Chapter 3
Papa arrived home earlier than usual. Friday evenings had grown increasingly significant in recent months, but today—today carried a weight all its own.
Freya had expected his mood to be lighter, and as the door squeaked open, his familiar looming figure entered softened at the edges.
Under his arm he carried a cloth-covered parcel.
She eyed it warily as she slipped his plaid from his shoulders and hung it beside his bonnet.
Smiling—an expression that never failed to make her uneasy—he pinched her cheek and set the heavy bundle into her arms. “Heill og sael.”
The parcel weighed down her hands, ponderous and awkward, and she held it stiffly, uncertain whether it was meant as gift or trap. “Heill og sael. What is this?”
At the looking glass, he tugged a comb through his wiry black beard, his reflection glowering back. “A gift.”
Freya stared, suspicion catching in her throat. “For me?”
“Aye, for you.” His brow furrowed at his own image.
“Who else would it be for?” Shuffling toward the table, she bit back her words.
In all her twenty-six years, her father had never once given her a gift.
From the quilt on her bed to the woolen stockings on her legs, nearly everything she owned had once belonged to someone else in the clan.
Not daring to appear ungrateful, she pulled at the string and unwrapped the parcel.
Rich damask tumbled into her hands, gleaming in the firelight.
A gown, deep in color, heavy with importance.
Dozens of buttons trailed from the open neck to the hem, more still from wrist to elbow. It must have cost him a small fortune.
“Papa, it’s—”
Her hesitant tone caught his ear. He met her gaze through the looking glass, his smile hardening into the old, familiar hostility. “Fit for a future lady of the clan.”
The words ended the matter.
So she crossed to him, kissed his cheek, and dropped a curtsey, quick as a hare. Her mind scrambled for honest praise that masked her revulsion at the plot taking shape in his mind. “Thank you. It’s the loveliest present I’ve ever received.”
The creases in his brow smoothed. “No expense could be spared.”
Relief eased her taut nerves. For now, at least, she had dodged his temper.
Gathering the expensive gown into her arms, she studied it in silence—crimson.
A sumptuary shade worn only by the Lady of Jura.
If she wore it before Lady Mariota it would be no mere display but an open challenge.
A brazen declaration that the MacSorleys no longer hinted at their claim to the chieftainship—they proclaimed it.
Scowling, she turned toward her trunk, the gown weighing on her like a chain. How could she possibly—
“What are you doing?”
Papa’s voice cracked across the longhouse like a whip, slicing through her thoughts. She froze, straight-backed, her skin prickling, not daring to turn.
Licking her lips, she forced her eyes closed against the fear clawing at her ribs. When she spoke, her voice was light, careful, meant to soothe. “Storing it for the wedding, Papa. I dinnae wish to soil it.”
The thunder of his boots shook the floor behind her. She whirled, arms raised in defense, but his hands were already on her, seizing and shaking her until her bones jarred. “Do you take me for a fool?”
Her head snapped back, teeth rattling. She shook her head fast, words tumbling out. “Of course not! No—no, I’m sorry, Papa, I’m sorry—”
“First your open rejection of Rory MacDonald, and now this?” His grip tightened, fury spitting from every syllable.
“You know the role you must play.” He shook her again, hard enough that her vision blurred.
“You’ll wear it tonight. I’ve bargained for this betrothal for months.
Trained you for it for months. Readied you for bride-price for years. Have you forgotten?”
Feeling like a prized mare, her gaze flicked to the green stocking tucked high on the shelf, her silent plea for rescue.
She drew a shaky breath through her nose, summoning the Storyteller inside her heart—the voice that always held her firm.
Scribbling words across her soul, it whispered calm into her lips.
“How could I forget? It’s far too important. I only wanted—”
Her protest was cut short as his hand clamped her chin, jerking her face up until she met the hard burn of his hazel eyes.
“Aye, it’s important. The only time you’ve been worth aught to me.
” His grip bruised her jaw. “You’ll wear the dress tonight.
Do you understand? Rory arrives from Ardtornish before the meeting. We announce your betrothal this eve.”
