Page 14 of The Speed of Lightning
He shook his head hard, fighting to dam the flood of irrational thoughts. They had been children. It was more than ten years past. Of course she would not have waited for the failed tànaiste of Jura.
From his right, Birdy’s sharp eyes caught him. Her hands moved swiftly.Are you all right, Lightning?You’re pale.
He gave a sharp shake of his head then collapsed back into his chair, hand scrubbing the back of his neck as if he could rub away the weight pressing down on him.
Freya MacSorley lived. And she was to wed Rory. After enduring her father’s oppressive house for twenty-six years, this hardly seemed a reward for her courage or her generosity. The prayers Calum had whispered day after day—for her protection, for God’s mercy over Jura—now thudded through his mind like hammer blows. He needed to go home. He needed to be sure.
The king pushed himself higher, his face ashen. “I’ve met Ragnall. Difficult man. I thought Rory the best choice ofemissary to help me…” A violent cough overtook him, his eyes watering as he fought for breath.
Queen Marjorie leaned in, steadying a cup at his lips as his face darkened toward purple. “You’re vexed. Sip slowly.”
Léo rose to his feet. “Perhaps we should go and let him rest.”
The queen nodded, her voice taut. “Yes. This has been most upsetting for him?—”
The king flung out an arm, sloshing water across the eiderdown. “No. I am hale—please, let us continue.”
Marjorie withdrew, sinking into her seat beside Mhairi, her eyes hot as flaming arrows cast between Rory and Calum.
Heat climbed Calum’s neck, shame prickling that once again he’d let his temper betray him, making him look every bit the savage every person in this room thought he was. He bowed his head. “I apologize, my Queen.”
Rory settled smugly into his chair. “Yes, I apologize as well.”
Calum drew a silent breath, shaping a plea to God for guidance. Then he lifted his eyes. “If it pleases you, Your Highness, I humbly request that you send me to Jura on your behalf. This estrangement with my father has gone on long enough.”
King John eased back against his pillows, eyes fluttering shut. His voice came thin but steady. “If Hector can spare you, Calum, I would have you go to Jura and see to its defense. And more than that—I would have you find this Storyteller. If indeed such a bard lives among your clan, bring him to me at once, that he may stand trial for the theft of private reports. That his tales have stirred support in the Highlands may be fortuitous, but such recklessness cannot be allowed again.”
Rory’s face darkened, his voice edged with fury. “But Your Grace, I assure you none is better suited than I. I remind you of my relationship with Thane Ragnall.”
The king did not open his eyes, his chest rising with the effort of each breath. “I am well aware. Yet as you and Dómhnall have reminded me, Calum is the tànaiste of Jura. He shares a past with the lass, Freya—and with her father—for which he may also have amends to make. I trust him to see Jura’s defense set in order…and the matter with the lass mended. I need you here, Commander MacDonald, until…” His breath hitched, his voice trailing to a whisper. “…until the end comes.”
Hector nodded. “I will send him at once.”
Calum sank back into his chair, scarcely able to breathe. Freya MacSorley lived. And he was going home to Jura—not only to her, but to the reckoning that had waited ten years to claim him.
Chapter 3
INVERLUSSA, JURA - OCTOBER 3, 1386
Papa arrived home earlier than usual. Friday evenings had grown increasingly significant in recent months, but today—today carried a weight all its own. Freya had expected his mood to be lighter, and as the door squeaked open, his familiar looming figure entered softened at the edges. Under his arm he carried a cloth-covered parcel. She eyed it warily as she slipped his plaid from his shoulders and hung it beside his bonnet.
Smiling—an expression that never failed to make her uneasy—he pinched her cheek and set the heavy bundle into her arms. “Heill og sæl.”
The parcel weighed down her hands, ponderous and awkward, and she held it stiffly, uncertain whether it was meant as gift or trap. “Heill og sæl. What is this?”
At the looking glass, he tugged a comb through his wiry black beard, his reflection glowering back. “A gift.”
Freya stared, suspicion catching in her throat. “For me?”
“Aye, for you.” His brow furrowed at his own image. “Who else would it be for?” Shuffling toward the table, she bit back her words. In all her twenty-six years, her father had neveronce given her a gift. From the quilt on her bed to the woolen stockings on her legs, nearly everything she owned had once belonged to someone else in the clan.
Not daring to appear ungrateful, she pulled at the string and unwrapped the parcel. Rich damask tumbled into her hands, gleaming in the firelight. A gown, deep in color, heavy with importance. Dozens of buttons trailed from the open neck to the hem, more still from wrist to elbow. It must have cost him a small fortune.
“Papa, it’s?—”
Her hesitant tone caught his ear. He met her gaze through the looking glass, his smile hardening into the old, familiar hostility. “Fit for a future lady of the clan.”
The words ended the matter.
