Page 108 of The Speed of Lightning
Then yesterday, something shifted. He had returned from the north with the day’s kill and gone straight to the chieftain’s smokehouse. As he hefted the stag onto the salter’s beam, unease slid over him, a cool shiver of awareness.
Bog crouched low at the same instant, hackles raised, stalking toward the door. Hand to his dagger, Calum slipped outside, rounded the squat log building—and saw them. Ragnall and Rory, standing under the meetinghouse porch, watching. Rain curtained his vision as he met their eyes. Ragnall lifted a hand in greeting.
Beside him, Bog let out a volley of barks. Always alert to knocks or sounds at the door, this reaction was different—urgent, tense.
More unsettling was the calm on their faces: Ragnall’s neutrality, Rory’s curt nod. Had they jeered, he could have dismissed it. But the courtesy beat like a war drum.
He gave them a short nod, walked over the hillcrest, then broke into a sprint.
Wary they suspected something, he bolted the three miles back to Lealt. Breath ragged, he found only silence. Freya had not yet returned from Fraser’s. The emptiness unsettled him, though he couldn’t say why.
He thought of the night before. She had been unusually quiet, like in the early days of their marriage when she would sometimes slip into long bouts of reflection, sitting in front of the fire with her embroidery in hand, needle still and unmoving. At last, with gentle coaxing, she had whispered that her mind was troubled.
I wish I could make everything disappear.
Still shaken from training, his heart heavy with unrest, all he could cling to was her presence. Looking into the harmony of her blue-green eyes, he realized how much he needed her, to ground him, to steady the chaos inside. And perhaps, she needed him in the same way. His world had reduced to her face nestled within his hand, to the press of her mouth against his.
At the first touch of her lips, the anger that had been swelling for days dissolved. Peace washed through him, slow and steady,carried by the movement of their lips. The kiss unfurled, rich and consuming. She was the only one who truly saw him; she always had been. And how he loved her in return—his Freya. He burned for her, needing to believe they would be bound forever.
He broke away, voice ragged, and asked the question he had longed to since their wedding day.
She burst into tears.
Her shock seared him with shame. Words tumbled out—apologies, excuses—foolish and desperate. What had he been thinking? The lass was already carrying too much, and instead of keeping vigil with her sorrow, he had pressed his own longing on her. Selfish. Blind as a daft cuddy.
And that was why he could hardly look at her as they followed the team toward John Mór’s solar in the windswept halls of Rathlin House. When he had helped her from the cog, she’d met his gaze only to turn away. The rebuff struck him, hot and merciless. How could he have been so blind? So consumed by his own longing that he trampled the fragile affection she had begun to show? His vow to protect and honor her had been smothered beneath desire, and now the weight of it crushed him.
Through the stately corridors of the manor, he searched for words, anything that would soften her silence, but each thought withered on his tongue, sounding emptier and more foolish than the last.
Somehow, he would make it right. Gift her something that spoke to her heart, like her bead had for him.A ballad. Yes—a ballad.It was perfect. Something that would speak to her about his feelings, so that she would know he saw her as more than just a bed companion.
They climbed the long stone steps, passing stained-glass windows that glowed with the nativity. In the third panel, a single star blazed in the corner, its beams spilling over the grazing sheep, the shepherds below lifting their faces in wonder.
Mo rionnag. It was how he thought of her—from the starburst stitched upon her cloak to the way she illuminated his heart. He could write a love ballad about…stars. No, one star. Maybe with…beams of light. Or wandering—something about wandering, looking for guidance? He frowned. That didn’t seem right. He could do this… stars… skies… stardust… darkness… lightness. He frowned again. Waslightnesseven a word in that sense? Suddenly it seemed wrong. Lighting? Lightning? Or was it lightening? Light rays? Blast it all, how did she do this—how did she pour out her heart on the page and make it look easy?Oh saints. What if he was too dim for this? He’d never been studious.
Birdy tugged on his sleeve and he cast a look over his shoulder.
Why are you scowling?
He turned slightly, signing back.I’m trying to think of how to write something for Freya, something meaningful. Is it L-I-G-H-T-N-I-N-G or is it L-I-G-H-T-E-N-I-N-G?
Birdy made the sign for his sobriquet.Lightning is the weather. L-I-G-H-T-E-N means to make something lighter or brighter. How do you mean it?
His lips twisted in a crooked line.Not the weather. Although I’m not sure I mean L-I-G-H-T— He paused, impatient. What’s the sign?
She brought both hands up, palms turned to the sky, fingers extended with middle fingers curled up.Lighten.
He mimicked her.Lighten?
She shook her head.No, that looks vulgar. Lighten.
He tried again.Lighten?
She shook her head.Still wrong.She made the sign again, sweeping her middle fingers up.Lighten.
They turned down a long corridor, and he walked backwards so he could see her. He repeated the sign again, straining to get it.
No Lightning, LIGHTEN.She caught his hands, reformed his fingers correctly, and drew them up slowly.Liiiiighhhhten.
