Page 19 of The Speed of Lightning
He extended the vellum with a flourish. Da accepted it at last, his hand reluctant, halting.
Another furious round of murmurs buzzed through the hall. The bride-price alone was staggering—an almost unthinkable sum for a lass with no dowry beyond the land beneath her father’s roof. It was not a marriage offer; it was a declaration of war. Rory was making plain that he wanted not only a wife but the clan itself. Calum’s stomach sank. If there was anyone capable of swaying King John—or worse, one of his sons—it was Rory MacDonald.
Murdoch elbowed him and signed,I can only follow a handful of the words. What are they saying?
Calum frowned. Ragnall is making a claim to the chieftainship through Rory’s betrothal to Freya.
Murdoch’s mouth pursed, and he pointed.Is that Freya?
Charged with nerves, Calum followed his gesture. A woman stood just to the side of the dais, her gown gleaming with the color of nobility, long golden hair spilling over her shoulders.He frowned. Surely not. This wasn’t the pixie creature he remembered, it must be the wife of an elder, or a visiting noble.
He shook his head sharply and signed back.No. Freya looks fae, almost childlike. Small. Skinny. Shorn hair. Lad’s clothes.
Murdoch’s brows climbed, eyes widening with enticement as he shook his head slowly, disbelieving.Not from where I’m sitting.
The remark unsettled him, and once again Calum searched the assembly, desperate for a glimpse of the girl he remembered: short-cropped hair, gangly limbs, the spark of curiosity hidden in her mismatched eyes. But Murdoch jabbed his elbow a second time, pointing insistently at the woman standing by Ragnall’s side.
Calum narrowed his eyes, his chest tightening, and signed back with force.That’s not her.
One of his thick black eyebrows arched.I think it is.
“Thane Ragnall, I dinnae wish to disrespect your daughter,” Da began, his voice calm, “but I cannae help but notice that Rory MacDonald is no’ here to announce this himself. As you know, a betrothal isnae official until it is sealed by Chief Hector MacLean, and the bride-price held in treasury until the day of the handfast. This, Thane MacSorley, is unsealed.”
Da stepped around Ragnall, toward the lush figure in the crimson gown, though from Calum’s seat in the shadowed corner he still could not distinguish her face. His chest tightened, pulse hammering in his ears.
“My dear,” Da asked, his tone almost gentle, “where is your betrothed?”
And then—just as Murdoch had warned him—came Freya’s voice, low and steady, colored with the unmistakable brogue that had once accepted him for her own inside his skiff.
“I regret, honored Cù Ceartas, that my betrothed hasnae appeared.”
The sound struck him harder than a sword blow. Driven by a wild need to see her, to prove his ears had not betrayed him, Calum shot to his feet. Words in the Norse-Pict tongue clattered from his mouth, out of order and jarring.
“I know explain how the absence! I mean?—”
Every head in the longhouse craned toward him, gasps rising at his shocking breach of etiquette.
Calum’s forehead beaded with sweat as he corrected himself, his voice taut and urgent. “I mean, I can explain the absence of Commander MacDonald, Cù Ceartas.”
Da peered around Ragnall, straining to see who had spoken out of turn. “I havenae called for our members to speak yet. Who brings this word from Commander MacDonald?”
Calum forced the words past his tongue. “Cù Cogaidh, my father.”
Gasps swept the hall. Murdoch rose beside him, late but loyal.
He raised the sealed orders high. “Rory MacDonald has been detained in Ardtornish. I was sent with this news—and matters from the king.”
On the dais, Maw rose, hands over her mouth. Her eyes met his, certain and knowing.
Steeled by her recognition, he walked forward with Murdoch until he stood before his father, while Ragnall shifted to block Freya from view.
He turned to his clan’s skeptical faces, unwound the Lochbuie plaid, and stripped off his tunic, baring the wolfhound in full. Gasps and cries rippled through the hall.
Maw rushed into his arms. He buried his face in her shoulder, breathing the familiar spice of her sandalwood and clove soap. When she drew back, her hands cupped his cheeks, eyes bright with unmasked love. “No’ a lad anymore.”
His father stepped toward him. Eyes crinkling, he blinked, then stayed his emotion. “Do you remember the last time we spoke?”
Without thought, Calum knelt, hand crossed to his breast, the words he’d carried for a decade ready on his tongue.
