Page 60 of The Speed of Lightning
Gavina’s eyes narrowed. “Your father’s been worse since you left. If he learns you’ve been the one keeping Calum in high esteem these ten years, he’ll be furious as a wasp. There’s no telling what he might do.”
Fraser scowled. “And you’re still hiding this from your husband? Does he even ken you slipped out tonight?”
It had taken much maneuvering to slide out from underneath the heavy weight of Calum’s arm after he’d taken the milk, but after ten minutes of false starts and stops, she’d managed it. She shook her head.
Fraser drew his mouth to the side, disapproving. “I think he ought to be told. You’ve carried the clan’s support for him all these years. What man would resent that? You dinnae believe he’d turn you over to the king?”
“Týr seems to think he’s oath-bound. If I knew the way to the king, I’d go myself to end this misery. Keeping it from him is making me ill. He’s been so kind—and I’ve betrayed him.”
Gavina pressed a hand to her brow. “The whole clan knows—even the children. How will you continue to keep this from him? No one goes out of their way to speak to your father. But Calum—everyone is eager to become reacquainted with him.”
Freya hugged herself against the cold. “I dinnae ken.”
The longhouse door creaked open. Beathan MacLean stepped out with his daughter. Sorcha tugged free and pressed into Freya’s cloak. “Can—can you tell us another story about the King next week? How did we all get here? What does He do next?”
Beathan grinned. “Aye, I’d like to hear that one myself.”
Freya froze. She should stop now. Self-preservation demanded it. If her father—or Calum—learned the truth, she would be finished. And yet…the thought of disappointing her children was unthinkable. If she avoided more tales of the Shield, perhaps it would do no harm.
She forced a smile. “Aye, Sorcha.”
As they drifted away, she kissed Gavina’s cheek. “I’d best be going.”
Fraser tweaked one of Freya’s fletters. “If you need help, you’ve mine, lass.”
An idea sparked. “As a matter of fact, Calum could use help with my papa’s old-line supporters—Grufa, Bjorn, Jarl, their kin. If we could win even one, the rest might follow. Perhaps you could help me decide who to trust?”
Fraser grimaced. “Of that lot? Grufa’s the one. Win him and the rest will fall in. But after today…you’ve a monumental task.”
She considered this. Grufa had always treated her with dignity and respect—not warmth, but civility. Perhaps he would listen. “Thank you, Fraser.”
He glanced at the moon breaking through clouds. “You’d best be off, lass.”
As she walked back down the wooded trail toward the bothy she began to think thoughts that she hoped were being listened to. The last time Jesus had listened, He’d sent her Calum. But now, barely a month later, everything was spinning out of control. She was free of her father’s house—that was a blessing—but how would Calum react when he learned he was wed to thevery Storyteller he’d been sent to unmask? Guilt swelled in her chest. Their vows were sealed in God’s blood, and yet she tricked and schemed still.
A rustle in the heather hedge made her slow. A shadow crouched low, then slipped out of sight. An animal. It must be an animal.
Course correcting away from whatever it was, she hurried around the indirect curving path that took five minutes more to walk toward home. Wind whistled through the trees, a bluster of leaves loosening from the branches and falling in brittle clicks and crunches, making it impossible to hear if anyone followed her.
When the path bent around the half-sunk boulder she braved a glance over her shoulder. There, treading down the path with quick, resolute steps was a man.
She called to him letting him know she knew he was there. “Heill og sæl.”
The man did not stop, nor slow, nor did he answer the viking greeting. Instead she watched as he drew an arrow from the quiver on his back. For an instant she thought it was Murdoch. But as he closed to thirty feet, she saw the truth: black garb, face shadowed beneath a coif.
The man loosed the arrow, aimed straight at her.
Panic seized her. She bolted as the shaft hissed past, splintering against the boulder where she’d stood.
She ran harder, tearing off her cloak, flipping it to its dark lining before dragging it back over herself. Diving into the forest, she ducked beneath bramble and branches, keeping to the cover of the brush.
Pain seared across her thighs, muscles pulling tight with every pounding step. Thorns snatched at her cloak, branches clawed her skin, but she kept running. Another arrow pinged near her legs. She could hear him now—the harsh breath, thepounding steps through the leaves. He would outrun her. He would catch her. He would kill her.
Calum. She needed Calum. But he was drugged with henbane, dead to the world in their bed. Unless—unless the man had already been to the bothy. She had left the door unbarred. The thought sickened her, nearly breaking her stride, but she forced herself on, veering toward Somerled’s cave.
An arrow slammed into the tree beside her. She dropped, hitting the ground hard, and crawled beneath the gorse concealing the entrance. Damp earth soaked her leine; thorns tore at her skin. Fingertips found the edge of the drop, and she slid down—four feet—but landed with a thud she could not silence. Hands clamped over her mouth, she listened. Footsteps thundered past overhead.
She squeezed her eyes shut, whispering thanks to Jesus in her mind. The hunter hadn’t seen her enter. She waited, heart hammering, until his steps returned—pacing, circling, searching. The bothy lay only two minutes away. She forced herself to wait longer, until silence pressed heavy on the cave.
