Page 84 of The Speed of Lightning
He had returned late the night before, fetching her from Fraser and Gavina’s and walking her home. Her heart had pounded with expectation, searching his hair and beard for the little bead she had made for him. She could not find it, and something in him seemed…off. Preoccupied. She had probed gently, hoping he would say what he thought of her gift, her note, the small piece of her heart she had offered him.
“Have you got washing I need to tend to?”
He scowled, lifting his cold supper and shoveling it into his mouth. “I’m sorry?”
“Washing. You’ve changed clothes, haven’t you?”
He glanced down, wincing. “Aye. I left them in Fraser’s skiff. Sorry. I’ll get them first thing.”
He turned away, shoulders taut, silent. She stared at him, waiting for mention of the bead, the note, anything. She had expected joy, maybe excitement. Instead, there was only that faraway look as he sat at the desk rifling through papers.
“Have you got a quill?”
Disconcerted, she plucked one from the cup in plain sight and held it out.
“Oh. Aye. Of course.”
He inked the swan quill, pausing as if he did not quite trust her. The small hesitation pierced her, leaving her deflated. She turned back to her sewing, picking up a baby’s bonnet and tracing ivy along the hem, her hands restless. Her eyes kept drifting to him, to the wild fall of blond hair over his shoulders, searching for her bead. She made five mistakes before giving up, folding the bonnet away for the night.
An hour later, when he was still bent over his work, she climbed the ladder to the loft and began changing for bed. Leaning over the railing, she tried to glimpse what he waswriting, but he remained curled forward, shielding the page as if guarding it from her eyes. Frustrated, she stepped back and pulled on her woolen stockings.
Her thoughts drifted to the little parcel she had wrapped with his clothes. Perhaps he hadn’t seen it. Perhaps it still lay at the bottom of the boat with his discarded things. Or perhaps it was in Knockrome, forgotten.
Disappointment stung as she descended and paused beside him. He angled his body subtly, still hiding the words.
All the air seemed to leave her. He was keeping something from her.
“Are you coming to bed?”
He twirled the quill between his fingers, tilting his head toward her voice. “In a few minutes.”
Clinging to hope, she shifted from foot to foot. “I missed you today. I thought you might…come home earlier. To…talk.”
His shoulders rose and fell. “The kill took longer than I thought. The hart was canny.”
“Oh.”
Silence followed. She turned down the sheets, taking more care than needed with the pillows and linens. When he still hadn’t moved, she grew bold. She slipped the plaid from her shoulders, letting it fall across the blue chair, standing in only her shift, waiting.
The quill went on scratching.
Heat rose to her cheeks. Humbled, she slipped into bed and pulled the covers high. Sleep came fitfully. When the watch candle had burned down two more hours, she woke with a start. He was not beside her. Bog lay before the fire, the desk now empty. She lay wide-eyed another hour, watching the wax pool, before exhaustion finally claimed her. Four hours later the mattress dipped as he at last crawled in behind her. Within moments she heard the steady rhythm of his breathing. Hehadn’t kissed her goodnight—the only sign of affection he’d offered these last three months. Her chest tightened. The gift had been a mistake.
Since the night of the attack she had wondered how to show him her affection, weighing countless tokens before settling on a Norse bead. Simple, familiar, deeply personal, it was the kind of gift Jura’s wives gave their husbands—something to carry in hair or beard, a quiet reminder of devotion.
And yet she hadn’t been sure. Would he like it? He no longer dressed as a Juran. His long hair was unbarbered and unbraided, no beads or bones threaded through it. He hid his Pictish marks beneath sleeves and gloves, his thick Scottish beard concealing the angles of his face and the stigma rising on his neck. He seemed determined to obscure everything Juran about himself. Many clansfolk had not recognized him when he returned.
She frowned as she studied him, so still in sleep, hidden by his appearance and not the man she knew inside. What was wrong with being Pictish? Jura was not Mull or Skye or Scotland. His roots were no surprise to the God they both served. They were nothing to be ashamed of. They had made him the man who had saved her again and again, the man she was realizing she loved.
She’d spent weeks carving the bead, imagining him wearing it for her—a reminder that he was one of them, that he belonged with the clan, and with her. Yet as she lay beside him now, he did not wear it. Her chest tightened. Had he not liked it? Had he not understood? Or, worse—had he not cared?
For the first time, a monstrous wave of doubt overtook her. His pouch lay with his clothes on the chair. Her pulse quickened.
Quiet as she could, she slipped from the bed. With trembling fingers she untied the cord, praying it would be empty. Instead, at the bottom lay her note, crumpled into a wad, along with thebead she had labored over for hours—carved from the stick from their tree.
Tears welled, dismay swelling until it nearly choked her. Did he not want her love? Or just the gift?
A whine creaked from the bed as he shifted, his dark hand reaching for the empty side.
