Page 63 of The Speed of Lightning
Her eyes dropped to the stack of missives. “I admit I wondered when your father asked for a story that didnae feature you. But he never confessed he had circulated them—not until the night you returned.”
Calum fought the drowse clouding his mind, forcing his eyes to stay open. “How did he circulate them?”
“A minstrel he met at Findlugan. Còta Liath. He knew Lochindorb would bring war with the Wolf, that you’d be dragged into battle after battle. He only wanted to aid you—to curry favor with other clans, to swell your ranks, to demoralize the enemy. He wanted you to have every advantage. He only meant to help.”
Calum pressed a hand to his face, struggling to think through the fog. “Your tales, however well meant, have wrought havoc among the clans.”
Freya squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the papers to her breast. “I swear, I didnae know he sent them. I had no inkling. Calum, if my father had known I was the Storyteller, the price I’d have paid would have been steep indeed. I only wrote becauseyour father asked it of me. I thought you were meant to be the heart of my stories. Look.”
She handed him the remainder of the stack. He read through the epic of his years on Skye—Léo’s imprisonment, his dreams, Birdy’s skill, the raid on the Aird of Sleat, the granaries’ destruction, the Staffa raid, the final battle. It was stirring, a tale to rival any of the epics of auld. Yet something in it rang false.
“You’ve made me quite the hero.”
A wet, exasperated chuckle broke from her. “To us on Jura, you are the hero. You’re one of us, and you’ve fought for our place and honor among the islands.”
The final piece slid into place. His voice came low. “That is why the clan welcomed me home? Because you kept my flame alive here on Jura?”
“Your father. I only wanted to help Týr.”
I only wanted to help Týr.The words pricked him, spreading unease through his fogged mind. At every opportunity she reminded him that his feelings for her were not reciprocated. He’d wanted to believe that perhaps one day she would love him, but he was getting nowhere.
“Is that why you asked at the chapel if our union could be undone? Do you think so little of me to think that I would leave you if I knew? Is there nothing about me, truly nothing, that appeals to you beyond escape from your father?”
Blood drained from every pore in her face. “Calum, you are my friend. I—I was afraid. You gave everything for me, how were you to feel when you learned that I was the very person your team is hunting?”
Feeling more a fool than ever, he realized his head was swaying, fighting the urge to return to sleep. Something was wrong. This wasn’t mere drowsiness. “Why do I feel this way? What have you done?”
Dropping her eyes, she reached into her cloak and handed him a packet of herbs. “I’ve put henbane in your milk.”
He stiffened at the deception. “You’ve drugged me. Why, Freya?”
Unable to look at him, she spoke in a quiet voice like a child. “To make ye rest so I could slip away for the storytelling. It’s how I was able to sneak out of my father’s house every Wednesday to tell tales. And to the ceilidh to dance with the clan.”
To dance withthe clan. The simple words overturned everything. She hadn’t slipped away to dance with him. Freya’s kindness and generosity belonged to all, not to him in particular. Between them there was only a shared clan, a dance long ago, and a favor repaid when she helped him escape. Nothing more.
A long silence stretched between them. She began to shift under his examining stare. “Papa only took a third of his milk that night. It’s why he woke so easily when Rory came. Why I was caught. Why he was so angry. Why our marriage ever happened. But you must believe me Calum, I am grateful that you’ve wed me. Truly.”
He wanted to crawl into his bed and pull the covers over his head until morning. “I see. This…” he groped for meaning, wavering his shaky hand between them. “…is what we are. I do something for you. You do something for me.”
Her head tilted. “I—of course. Has that no’ been our way? I promise I will think of a way to make this up to you.”
He exhaled feeling empty. “It is all transactional.”
She stared at him, her eyes sparkling with tears.
Those eyes. The beautiful pools of green and blue narrowed and he felt them flick over him as he hunched lower into his seat. It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t still feel this way. He shouldn’t want to kiss her so much. To hold her in his arms. To pretend that there was something loving growing between them.
“Calum…no…it’s—I’ve hurt you.”
He pressed his forehead into his hand, unable to bear the pity in her voice. “Please. Stop. Where did you get the henbane? I recall my father swore by it—for a troubled mind’s rest.”
“Aye.”
He lifted his head. “He told you to use it on me?”
She nodded. “The morning of our wedding. Calum, I should have told you before we wed. I wanted to, but I was afraid of how you’d react. But now…I know you willnae hurt me. I cannae keep lying to you as I lied to my father I willnae live that way anymore—not when you’ve been so kind. And now I’m afraid of…of…”
The terror etched upon every feature of her face split his heart, but he forced himself to continue gripping the solid arms of his chair unsure of what was true and what wasn’t. “Afraid of what?”
