempting a soft laugh as he brushed the wetness from her cheeks. “Hush now. You owe no one an explanation. This is yours to give, not mine to take.”
Feeling as though she were already letting him go, she curled into his chest, silent tears slipping down her cheek long after he had fallen asleep. Her heart ached.
He was the rarest kind of warrior—not one who sought to conquer her, but to set her free. He had given her space for her imagination, her words, her voice—allowed her to be wholly herself. And now she must free him in return.
Somehow she had to cling to that final boundary, the fragile line that kept her from claiming him fully. When he was restored as chieftain, she would go to Iona and take the veil. For his sake, for his mission, she must let him go.
Chapter 30
RATHLIN, IRELAND - FEBRUARY 24, 1387
Calum was accustomed to the shift from battle tension to the long, dull waiting of a guardsman. Yet the expectancy that followed Freya’s performance at Findlugan filled him with an unfamiliar apprehension. It prickled at his senses, a telltale warning that trouble lurked just out of sight, ready to strike.
At first, he had welcomed the mission. After months of idleness, action had felt like a release. But as the days dragged on and his contact with the others was limited to training nights, that relief soured.
The evidence suggested otherwise. Freya’s first mission had been a rousing success, Hector reported, with Bonnie Morven already reaching the Isles and Highlands, stirring the same outrage as at Findlugan. The assembly of the Juran horde, the next piece of his plan, had come together easily.
