Page 39 of The Speed of Lightning
Unruffled, Cara blotted Freya’s damp forehead. “He is one step ahead of them. He is strong. Rest, lass. When you wake, all will be in order.”
Panic surged as sleep pressed in. Freya forced her eyes open. “Stop him. Mistake. I’m a curse. Please…no sleep.”
The healer crouched, squeezing her arm. “You are a blessing, no’ a curse. You are safe in Chief MacLean’s walls. None will reach you here. Rest and recover.”
Darkness closed in, her limbs heavy, fear ebbing. “Calum…I want Calum. He will protect me.”
“We will send for him,” Ursula’s voice drifted like faerie light. “We will pray, lass. Fight this.”
Sleep tugged her under.The heathland. Their rowan tree. Calum’s arms holding her beneath the stars.
When Freya woke next,she was cold. Very cold. Shaking with it.
Bathed in night, she shot up, disoriented, her legs throbbing, head muddled. “Papa?”
A flickering light drew close. A woman in a thick plaid leaned over, pulled off a knit glove, and pressed her hand to Freya’s forehead.
“Where am I?” Freya swayed, forcing herself to stay upright.
The woman felt her cheeks and neck, her copious, curly gray hair lending her the look of a mad forest crone. “Thank the blessed Lord. The fever has broken.” She jerked the door open. “Aoife, bring peat. The fever has broken.”
Freya recognized the maid moving toward the hearth. She looked down at her nakedness, shivering, heat rushing to her face as she crossed her arms trying to cover herself and keep warm.
The older woman closed the wooden shutters. “Do you remember me? Ursula.”
“The healer.”
“You came from Jura ten days ago with scalds on your legs. They became corrupted and you’ve been down with a fever. Do you remember?”
A veil lifted. “Did you say ten days?”
Ursula nodded. “That’s right.”
Aoife stoked the fire, then eased a clean chemise and soft ryeland gown over Freya’s head, warmth sinking into her bones. Ursula adjusted the sheet, laying a sable fur across her. “I’m sorry for the cold. With death fever we had to strip you down. A fever blanket?1 would not have been enough to save you.”
Unable to believe she had walked to the edge of death and returned, Freya could only whisper an insufficient, “Thank you.” Testing her movement, she was relieved to find only a dull throb, none of the searing pain from before. “My legs feel a bit better.”
Ursula shook her head. “That’s numbness, lass. The sinews are dead, and you’re still very swollen. Healing will take months, so you must be cautious.”
Her stomach dropped. “They’ll scar?”
“Aye. There’s no preventing it. The good news is the burns missed your knees and joints. You’ll keep your movement.”
Freya looked down at her covered legs, dread coiling. What would Rory think? A thought tugged at the edge of her mind as she stared, struggling through the haze of sleeping tonics. Then it struck her. She was not to marry Rory.
Keeping her voice steady, Freya asked the only question that mattered to her. “Where is Calum?”
A knowing smile touched Ursula’s lips. “Right outside. He hasnae left the door in days.”
Her breath caught. “May I see him?”
“Aye. I think the lad has earned that.” Ursula rose. “I’ll wait just outside. Aoife, send up leek and parsley soup.”
Aoife gathered the soiled linens and crockery, a warm look passing over her face. “Right away, madam.”
Ursula opened the door, smiling softly into the hall. “Your bride is asking for you again, Calum. Would you like to see her now?”
A bedraggled, sleep deprived, and worried-looking Calum appeared in the doorway. The tunic he wore was rumpled, his hair loose and knotted looking as if he’d repeatedly raked his hands through it, his prayer book clutched in his stigmaed hand. Most disturbing was a healing bruise beneath his right eye.
