Page 28 of The Speed of Lightning
If her explanation was meant to placate him it had the opposite effect. Her words hollowed him, disappointment settling deep. Ten years he had carried her in his heart, yet she seemed to hold nothing of him in hers. Hatred for Rory flared sharper, though he forced a chuckle. “Aye, we barely knew each other. Beyond a sword dance when we were eight.”
“Aye,” she agreed much too quickly. “By all accounts we were enemies, you and I.”
Wounded, his laughter died away. He fixed his eyes on the rubble circling the town instead of her face. “Let’s hope no’ still enemies. Da will need at least one MacSorley to stand against your father.”
She glanced toward her longhouse. “Speaking of which, I ought to go before he comes looking. I’ll see you at the meeting in a few days?”
He forced a pleasant look, though the thought of her locked in that house curdled his stomach. “There’s no meeting.”
Her steps slowed. “Oh?”
“My parents are holding a ceilidh Friday’s eve, in honor of my return. The whole clan will be there. Did your father no’ mention it?”
Confusion flickered across her face before she rallied with a too-bright smile. “That’s right. The ceilidh. …Of course.”
Disbelieving her, he pressed. “He willnae let you attend, will he?”
Her empty hands twined together. “I wish I could.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’re twenty-six, no’ a bairn. Tell him you’re going—and then go.”
“I…I cannae.”
Feeling as though he were swinging out over a black crevasse, he stepped closer still, searching her eyes as they blinked back a prickle of tears. “Ye can, lass. What are you afraid of? Ye can tell me.”
She tried for a smile, but it wavered. Her teeth caught her lip. “His mind…it’s no’ right.”
A half smile tugged at his own mouth. “Come. We’ll share a dance at last. You’re well auld enough to choose for yourself. What’s the worst that can happen? I’m here now. I’ll still protect you.”
Her gaze dropped to her shoes. “Ye dinnae understand. I rely on him for everything—my home, the food in my belly, the clothes on my back. I cannae defy the one who provides for me. He is the only father I’ll ever have. I owe him obedience.”
He gave a short nod, though it twisted his gut. “I understand.”
She nodded too, looking bereft, and started toward home.
A thought occurred to him and urged his tongue to speak, but he held it.Don’t say it, his mind urged.She’s made her feelings where you are concerned perfectly clear. Don’t be thought a fool.
But when she drifted farther away, the auld offer burned through his restraint. He jogged forward, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Freya?”
She turned. “Aye?”
Closing the distance, desperate to keep her from slipping away, he lifted his ink-stained hand to her cheek. “I can still take care of us both. No fathers to disappoint.”
The fullness of her mouth drew up, and she blinked hard, a tear trickling down her cheek, an unhappy smile contorting her features. She sniffed. “I know ye can. But I must be going home.”
Chapter 7
INVERLUSSA, JURA - OCTOBER 9, 1386
The trunk held all their secrets, nestled next to each other, powerful and precarious, a trove of hidden worth. Concealed in a side panel, her mother’s stories mixed with her own stories about the Shield. At the bottom, plain turn-shoes brushed against worn ghillies.?1 In the lid, a nocturnal?2 nestled beside a penknife. And crowning all, a woolen robe set against the damask gown—one a renunciation of vanity, the other a proclamation of it.
Freya stood with her back to her father, staring at the remnants of their two lives, love and wretchedness bound together. If only she could speak to her mother.
She knelt, reaching beneath folded linen for the undyed turn-shoe. Her fingers traced the worn outline of toes, the small impression of a foot. Closing her eyes, she imagined that her mother could hear her.He’s returned, Mama. He’s returned and it’s still there.
The bond. That stubborn thread tugging her toward Calum when she knew she should keep away, weighing her down like stones in her pockets. His words at their parting in Lealt had confirmed it—he was still willing to protect her, just as he hadwhen they were eight. And she still cherished him, just as much as she had when he found her crying beneath the auld rowan tree, knees tucked to her chest, her heart splintered because she knew she had disappointed her father.
They’d been enemies then, his boy’s face incredulous, his tone sharp.
