Page 32 of The Speed of Lightning
Calum’s eyes never left her. He did not laugh when Fraser mimed the chicken’s great squawk in the wash tub. He was watching her hands trapped in Rory’s, her lips pressed tight, the pain that she was certain must be evident in her face.
Nils MacLean leaned into the circle, clapping Rory on the shoulder. “Rory, my lad, how wonderful to see ye. How’s yer galley?”
Rory released her throbbing hand to give the wherryman the handsál, all easy smiles. “She’s bonnie. I took her up Loch Linnhe last week—she’s well maintained. You’ve a gift.”
Nils grinned wide, gaps flashing. “Ah, the secret’s to patch the fothering with a board already weathered. A young plank’ll never bend or settle as snug…”
Freya tilted her head as though listening, but her gaze darted sideways. Out of the corner of her eye she searched for Týr. She needed to reach him, to find some excuse, any excuse, to ask what to say or do. Her mind was an empty pail, sloshing with fear of what her father must have done when he woke. She roseon her toes and brushed a kiss across Rory’s cheek. “I need a bit of water. I’ll be right back.”
But his fingers caught her chin, holding her in place. His gaze bored into hers, a pulse quivering in his hand. “Actually, Freya…I must be going.”
The chatter around them died in an instant. She froze, searching his eyes for meaning, but he didn’t release her. “I came only to collect the banns from your father and to deliver the king’s missive. I hadnae realized the MacLean laws for certifying handfasting banns mirror the Christian rite. So I’ll be taking them to Chief MacLean myself—on my return from Islay in two days’ time.”
Swallowing hard, she nodded. “When—when will you be back?”
Rory’s smile was smooth, his tone perfectly cordial. “The handfast will be in one week’s time. You’ll return with me to Ardtornish for a spell, so we may get to know each other. His Grace has set aside his finest solar for us—until our home in Jura is complete.”
Bile scorched the back of her throat. Still, she widened her mouth into a smile, her voice trembling. “Yes. I am sure Ardtornish will be l—love…” She caught herself. “What I meant was—of course—our time there will be lovely.”
Guiding her by the chin, he gave her a deep kiss, and she tried to understand what to do as he intruded her mouth. Never had she kissed a man, and now terror clenched her chest, nausea rising. Her stomach lurched with the urge to gag as he plundered her with thinly veiled lust.
At last he broke the kiss, dragging her tight against him, his cheek rough against hers. His whisper seared her ear as his grip on her hand turned merciless, pain sparking through her fingers. She bit down hard on her lip to stifle a cry.
“See that it is.”
When Rory let her go, he clapped Calum on the shoulder as though nothing were amiss. “MacLean.”
The intensity of Calum’s gaze penetrated with all the subtlety of an adder’s strike, venom flashing in his eyes. She could see the tic pulsing above his jaw. Her heartbeat caught. He didn’t like Rory either, but why? His silence wasn’t indifference, it seemed as if he was restraining himself.
As Rory strode out, Papa seized her wrist. “Come, Freya. We’ve much to discuss.”
Her body obeyed, feet dragging as she cast one desperate glance behind her. Týr slumped asleep in the high seat, Mariota shaking him awake, her face taut with the same fear coiled in Freya’s chest.
“Have a pleasant evening!” Fraser called cheerily as the crowd closed in again.
Her mind scrambled, legs heavy as stone. She turned and searched for an anchor, someone to save her, but all she found was Calum—slipping back into the dancers’ whirl, bending toward Anneli, as though their dance had been nothing at all.
Chapter 8
INVERLUSSA, JURA - OCTOBER 10, 1386
“Papa, forgive me. Please Papa! You’re hurting me!” Freya clutched her wrist as Papa dragged her toward the longhouse, shoving her over the fence. She crashed to her knees, dirt grinding into her skin, a ragged tear splitting the gown’s skirt.
“I go tae sleep and wake to Rory shaking me—only to find my daughter gone from her bed, a blanket made to fool me.”
She staggered up, but the heavy folds of the gown tangled her legs. “Papa, I will still wed him.”
He shoved her again, driving her toward the door, and she fell forward, palms scraping raw against the gravelly path.
“What madness made ye run to the MacLeans?”
Frantic, she groped for words, but nothing would come. She had gone tonight for herself, and no excuse could cover it. “I only wanted tae dance, Papa. That’s all, I swear it!”
“Two years of negotiations, two years of making sure ye made no’ the slightest misstep, and what did you do?” He dragged her up the step and shoved her through the door. She hit the floor chin-first, biting her tongue.
She cried out, clutching her head as fear swarmed, her stomach lurching. The door slammed so hard crockery rattled off the shelves and shattered around her.
With a bang he flung open the bench, hurled in his hat and brat, and let the lid crash shut. She scrambled back, nearly into the fire, the cauldron of pottage?1 swinging on its hook.
