Page 29 of The Speed of Lightning
“Why are ye cryin’, MacSorley?”
“Go away, MacLean,” she’d sobbed, mortified that her rival had caught her at her weakest.
He lingered, and she cried harder, certain he would taunt her.
“Are ye disappointed I’m about to beat ye in the sword dance,?3 ye foul frog?”
Fury boiled up, and she lifted her tear-streaked face. “I know ye are, ye vile MacLean! But I’m no’ cryin’ for that!”
His brow furrowed in doubt. “Seems like ye are.”
She shook her head hard. “I performed for Papa and tripped during the strathspey. He says if I cannae manage the slow part, I’ll never master the reel. He was so angry he whipped me.”
Lifting her trews, she revealed the angry crisscrossing lashes striping her leg. Brow furrowing, Calum knelt and touched the angry welts rising on her thigh. “He hurt you?”
Fresh tears spilled. “Aye. But I’m no’ cryin’ for that either.”
His voice softened. “What then?”
“I always disappoint him. I’m a curse. I only want him to love me, but he willnae…he willnae…”
Her sobs broke loose until, to her astonishment, his slender arms wrapped around her. “Here. Coorie in.”
She leaned into him and wept herself empty. When at last she lifted her head, he wiped her cheeks, helping her to her feet. He leaned forward, kissing her cheek. Then he ran.
That night at the feast, when he was called to dance first, he stumbled on the final step, his blades clattering, his foot sliced.As he limped off the dais, he brushed past her with a quick wink. She knew then. He’d done it on purpose. He’d given her the competition to protect her.
Freed from the fear of failing, when she took her place to dance for the MacSorleys she felt less afraid of her papa. The music began and she felt each note in her soul. Her steps were lighter, her jumps higher. The feast hall had roared, clapping along with the victory tune. Each one of her crosses and leaps brimmed with joy, confidence rising with the reel. At the last cross over the blades, triumph crashed over her. She’d done it.
She stepped back, hands at her hips, and bowed toward Týr. The meetinghouse roared with cheers, MacLeans and MacSorleys alike, and in that clamor she felt something awaken within her—a new spirit, bold and unafraid, the first spark of the girl who would become the Storyteller.
Beyond that, the moment had changed how she saw Calum—no longer an enemy, though not yet a friend. From then on, she found herself watching him, wondering if he knew how much that single kindness had meant to her. Nothing outward had shifted between them, yet her fascination only deepened, incurable as a fever.
As the years passed, he’d grown older and ever more like a man. Hidden among the feathery ferns at the edge of the practice yard, she spied on him daily as he grappled in glíma. Once, as she watched him leave the field with the other lads, a coin arced through the air and landed squarely on her knee. Peering between the fronds, she caught his small nod—the quick tug of a smile—proof he’d known she was there all along.
By fifteen, he had become the subject of every lass’s whispered imaginings. From her perch in the rafters of the meetinghouse during a ceilidh, she studied his arms as they encircled one lucky lass after another, his easy charm coaxing them into moonlit trysts at the marshes. For the first time shedared to imagine what it might be like to spin in his embrace, to belong to him. Foolishness, of course—he was the chieftain’s son, far beyond her reach. Yet when his gaze lifted, meeting hers in the shadows above, and he smiled—just for her—she had scrambled back into the dark, heart hammering with the impossible wish that she could step down and join him.
Now she stood before her trunk, gazing at the sumptuous gown, aching to be fifteen again—to live the deeply held wish and join him at the celebration. Were these stolen moments all there was to their story? Or was it simply an invocation of a tale waiting to unfold?
Her gaze lingered with hope on the beautiful gown, but her heart whispered otherwise—the tale was nearing its end. Once they had shielded one another from harm, yet this storm was hers to weather alone. Fingers trailing over the fine weave, she felt cratered with dread, loathing the thought of such an unsatisfying ending. It was a garment made for dancing, for light and joy—not for the darkness of her fate.
The thought of Rory and Papa kindled a defiance in her heart that could not be quelled. She glanced over her shoulder—the earthen cup still rested in Papa’s hand, a bit of milk remaining in the bottom. If nothing else in this life would belong to her, she would claim this night—to live and to dance with the same wild freedom she’d felt the day of the sword dance.
The sumptuous damask was cool and heavy as she slid the gown over her head. Keeping a careful eye on sleeping Papa, she fastened each tiny button. Tonight, she would have her dance with Calum.
Inside the meetinghousethe benches had been cleared away, leaving the floor open for reels that spun partners in bright, whirling circles around the fire. Horns of mead passed freely from hand to hand; women gathered in laughing groups, clapping along to the beat. On the dais, Liv MacSorley struck her bodhrán, Asger’s pipes joined Mariota’s harp, and Calum’s friend Murdoch capered with his flute, carrying the reel into a jubilant chorus. For Freya, it was like slipping back into childhood. She crept along the wall, eyes scanning the shifting crowd, searching for her lad.
Surrounded by a cloud of lassies as thick as fog, she spotted Calum near his father. Anneli MacSorley, barely nineteen summers, clung to his arm. Then, with the boldness of youth, she rose on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his, setting off a chorus of squeals from the brood of hens around them.
Freya froze. Bewilderment tangled with a sharp pang in her chest. She had watched him kiss others before—many others—but she had forgotten how it hollowed her out, leaving behind a valley of unease where her heart should be.
He broke the winching with a burst of laughter, throwing his head back, and the men around him whistled their masculine approval. His gaze skimmed the crowd, then narrowed on her.
The world around them fell away. She crept forward, his soft gaze all over her as she wove through the packed hall, feeling as though she was lowering herself from her hiding spot in the rafters. The dancers parted and drained away as they approached one another, a few casting curious glances at them.
Something primal flared in his eyes as he moved toward her, and she shuddered, feeling as though she were playing with a flaming arrow and a bucket of pitch. She’d come for a dance, nothing more, but as he stood before her—a head above everyone else in the room, Lochbuie armor and tartan gleaming beneath the torchlight—apprehension teemed in her belly. Theforbidding wolfhound writhed along the muscle of his bare arm as he took her hand in his darkened one. Her stomach flipped, heat coiling through her. He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “MacSorley.”
The casual greeting shot lightning through her veins. “MacLean.”
