Page 21 of The Speed of Lightning
For hours he’d rioted, only slowing when he accepted the warm cup of milk she pressed into his fist with a small oatcake. The nutmeg concealing the bitter henbane that would still his mind and keep his body heavy until dawn. Ten minutes later he had collapsed upon his bed, breath grinding into the deep rumble of sleep.
Laying still ever since, she let her guilt-frayed body sink into the mattress, heartbroken and yet astonished that her plea to Calum’s man-God had been answered.
How?The small question stumbled through her mind, reaching for some reasonable explanation. Perhaps it was only coincidence. Yet deep down she knew that someone had heard her, just as she had been listening for Him since the tànaiste ceremony.
She wiped her cheeks and turned her head toward Papa’s back, watching it rise and fall in the steady rhythm of sleep.
“Did you hear me, then?” she whispered into the empty longhouse. No one replied. Her voice dropped again, fragile and wry. “I asked for a skiff, you know. Not the lad sailing it.”
Man, not lad, she corrected herself. The wolfhound etched upon him bore witness to the treacherous road he had traveled since leaving home. Forty pounds heavier with muscle, scars crisscrossing his chest and back from a dozen battles, he no longer resembled the slender, affable boy she had once known. His hair tumbled nearly to his waist in a pale, tangled mane, his face shadowed by a thick beard. His eyes, cool and unyielding, swept over the bruise on her cheek; the muscle in his jaw jumping ominously, his rough hand angling her chin toward the light.
There was nothing courtly or tamed about him, though the beard and clothing suggested a wish to disguise it. He was still Týr’s son, a son of Jura—feral, undomesticated, the dangerous contrast to Rory. And despite every warning she gave herself, despite knowing better, her stomach twisted in the auld way it used to.
From his bed, her father’s loud snore rose at last, the signal that it was safe to go. She wasted no time. Without changing, she tucked a blanket under her covers, threw her cloak around her shoulders, slid her feet into her shoes, and slipped through the door.
The moonlight lit her path as she ran, her breath catching in the cold night air, heart racing with the shock of coming face-to-face with the lad—no, the man—she had thought of every day since she was eight.
So fierce was her need to reach Týr that the run took half the usual time. To her relief, he was already waiting, perched on the wide rock at the base of the falls. She gave his hooting owl call, barely managed to wait for his reply, then burst through the tree line straight into his arms.
Sobs tore from her chest. He held her back, enclosing her face in his hands. “Did he harm you, lass?”
She could only shake her head.
He wiped her cheeks with his thumbs, his eyes searching. “What is it then?”
She buried her face against him, wrapping her arms around his middle, clinging to the immovable wall of his chest. “I cannae do this anymore,” she choked out at last. “Da, Rory…always watching, waiting for me to stumble. I swear to ye, I dinnae wish to help my father become chieftain.”
Týr’s gaze lingered on the bruise darkening her cheek. “I saw this. Calum saw it, too. He’s been pacing our cottage for hours, worried your father would do worse for your loyalty.”
She shook her head, voice breaking. “It wasnae Papa that put the mark on me.”
His brow furrowed. “Who then?”
Tears streamed in fresh cascades as her words tumbled out half-formed. “I’m stuck. I willnae ever be free of this. I ken I deserved it—but I thought…I thought?—”
He leaned forward, brushing her cheeks with callused thumbs. “Breathe, Freya. You’re no’ making sense. In and out. Come now.”
She dragged in a breath then let it shudder out.
“Again.”
Another breath, steadier this time, and the hammering in her chest eased.
Then his arms closed around her. “Now. Who hurt you?”
Her lips trembled. “Rory.”
A savage oath ripped from Týr’s mouth. His whole body bristled, rage trembling in his voice. “What did he do?”
She sucked in another shaky breath, pushing the words through. “The night of the agreement they made me scribe the betrothal pledge. I wouldnae finish it. I couldnae bring myself to write ‘handfasted wife’ beside my name. I told them I dinnae wish to marry anyone. I told them I wanted to go to Iona, to become a nun, to take the burden off Papa.”
Týr gave a short, humorless laugh. “You dinnae even know the coigreach god. Are you certain you’d bind yourself to him for life?”
She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Better than a lifetime as a wife to a man I dinnae respect.”
His face softened. “Of course. Go on. Why did he strike you?”
“I dinnae ken. At the mention of Iona, they went off their heads. I told him, ‘I’m sorry, Rory. I dinnae wish to hurt you. I remain your friend, but I cannae love you as a wife.’ For a moment he chuckled, then laughed—then drew back and struck me.”
