Page 90 of The Speed of Lightning
“Have you lived on Islay all your life? Perhaps we met on Mull, at Duart?”
Freya stifled a frown. The maid seemed evasive, as if she too recognized him.
“I’ve never set foot on Mull.”
They paused outside an oak door. Calum’s eyes narrowed. Freya’s stomach dropped. Was this her? The woman he had spoken of on their wedding night? The lass who had once held his heart?
“Skye,” Calum said at last. “You lived on Skye.”
The maid did not answer. She slipped inside and ignored him completely. “Your guests have arrived, my Laird.”
The interior of Angus MacKay’s solar was as warm and inviting as the rest of the castle was cold. It felt almost like a one-room cottage, not unlike their small bothy. Stacks of ledgers, manuscripts, and books scattered across chairs and furnishings, loose papers strewn between them. A braided rug brightened the stone floor. A stag’s head hung above the hearth, a bycocket?1 perched jauntily between his antlers. Charts and maps and sketches of herbs and leaves lined the walls.
In front of the fire Angus slept deeply in a crimson chair, long legs propped on a cabinet overflowing with curiosities—jars of berries, antlers, seashells, bird wings.
The maid stepped softly closer. “Laird MacKay?”
A book rested on his chest, his mouth agape as he snored. She knelt, touching his shoulder. “My Laird?” When he didn’t stir she jostled him again. “Angus?”
His eyes fluttered. His hand closed around hers for a moment before falling back to his lap. “Your guests are here.”
Blinking away sleep, he made a sharp startle. “Calum, Freya. How—how are you?”
He rose—tall, ungainly—and immediately tripped over a needlepoint stool, the book thudding to the floor. Freya stooped to retrieve it, noting the title: Ethics and Politics—Aristotle.
Disappointment pricked her. She had hoped for a cherished tale she might know, a way to win his favor. Aristotle was a name unfamiliar to her.
Bog crept forward, head low, growling at the stag on the wall.
Angus chuckled, pointing to it. “Easy, doggy—that’s only Bob. He willnae argue back. Though between us, he’s a fine judge of hats. Can ye sit?”
Bog thumped his tail and dropped to his haunches, eyes still wary of the stag. Angus crouched to rub his scruff. “Ah see, there ye are. A better listener than Bob.”
Freya stole a glance at Calum, wondering if he found this all as odd as she did. But he was already settling into a chair, warming his hands by the fire, paying Angus no mind.
Angus studied the dog’s ears, teeth, and long legs. “Exquisite wolfhound. Where did ye find him?”
Calum snorted. “He found us. A thief and a bed hog. If I roll too far, he slides in beside Freya. Still, he’s a fine hunter.”
Bog laid his head on Angus’s shoulder. Calum rolled his eyes. “Filthy traitor.”
Angus smiled. “A pity ye dinnae know his husbandman. I should like a dog like this.”
“You can have this one.”
Freya gasped, covering Bog’s ears. “Dinnae listen to him, Boggy-Woggy. Da doesnae mean it.”
“I am no’ that dog’s da!”
The maid giggled, breaking her solemn mask. Freya returned her smile, but she swiftly looked away.
Angus plucked the fallen book from her hand. “My Aristotle. Thank you.”
Trying to nurture their budding connection, Freya ventured, “Aristotle. How do you find his volumes? I thought them most interesting.”
Angus rose, turning the shabby book in his hands. “I didnae realize much Aristotle was read in Jura. I suppose it all comes down to two questions.”
Freya nodded. “Aye…the questions.”
