Page 86 of The Speed of Lightning
“Odin’s nightgown, Calum?—”
“No. Look.”
He shifted the fabric aside, baring one pale leg. From hip to mid-thigh ran a gouging gash, serrated and purple, long since healed but still raw in its ugliness. He pressed it against hers.
“Got it my first battle,” he said softly, placing her hand upon it. “Took a javelin to the leg and it putrefied. They thought I’d die, but Ursula wouldnae give up on me. She saved my leg. Helped me stand again, walk again, even run again. So there ye are. We match. Does it make you less attracted to me?”
He held her trembling hand, guiding her fingertips across his scar, and a fierce tenderness spread through her chest. Tears burst from her eyes—hot, messy, unstoppable.
He looked stricken. “Saints, Freya, does it?”
She shook her head hard. “You’re—you’re still…still Calum.”
He tied his braies back up and, for the first time in months, pulled her against his chest, holding her tight. “And you’re still my Freya. My bonnie, beautiful, irresistible Freya. My heart races at the mere thought of you. That’s why I cannae look at you. I’m waiting for you—until you’re ready to love me. But every fiber of me burns to be with you now.”
She scrubbed her face with her sleeve and pointed toward the pouch. “Then why did ye shove my gift aside? Why did ye cr-crumple my note? I was telling you how I felt.”
His laugh rumbled through her, shaking her against his chest. “I’m sorry, lass. I wasn’t angry with you—just with myself for being so dim. I didnae ken if you wanted me to pursue you, or to remain only your friend. You’ve been through so much, and I feared if I guessed wrong I’d harm you. I’ve never been much for fancy words—ask Léo.”
She pushed back, her anger sparking again. “You’ve always been my lad, MacLean. How can ye be so thick?”
He brushed her tears with gentle fingers, flicking them away. His expression softened. “Aye, you’ve always had a place in my heart too, MacSor—” He cut himself short, grinned, and met her eyes. “Freya.”
His gaze wandered, lingering as though to memorize every line of her. His fingertips traced the hollow of her collarbone, slipping her sleeve down to bare the curve of her shoulder. Heat prickled across her skin. His breath brushed her cheek, his face only inches away. When at last his stormy eyes lifted, they burned with a question.
“Just so I’m clear—you do want me to pursue you?”
A tremor stole her breath. She knew that look—predator’s focus, hunter’s resolve. Once he’d set his mark, there would be no turning back. She cupped his cheek, steady and certain. “Aye.”
His mouth curved, slow and dangerous. Leaning back into their bed, he drew the covers down as though opening a secret place. The wolfhound on his arm stretched outward, his palm open, waiting. His voice was low, velvet, threaded with command. “Then come back to bed lass and let me keep you warm.”
Outside the wind howled, pressing against the drafty stone walls. A fresh chill drifted through her, raising goosebumps along her skin. Yet it was the look in his eyes that made her shiver and she knew, deep in her heart, she was ready to be his completely.
Crossing into his waiting arms felt like stepping over a battle line. She slid beneath the blankets, his bare skin warming her, his hand firm on the small of her back. He kissed her temple, then her ear, then the edge of her jaw before finding the hollow of her neck.
His lips lingered there, his breath stirring her skin. “I trust you more than anyone, Freya.”
She pressed closer, listening to his steady heartbeat beneath her ear. “I trust you, Calum.”
Then his voice dropped, weighted, making her pulse hitch. “I need your help. Something happened tonight. I need your counsel, your strength… and your heart.” He held her gaze. “I need to make a confession. I went to the MacNeil herald on Colonsay to send word to the Shield…”
Chapter 24
SANAIGMORE, ISLAY - FEBRUARY 10, 1387
Ablizzard swept over the Hebrides like a thick cloak, burying the world beneath white. Flakes whipped across the skies, driving everyone indoors. Calum shivered as Fraser’s skiff cut through icy waves, its sail crusted with frozen spray. No one noticed them slip away; the storm was their ally, carrying them unseen toward the mission he and Freya had devised. At last they were moving—free—and if fortune favored them, this plan might change everything and reunite his team.
Freya hunched against the snow, Bog curled in her lap. Calum watched her, caught by the fire in her eyes, praying he had not erred in trusting her with a mission that could mean uprising—or treason.
She lowered her fur wrap, lifting her voice above the wind. “Is that Sanaigmore?”
“Aye.” He steered the skiff toward land, dreading the plunge into the glacial sea to drag it ashore.
She shivered, pulling Bog closer. “A desolate place, is it no’?”
“The hills are lovely green, when they’re not buried.”
“I would miss the trees.”
