Page 37 of The Speed of Lightning
He pressed her hand to the bare skin above his heart. “Then remember—I swore to protect you. I’ll walk with you from this day until my last. Do you trust me, MacSorley?”
A faint smile ghosted her lips. “I trust you, MacLean.”
Warm relief surged through his chest. “I need you to lay down, then. Prop your feet up here on the seat.”
She shook her head. “Where will you sit?”
Unable to believe that even in this moment she thought of others before herself, he nestled her into the bottom of the skiff, tucking his plaid around her chest and arms. “Dinnae worry about me.”
With a short run he easily shoved the skiff into the sea, stronger and more certain than ever. Ten years on from the day they’d nearly fled together, he knew without any doubt that he could defend her to the death, though in this moment it was more certain he would kill whoever threatened her long before that happened.
He leapt into the skiff and rowed hard against the tide, resolve burning in him. God had kept Freya safe until his return,and now he would keep her from this moment until the end of his days. Never again would she ever feel pain.
He had made his choice, the choice that he would make again, and again, and again—above propriety, above Rory’s claim, above his own clan. Freya MacSorley had always been his.
Chapter 10
MOY CASTLE - OCTOBER 11, 1386
Searing heat screamed across Freya’s skin and muscles. A cry swelled in her chest; she needed to scream, to release the agony twisting her flesh, blistered and flayed.
Shuddering, she tried to yell, but no sound came. Desperate for mercy, for someone to find her in this sweltering dark, she forced one eye open. The room lurched as if untethered, swirling in nauseating heaves. She gripped the bed’s edge to keep from tumbling, her head swimming.
Panic set in. A plastered ceiling loomed where her father’s soot-dark timbers should have been. By the hearth sat an unfamiliar woman in a wooden chair, oblivious to her pain. Freya thrust out her arm, but it flopped uselessly back against her pillow.
Dizzy, she was swallowed again by fever haze—half-dream, half-memory—a boiling cauldron, an inked hand holding her down, stones pulled from her skin, screams of pain, lips on her forehead, whispers of contrition.I never should have let you out of my sight. I should have followed you home. Forgive me. Please forgive me.
A soft knock pulled her back. Freya forced her eyes open, swaying atop the enormous mattress.
The healer cracked the door. “Shh…”
Summoning all her strength, Freya lifted to an elbow. She had to get home.
“Awake,” she croaked. “Awake.”
The woman rushed to her side. “How are you feeling?”
“Hurts…Calum?”
A cool hand passed over her forehead. Freya whimpered, suddenly longing for her mother. Darkness dragged her back, but the healer’s voice anchored her.
“She’s worse. By the saints, it’s death fever. Take off the covers.”
Cool air swept over her skin and she moaned in relief.
“Do you know who I am?”
“The healer.”
“Where are you?”
“I dinnae ken.” Her eyelids drooped again.
“No, lass. Stay with me.” Something cold and wet washed over her face. “Look at me. Focus.”
Her eyes landed on the red gown cast over a chair before her heavy lids closed.Red gown. The ceilidh. Calum’s arms at the dance. Papa. Rory’s crushing grip. The cauldron. The river. Calum charging through the woods.
Tears formed. “Lochbuie. Moy Castle.”
