Page 57 of The Speed of Lightning
Calum shoveled more meat into his mouth, still puzzling. “Where were you?”
“In the brush.”
For a woman to work a bow in dense thickets, threading narrow lanes and awkward angles was a skill he’d only seen in Birdy. “I suppose you skinned and cleaned it?”
Her lips curved, amused at his astonishment. “A’course.”
The cut of masculine skill wrapped in such disarming femininity floored him. “I’ll have to tell Murdoch.”
They sat in quiet for a few minutes, her discordant eyes studying him. The loose button at her neckline tugged at his gaze, and he forced his attention back to his bowl.
“I’m sorry about Da. I know he means to cause trouble.”
Sauce slipped from his spoon onto the table. She reached for a cloth, but he caught her hand. “Leave it. You dinnae need to wait on me hand and foot.”
She shifted. “It’s my responsibility to look after the house. And you.”
He set his spoon down. “I can look after myself.”
The same hurt he’d seen in her eyes that afternoon flickered there again. “What do I do then?”
He looked around at the transformed bothy, breathed in its freshness, and chose his words with care. “I dinnae mean I’m no’ grateful. You must’ve killed yourself to do all this—the yard, the floors, the flowers, Bog. I dinnae ken how a wee lass like you hauled two trunks up a ladder.”
Her mismatched eyes lifted to his, a sly smile curving her mouth. “I’ll never tell.”
The coyness hit him like a blow, stirring fierce longing. He tamped it down.Friend. They were to be friends first.
“I assume you worked like this every day for your papa,” he said gently, “but I wish you’d rest. You’re no’ yet fully healed. You needn’t stay about the house slaving all day. Go where you like. I can look after myself.”
She traced the rim of his cup with a finger, eyes wide and pleading. “I like taking care of you.”
He couldn’t hold back any longer. Leaning over the table, he cupped her face and kissed her softly—once, then again. “I know I hurt you today, Freya. I’m sorry. Losing my temper, attacking your father—it was…horrible of me.”
She eased his hands from her cheeks. “Dinnae be sorry. I’m grateful for what you said—for caring enough to say it. Maybe not for breaking Papa’s nose, but…for the rest. And I ken.”
He frowned, spoon in hand. “What do you ken?”
“That what you feel for me is friendly, and nothing more. It was good the clan heard it from you.”
He went still.
She gave a small, nervous laugh. “It’s nae bother. No man in your place would have treated me so kindly. I’m a pebble in your shoe, and you were generous with your compliments today, but I know you didnae mean them. I’ll stay out of your way. I dinnae wish to be a curse to you.”
She could not have been further from the truth. His voice came rough. “Freya, what I feel for you is no’ friendly.”
Her eyes darted over him, her smile fading. “It tisn’t?”
He drew her into his lap, his thumb grazing the curve of her jaw, the bow of her lips, the fine ridge of her cheekbone. His hands trembled with the weight of what he had carried for so long. “What I feel for you passed the bounds of friendshipmore than ten years ago. It has burned in me ever since—fierce, unrelenting, and impossible to set aside.”
For a long moment they stared at each other, the same pull sparking between them that he had felt the night she rose from her fever. He leaned closer, lips nearly brushing hers—when she suddenly sprang to her feet.
Disappointment crashed through him, sharp and certain. His feelings were not returned. And now they both knew it.
She fussed with her leine, fastening the loose button, words spilling in a rush. “I’ll be out washing the pottery. Can I do anything for you while I’m up?”
He looked away, wishing he’d kept his feelings to himself. “No. I’ve a strategy to think on.”
She balanced the used crockery on her hip, hovering in the doorway. “What sort of strategy?”
