Page 31 of The Speed of Lightning
Her laugh rang out, light as the notes spiraling around them. “Not at all, vile MacLean.”
Bringing her palm to his chest, she rose onto her toes, and together they moved in time—apart, circling, then face-to-face again. The crowd clapped with the building pulse of the tune, urging them on.
Calum caught her hand, his cool eyes alive with amusement. Forward and back, side by side, their feet struck the floor in the intricate pattern of the jig. With a sudden shift he drew her into his arms.
“At last you’ve decided to join me?” he murmured, his hand threading through her hair.
Her fingers slid up his chest, curling beneath his ear as they moved in unison. “Týr didnae give me much of a choice,” she teased, breath quickening. “And I believe it is you who are joining me.” He let out a wild yelp and spun her, and she broke away with a laugh as he gave chase down the feast hall. The crowd shouted encouragement until he caught her hand again, pulling her tight against his stony chest. A few sharp whistles cutthrough the music, and she leaned into his embrace, daring to play along.
Lost in the steps, the weight of everything she carried slipped from her shoulders. Her arms twined around his neck, their foreheads nearly touching, his breath warm against her lips. His nose brushed hers, and she closed her eyes—safe, suspended, the long expanse of years collapsing into this single moment.
Faster he spun her, her skirts flaring wide. She lifted one arm high, their fingers lacing overhead, and tipped her head back with laughter, carried away by nothing but freedom, the music, and the hammering beat of his heart.
When she looked back at him, their mouths were a whisper apart.
“Kiss her!” someone in the crowd called.
Calum slowed their spin, drawing her tight against him, his eyes fixed on hers, his smile slipping away.
Freya held her breath, clutching the big muscles of his arms, her own heart hammering.
Little Arne MacSorley wriggled to the front of the clan. “Go on! Give her a proper one, Lightning!”
At that, Calum’s eyes flashed, and his mouth curved into a half smile.
Freya stilled as their spin slowed to a stop. Her breath tangled in her chest. His eyes held that old, familiar fire—the one he carried into every dare since boyhood. Calum MacLean had never been a lad to refuse a challenge.
His hand steadied her at the small of her back, his eyes searching hers, and for a breathless instant it seemed inevitable as he leaned down toward her, his eyes closing?—
The song ended, and a bit of disappointment flooded her heart. The hall erupted in applause, but she felt only the weight of his hand cradling her spine, holding her close, unwilling to release her. Gratefulness welled up in her, and she tightened herarms around the lad who had once saved her with a sword dance, wishing she could keep him forever.
In an instant, something in him went taut. His body stiffened, and he lowered her to the floor as if setting her out of harm’s way.
“What is it?”
His face had gone hard, his eyes fixed over her shoulder. “Stay behind me.”
Afraid to look back, she swallowed and turned her head. There, standing beside her livid father, was Rory. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Horrified at being caught in Calum’s arms, she dropped them at once, only to find herself pushed firmly behind him as he stepped forward to shield her. Her father’s voice pealed over the room. “Freya. Come here. Now.”
Terrified, she took a step out from behind Calum, but he took hold of her hand, threading it through his arm. Numb, she let him lead her toward her father, his grip steadying her staggering steps.
He bowed curtly. “Thane Ragnall. Commander MacDonald. Welcome.”
Dizzy, she clung tighter, until Calum released her to accept the sealed vellum Rory extended.
“Tànaiste MacLean,” Rory said, his voice unreadable. “The king requests your report.”
Palms sweating, Freya caught the bulge of her father’s eyes, the flush climbing his cheeks, the vein pulsing at his temple. Her throat burned with alarm and her voice cracked out, “Papa, I’m sorry.”
Rory stepped in smoothly, tugging her hand from Calum and brushing her cheek with a rough kiss. “Beloved, there’s nothing to be sorry for. Your father agreed this visit was most acceptable.”
Nothing in her father’s face suggested agreement. Calum must have been of the same mind, for his eyes fixed on Ragnall, sharp and unyielding.
Rory’s fingers clamped tighter around hers until her knuckles ached. “I didnae realize my betrothed carried such talent for dance.”
Fraser slipped a horn of mead into Rory’s free hand. “Aye, that she has. Won the sword dance at the Ostara?5 feast when she were a slip of a thing. How fortunate for us you’ve brought a missive. Did I tell ye the thatch has no’ sprung any more leaks?”
Silent, cheek twitching, Rory listened while Fraser rambled through two weeks of humdrum news. Heart pounding, Freya half-heard his tale of an egg-bound hen, forcing a smile as Rory’s grip on her fingers tightened and tightened.
