Page 24 of The Speed of Lightning
Rest made no sense to his soldier’s brain. Obedience he knew. Schedules he knew. Order and the completion of a mission without question or complaint. Rest was something he had not known since Hector had stolen his wife back from the Wolf a few years earlier.
For his part, Murdoch accepted the break from Týr with gratitude, heading north for better fishing and a few days of quiet in the wilderness.
Now alone and at a loss for what to do with himself, Calum rose and went for another run. He ran to the little chapel in Tarbert to greet the friar, only to find him away on Iona. Trying to think of anything other than Freya and the bruise on her cheek, he ran back through miles of thick forest, up hillsides veiled in low fog, across heather and heath alternately sprinkled by rain and blinded by sudden bursts of sun through heavy cloud.
As Inverlussa came into view, he drew a deep breath of sea and pine, struck with a fierce appreciation for the land he belonged to. Nothing else could cure him like this. Deer dashed across the open ground in bounding herds, familiar faces smiled and waved, and worn paths carried him around places he had loved to run as a boy.
He thought of his childhood, then his father and mother, then of Freya. Passing the MacSorley longhouse, a wish wound itself around his heart—he wanted to stay. He wanted to wake every day in his home. He wanted to fulfill his duty as tànaiste.
…And, God help him, more than anything, he wanted to knock Rory tail over tankard and steal his woman.
Startled by his own thoughts, he pulled himself up short. What on earth was the matter with him? He couldn’t get her out of his blood. Freyawasn’t his. She wasonly a lass, no different from the others he had courted, wooed, and kissed. He could conquer this. It was only Freya MacSorley. Quiet, strange, awkward, selfless, lovely, brave, achingly beautiful Freya Mac—Saints he was doomed.
Breath coming in steady bursts, he ran the cliff stretch from Inverlussa to Lealt with new determination. If Da and Maw were not concerned for her safety, well then why should he be? She was betrothed to that walloper Rory MacDonald. An idiot though he was, surely any man would provide a better home than Ragnall.
He frowned, wiping sweat from his brow, his thoughts circling back to the bruise and to what he would do if ever he found himself near Ragnall with no witnesses.
Ridiculous.She was only a lass—lovely of heart, yes—but that was all. That was why she filled his thoughts. Yet his mind wandered back to their reunion, to the fitted red gown, and he corrected himself with a low laugh—fine of heart, and of form.Aye, very fine of form.
Out of nowhere something cracked against his head. He went flying backward, pain flashing through his nose and brow as he landed hard on his back. Stunned, he clutched his face and rolled in the dirt.Dear faeries—the Lord Himself must have seen the direction of his thoughts and smacked him straight down.
“Are you hale?”
Disoriented, the wind knocked clean out of him, he lolled on the ground, unable to form words. Above him, the face he most wanted to see hovered close. And then—her hands were on him.
A squeak escaped his throat as Freya’s palms skimmed his forehead, jaw, nose—sweet juniper—then his chest.
“Your nose. Odin’s nightgown, you’re bleeding.” She leaned closer and ran her thumb along his cheekbone, biting into her full lip.
At last, fresh air rushed into his lungs, only to be overtaken by the earthy scent of heather. She palmed his cheeks. “Does it hurt?”
The pain had already begun to fade, but he nodded. “Aye. Just above my heart.”
Her brow arched. “Your heart?” Still taut with concern, she smoothed her hand lower, pressing gently. “Here?”
He nodded, biting back a smile. “Aye, just there.”
She fumbled with the ties of his tunic, baring his chest before pressing her ear against it. “It’s racing. Pains in the chest can be grave. Is that why ye ran into the branch?”
He bit back a grin, unwilling to admit the humiliating truth. “Just had the wind knocked out of me.”
Leaning up, she rubbed slow circles over his chest. “Does that help?”
His smile broke free. Propping himself on an elbow, he leaned closer, his breath brushing hers. “Perhaps a kiss would help.”
Embarrassment flared across her face, darkening into a scowl. With a huff, she smacked his already smarting cheek and shoved herself away. “Ye vile MacLean, I tho’ you were hurt!”
He staggered to his feet, rubbing his stinging jaw. “Aye, I am hurt—and ye smacked me, ye foul MacSorley.”
She snatched up her basket, brushing dirt from her leine. “Ye ken what I meant. And here I was worried about ye taking a branch to the pate, charging like a mad stallion. I thought you were supposed to be good at running.”
Laughter burst out of him, warm and helpless. He shoved his hair back, tugging up his kyrtill to wipe the blood from his nose. “I thought so too.”
He studied her, still struggling to reconcile this woman with the lass who used to perch in rafters to spy on clan ceilidhs.?1 Everything about her seemed new and dazzling—the quick blink and narrowing of her wide eyes, the hand braced against the exquisite curve of her hip, the faint crinkle between the elegant arches of her eyebrows.
Catching himself staring, he bent to retrieve a handkerchief that had fallen from her basket and held it out. “Still stitching?”
She took it, her gaze lingering on his bare chest. For a moment a potent wave masculine pride roared through him—until her fingers slipped inside his tunic and tugged the cord at his neck. The small pouch thumped against his breast. “Still wearing this?”
