Page 15 of The Speed of Lightning
So she crossed to him, kissed his cheek, and dropped a curtsey, quick as a hare. Her mind scrambled for honest praise that masked her revulsion at the plot taking shape in his mind. “Thank you. It’s the loveliest present I’ve ever received.”
The creases in his brow smoothed. “No expense could be spared.”
Relief eased her taut nerves. For now, at least, she had dodged his temper. Gathering the expensive gown into her arms, she studied it in silence—crimson. A sumptuary shade worn only by the Lady of Jura. If she wore it before Lady Mariota it would be no mere display but an open challenge. A brazen declaration that the MacSorleys no longer hinted at their claim to the chieftainship—they proclaimed it.
Scowling, she turned toward her trunk, the gown weighing on her like a chain. How could she possibly?—
“What are you doing?”
Papa’s voice cracked across the longhouse like a whip, slicing through her thoughts. She froze, straight-backed, her skin prickling, not daring to turn.
Licking her lips, she forced her eyes closed against the fear clawing at her ribs. When she spoke, her voice was light, careful, meant to soothe. “Storing it for the wedding, Papa. I dinnae wish to soil it.”
The thunder of his boots shook the floor behind her. She whirled, arms raised in defense, but his hands were already on her, seizing and shaking her until her bones jarred. “Do you take me for a fool?”
Her head snapped back, teeth rattling. She shook her head fast, words tumbling out. “Of course not! No—no, I’m sorry, Papa, I’m sorry?—”
“First your open rejection of Rory MacDonald, and now this?” His grip tightened, fury spitting from every syllable. “You know the role you must play.” He shook her again, hard enough that her vision blurred. “You’ll wear it tonight. I’ve bargained for this betrothal for months. Trained you for it for months. Readied you for bride-price for years. Have you forgotten?”
Feeling like a prized mare, her gaze flicked to the green stocking tucked high on the shelf, her silent plea for rescue. She drew a shaky breath through her nose, summoning the Storyteller inside her heart—the voice that always held her firm. Scribbling words across her soul, it whispered calm into her lips.
“How could I forget? It’s far too important. I only wanted?—”
Her protest was cut short as his hand clamped her chin, jerking her face up until she met the hard burn of his hazel eyes. “Aye, it’s important. The only time you’ve been worth aught to me.” His grip bruised her jaw. “You’ll wear the dress tonight. Do you understand? Rory arrives from Ardtornish before the meeting. We announce your betrothal this eve.”
The name struck her like a stone.Rory.The thought of him hurled her back to the surf, to Calum’s boat and the wild chance that almost carried her away. She had been so close—so close to leaving her father, close to escape, close to freedom.
“I understand,” she said at last. Forcing her voice into something soft and obedient, she laid the gown across her bed, then gently folded her hands over his. “Do you remember the sword dance?”
He blinked, a bushy eyebrow lifting before he let out a sigh. “Aye.”
Clinging to the single warm memory they shared, she coaxed it out for his aging mind. “I was eight years old, and you wanted me to beat…” She hesitated, licking her lips, careful to omit the name that would ignite his fury. “Wanted me to beat the MacLeans. All I could think of was pleasing you, Papa. I practiced for weeks and weeks. You taught me every step. And what happened?”
“You won the dance and sent the MacLeans to Hel.”?1
She took a chance, stepping forward and resting her head against his chest, letting her honesty slip past the mask of her obedience. “All I’ve ever wanted, my whole life, is to make you proud. I did that day. And I promise you, I will wear the gown tonight.” She’d stopped short of giving full endorsement to Papa’s scheme of wresting the chieftainship from the MacLeans, but for now he was soothed.
“That’s my lass.” His meaty hand brushed her injured cheek—the bruise nearly gone, though the shame of it was still raw. “I’m sorry it came to that.”
After twenty-six years of disappointment, his half-hearted apology barely touched her. That he had let Rory treat her so did not sting as it once might have; she had learned the futility of expecting more. Calum, her one-time protector, was gone, and by the looks of it, would not return. Better to accept her lot than to linger on what might have been. There was no undoing the betrothal.
“It’s all right, Papa.”
He gathered his bonnet and plaid from beside the door. “Ready yourself. Take care with your appearance. Tonight we show the MacLeans you can still best them.”
A hot ball of dread burned in her stomach, but she nodded obediently. “Yes, Papa.”
The door banged shut behind him, and she darted toward the green stocking on the shelf.
It slammed open again. “And Freya?”
Her heart lurched, her hand frozen mid-reach. “Aye?”
His corpulent finger wagged like a cudgel. “Rory will join us at the meeting. Do not tarry in the wood. Come straight to the meetinghouse without delay. If you’re no’ there before the bell tolls, I’ll come looking.”
She swallowed hard, frantic at the memory of the last time she’d been late. “Aye, Papa. I’ll be there.”
The door shut once more, and she let out a shuddering breath, her guts knotted with fear. Time was vanishing. Snatching the green stocking, she cracked the door, peeking out at Papa’s back as he marched along their fence toward the meetinghouse.
