Page 35 of The Speed of Lightning
Her cry was frantic, breaking against the current. “No! Please…stay back. You cannae look.”
Not knowing what else to do, he froze midstream, but he did not retreat to the bank. His chest heaved, lungs aching with the cold air, and still the unseen force that had wakened him thrust harder, demanding he act. He needed her weight in his arms, needed to surround her and keep her safe.
Each passing second of denial tore at him. At last he forced the words out, ragged. “Why are ye crying?”
The same anguish he’d seen in her face as a child beneath the rowan tree rushed over her features again. Her brows pinched tight, her eyes squeezed against pain, her hands trembling as tears streamed unchecked.
“My papa.”
He felt it like a knife in his ribs. Physical hurt was written plain across her face.
“What’s happened?”
“I’m hurt.”
That word cleaved through his last restraint. No force in hell could hold him back now. He waded toward her, chilly watersurging against his thighs, refusing to look anywhere but into her eyes.
“No, Calum, please!”
He reached her anyway, his hand firm as he brushed her tears aside, then drew her head forward until her cheek rested against his chest.
“Shh. Coorie in.” He rested a hand against her back, curling her small frame into him. “I’m going to help you.”
A sob shuddered out of her throat, one trembling arm creeping around his shoulders. He enfolded her fully, the thrumming in his chest quieting but not abating.
“Because of the dance?”
She nodded. “Da…his mind. It isnae well.”
Rage like nothing he’d ever known ripped through him, but he forced it down, tightening his arms around her instead. “Is it your legs?”
Her trembling slowed into stiffness. “Aye—but please, dinnae look. It isnae proper.”
He glanced around the trees, the forest still as death. His voice dropped, firm but tender. “We’re past proper, ye ken? I must see if you need a healer.”
Soft, wet sniffs seeped into his sleeve, soaking it with tears. “Papa doesnae like healers.”
The words nearly snapped his restraint, but he kept his voice even. “Then Papa can hang. You need tending.” He guided her toward the shallows, his grip steady. “Lower your gown. Show me where the whips start.”
She tugged the sodden gown down, then gave a faint nod.
Kneeling in the freezing water, he steeled himself. But the sight stole his breath. Not welts—not lashes. Blistered flesh, red and raw, gaping where skin had burned away. A violent surge of nausea twisted his gut, and he clenched his jaw, unwilling to let her see his horror.
The clouds shifted, and a spear of moonlight revealed the shiny gleam of pebbles stuck to her blistered flesh, half-caked in river mud. The wounds were grave—too grave to clean without tearing her further. She needed a healer tonight, or she might not survive.
Panic clawed at him. He yanked his kyrtill over his head, plunged it into the river, then wrung the garment free of silt.
“What did he do to you? Freya—this is bad.” With a savage jerk, he ripped the kyrtill in half.
Her breath came in jagged bursts, sweat dotting her brow. “When we got back, he…lost himself. Threw things, shouted. I tried to give him supper, warm milk, but he kicked the cauldron. It swung and spilled all over me. Then he screamed at me to get out.” She let out a strangled cry, shaking. “It hurts! What are ye doing?”
He bound one leg with the wet wool, then the other. “I’m keeping your wounds moist. Put your arms around my neck.”
“Why?”
When she didn’t move, he lifted her arms himself, draping them around his shoulders. Careful to keep her gown from brushing her legs, he gathered her close. “Because I’m going to carry you.”
“Carry me where?”
