Page 116 of The Speed of Lightning
“Mine did. I prayed I would see you wherever I went. And when I did I’d break out in a furious sweat. My kyrtill would be soaked through at the armpits. Why do you think I spent so much time bare chested?”
Freya’s cheeks flamed scarlet, and she fumbled with his hand but he twined their fingers, holding her fast. “I thought it was probably the training. Or maybe to impress Astrid or the other lasses. Nothing to do with me, surely.”
“It was everything to do with you. Your eyes. Your mouth. The perfect arch of your eyebrow. The shorn hair that everyone hated, but I thought made you look a mischievous heatherpixie.?2 I savored the angle of your jaw, the curve of your cheek, the sparkle in your eyes, the nape of your neck that begged to be kissed.” He lingered, close enough that she could feel his warmth. “Do you feel how I’ve held all this in for you?—Why do you keep pulling away?”
Her fingers trembled. “Calum… please… stop… it isn’t true.”
Snowflakes quickened, falling in a swirling blur as she scanned the ground, the sky, the darkened mountains, the loch.
He slanted a sideways look at her. “You’re distressed.”
A sheen of tears glimmered in her eyes. “I dinnae like thinkin’ of those days… a spotted, big-eyed, wide-mouthed toad in love with the laird’s son… never havin’ a chance of ever?—”
With an abrupt curb, he crushed her into the wall of his chest, unable to believe what she was confessing. “You loved me?”
She could not bring herself to look at him. “Every time I saw you, I longed for even a second of that afternoon beneath our tree, the one that changed everything between us. I watched you from afar, followed your steps, tried to understand you without being seen. And then… that day… I saw you strapped to that table and knew how much you wanted to run. I knew it was I alone who could feel what you felt—the pain in your heart. When you fled, I had to follow, to save you as you had saved me. I wanted to tell you how much I loved you… but I couldnae speak the words that burned in my chest. I didn’t understand them myself, much less know how to explain them to you. I only wanted you to notice me, to…” Her voice broke, and he gently brushed an errant flake from the loveliness of her lips. “To remember me. Even now I know that you loved on Mull, that there was some lass who held your heart, who shared your bed… that you loved someone then. And I… I am the one you are bound to now, the one my father’s cruelty forced upon you.”
He froze, utterly bewildered. “What are you saying, Freya? I’ve never shared a bed with anyone.”
Her gaze dropped, doubt threading through her voice. “But…you told me. On our wedding night—you said there was only one lass on Mull who held your heart.”
The memory of that night hit him sharply, and he suddenly understood how she had misinterpreted his words.
“Freya…look at me.”
A tear escaped down her cheek, and he brushed its hot path away. A smile of awe and gratitude spread across his face—he could hardly believe this blessing. She had always loved him, and he had always loved her. His hands began to roam his beautiful wife, tracing her cheeks, the softness of her skin, the curve of her waist.
His heart raced, as if all the years of chasing her had caught up with him in a single moment. In the misty cloud of his breath, he swept his mouth over hers, sharing its warmth. He paused, drawing her face into his palms.
“You arethe lass who held my heart. I have lovedyouever since you cried in my arms as a child. Since the moment you made the leap in the sword dance and won. I have searched foryousince you hid at the edge of the practice yard. It wasyouI longed to dance with at the ceilidhs, watching you spy from the rafters. It wasyouI dreamed of bringing to the marshes, of stealing kisses from those beautiful lips—by the saints, lass, these lips.”
He pressed a deep kiss to them, needing her to believe how long he had desired her, and when she gasped, he gave her three more. He rested his hands on her neck, looking into her eyes. “I wanted your heart, your spirit, the bonnie starbursts in your eyes. I have wanted you as my wife since you gave everything to save me, since I felt your heartbeat against mine in that skiff. Losing you that day killed me—I lived in agony for ten longyears, needing you. You were my reason for striving, so that one day I might return and claim the woman,my woman, who accepted me on that skiff. I had no paramour on Mull. I was waiting for you then, and I am waiting for you now. You have held my allegiance since the moment you curled into the crook of my arm under the rowan tree. You have forever been mine, Freya MacLean. I love you—and have always loved you—with all of my heart.”
Her hands fisted in his tunic, and she looked up at him, eyes wide with desperation. “Calum—I?—”
He panted, pushed to the edge, needing her, wanting her, knowing she was about to be his in every way that mattered. “Yes?”
Her nose brushed his. “I love you. From the first moment you held me in the wood, I have loved you. I love you.” She lifted a trembling hand to his cheek, holding his eyes with her own. “I love you.”
The force of his kiss took them both by surprise. Her arms shot out in a reflex of shock, and then clung to him as he hauled her into his arms, every restraint he had held for years bursting free like a tempest.
He bent her into the curve of his body, encircling her, every sinew flaring as he held her to him. His knuckles brushed her jaw, then threaded into her hair as he cradled her, trailing kisses along the flicker of heartbeat in her throat.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him nearer. He sheltered her against him, eyes flicking to the stone cottage ahead. With a surge of strength and care, he lifted her higher into his arms and began sprinting as she kissed his cheek, his jaw, his neck.
They crashed into the cottage, his heart leaping as he fumbled through the rooms, searching frantically for their chamber. He thanked the blessed saints that no one else fromthe team had arrived—then cursed softly as he stumbled over furniture, gripping her tight, sweeping his mouth over hers. Her kisses grew more insistent, urgent, leaving no room for doubt, and he tore down the corridors like a man possessed, wishing for the tiny bothy.
At last he found the way, and they collided with the door of their bedchamber. He pinned her beneath him, unwilling to part from her, pressing her gently but firmly against the door. Love for her was barreling through him, overwhelming every thought, a fierce and glorious delirium.
Her hands moved of their own accord, clutching the bands of his arms, the muscles of his shoulders, the curve of his chest. They slipped beneath his tunic, feeling the warmth of his skin, and settled over his hammering heart—the heart that beat only for her.
He stilled, breathless, covering her hand with his.
Slowly, she took his hand in hers, guiding it beneath the fastening of her cloak. Her skin was flushed against his cold hand, reddened from the scratch of his beard. She rested his palm over her own beating heart. They stood, suspended in the rhythm of each other’s racing pulse.
She looked up at him, eyes shining with love. “It belongs to you.”
He leaned closer, letting his hand spread over her heart. “Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.”
