Page 33 of The Speed of Lightning
Papa wouldn’t look at her, his chest heaving with furious breaths. “What possessed you to disobey me?”
Freya tried to still her trembling, but the words tumbled out in broken gasps. “I only wanted to be a part of it… to be with our clan…”
“You thought to sneak out for that cur’s son who stole your worth ten years ago.” Da snatched up her comb and hurled it into the mirror, glass shattering across the floor.
She ducked, covering her head as shards pinged off her back. “I thought it would help you…mend the clan’s misgivings about your chieftainship.”
He seized her hard by the hair, yanking her face close, his bloodshot eyes blazing with hatred. “To help Calum, no’ me. Was killing your mother no’ enough? Must you shame me before the village too?”
He flung her down in a heap. Crawling toward him, she reached for his hand, but he slapped her away. “Papa, I’m sorry. I never meant to shame you. I love you.”
“Spare me your denials. Do you take me for a fool? The way he stares at you, the way you danced with him, near enough kissed him before us all, pledging fealty as if you were his bride. Do you sneak from your bed each night to lie in his?” His voice dropped to a growl. “Have you given no thought to Rory?”
Her breath caught, her eyes wide. “I am pure.”
His face darkened further. “Rory says otherwise. Says you went with Calum to the marshes ten years ago and he soiled you then. That Calum boasted of it to the guards at Duart—that hetricked the ugliest lass on Jura into his bed. I didnae believe it… until tonight.”
Her mouth fell open in disgust, disbelieving Calum would ever betray her so. “That’s no’ true. I’ve told you a thousand times. I was a foolish lass, aye, but I only helped him because I feared for his life.”
Papa scoffed, banging a cup onto the table and sloshinguisge beatha?2 into it from the jug. “Why else would you still be trying to help him? He took your innocence. You’ll never convince me otherwise. Why are you no’ a faithful daughter?”
Crushed, Freya sank before the cauldron, feeding another brick of peat into the fire, coaxing the flames higher. “Please, Papa…let me heat your supper. Eat, drink some milk, and we can talk. You know the only man I’ve ever loved is you.”
He grumbled into his cup, rubbing at his temples. “I’ll wager you lie with Calum, whispering every grievance of this house—how hard I work you, how little you want tae marry Rory.”
“Papa, I dinnae lay with anyone. I would never do that to you. I cannae speak against my father.”
“Why then resist the betrothal? Rory is a MacDonald, part of the king’s guard. The bride-price he offers far exceeds anything Calum could muster. Not to mention his influence with the MacDonalds—why can you no’ see he is the best match I can make for you, and for our clan?”
Tears of frustration threatened, but she concentrated on getting the cauldron boiling. Crying never helped. Papa wouldn’t believe her no matter what she said. “I’m sorry I ever said I didnae want to marry Rory, Papa. I do love Rory. I can be his wife.”
The lie constricted her heart, but if he would only take his milk, she could think of what to do next.
“Why did the gods curse me with a daughter?” The oft-repeated phrase echoed through the longhouse, and for the firsttime she knew with certainty he had never loved her, his mind was too broken. Papa never heard her, never listened to her words, never believed the best in her—only the worst.
Quietly, she tried one last time to explain herself. “Papa, I’m sorry. I thought if I pledged my fealty, perhaps the clan would be kinder to you and your claim.”
Papa’s face darkened. “Enough. You are no’ to leave this house again.”
A wave of faintness struck her. “For how long?”
“Until you marry Rory. Then you become his curse.”
Her heart cracked as she replaced the lid on the boiling cauldron. “I dinnae mean to be a curse to you. I only wanted to dance. Please—at least let me out on Wednesday. I promise ye I’ll stay away from the MacLeans. I shouldnae have snuck out. I shouldnae have danced with Calum. I shouldnae have?—”
Papa rose from the table, and with a sudden motion drew back his boot and kicked the cauldron. The heavy pot swung on its hook, the lid clattering into the flames as a flood of the thick, scalding broth poured over her lap.
She shrieked as the boiling liquid soaked into the damask gown, the rich fabric clinging tight and holding the heat against her skin. Desperate, she clawed at the cloth, burning her fingers as she tried to rip it free. The steam seared her lungs, her screams breaking as she staggered to her feet, struggling to tilt the bubbling mess out of her lap.
Papa blinked at the ruined pottage creeping across the floor, then at the tears spilling down her cheeks. “Get out of this house.”
Hissing through agonized breaths, Freya shuddered, unable to grasp what he was ordering her to do.
“Get out! I said get out! Crawl if you must. You brought this on yourself. You wanted to sneak about and stay out all night.Now you’ve earned it. Get out of my sight and dinnae return until morning.”
Her fingers blistered as she tried to tear the gown away, only to rip her skin with it. “My legs—Papa, my legs!”
“GET OUT OF MY HOUUUUSE!”