The name struck her like a stone. Rory. The thought of him hurled her back to the surf, to Calum’s boat and the wild chance that almost carried her away. She had been so close—so close to leaving her father, close to escape, close to freedom.
“I understand,” she said at last. Forcing her voice into something soft and obedient, she laid the gown across her bed, then gently folded her hands over his. “Do you remember the sword dance?”
He blinked, a bushy eyebrow lifting before he let out a sigh. “Aye.”
Clinging to the single warm memory they shared, she coaxed it out for his aging mind.
“I was eight years old, and you wanted me to beat…” She hesitated, licking her lips, careful to omit the name that would ignite his fury.
“Wanted me to beat the MacLeans. All I could think of was pleasing you, Papa. I practiced for weeks and weeks. You taught me every step. And what happened?”
“You won the dance and sent the MacLeans to Hel.”1
She took a chance, stepping forward and resting her head against his chest, letting her honesty slip past the mask of her obedience.
“All I’ve ever wanted, my whole life, is to make you proud.
I did that day. And I promise you, I will wear the gown tonight.
” She’d stopped short of giving full endorsement to Papa’s scheme of wresting the chieftainship from the MacLeans, but for now he was soothed.
“That’s my lass.” His meaty hand brushed her injured cheek—the bruise nearly gone, though the shame of it was still raw. “I’m sorry it came to that.”
After twenty-six years of disappointment, his half-hearted apology barely touched her.
That he had let Rory treat her so did not sting as it once might have; she had learned the futility of expecting more.
Calum, her one-time protector, was gone, and by the looks of it, would not return.
Better to accept her lot than to linger on what might have been. There was no undoing the betrothal.
“It’s all right, Papa.”
He gathered his bonnet and plaid from beside the door. “Ready yourself. Take care with your appearance. Tonight we show the MacLeans you can still best them.”
A hot ball of dread burned in her stomach, but she nodded obediently. “Yes, Papa.”
The door banged shut behind him, and she darted toward the green stocking on the shelf.
It slammed open again. “And Freya?”
Her heart lurched, her hand frozen mid-reach. “Aye?”
His corpulent finger wagged like a cudgel. “Rory will join us at the meeting. Do not tarry in the wood. Come straight to the meetinghouse without delay. If you’re no’ there before the bell tolls, I’ll come looking.”
She swallowed hard, frantic at the memory of the last time she’d been late. “Aye, Papa. I’ll be there.”
The door shut once more, and she let out a shuddering breath, her guts knotted with fear. Time was vanishing. Snatching the green stocking, she cracked the door, peeking out at Papa’s back as he marched along their fence toward the meetinghouse.
When at last he disappeared into the forest, she bolted—skirting the longhouse, dashing for the stone fence.
With trembling fingers she found the loose rock and pinned the stocking in place.
Back inside, she filled a basin with rosewater and washed her face, hands, neck, and shoulders.
Anything less than her most presentable would be read as defiance.
She unpinned her fletters2 and let the long lengths fall past her hips, then brushed until the strands gleamed, catching fire with gold in the lamplight. With deft fingers, she plaited a crown, looping the thick ropes half up from the rest and fixing them with pins.
The faint grey bruise on her cheek drew a scowl. No repair could erase it, but perhaps disguise was possible. She dabbed rose-tallow to her lips and cheekbones, studying the blemish again. Still visible—but softened.
Heart fluttering, she shed her tunic and trews for her finest chemise, its lace-embroidered neck just visible above the gown’s cut.
Tugging the chemise into place, she braced herself, then drew the crimson dress over her head.
The buttons fought her, each one stealing precious minutes, but at last the gown clung to her shoulders, her chest, her hips, showing off every feminine curve.
The bell would toll soon. Struggling to obey Papa’s command to take care with her appearance and somehow hurry, she hopped on one foot toward the door, tugging one shoe on, then the other, bracing herself against the wall to tighten the laces.
A quick glance at the mirror became a pause—her breath caught, one hand still pressed to the timber.
Her fingers drifted to the lace peeking above the gown’s low neckline.
Begowned, hair crowned, face prettied and brightened…
she looked—for an instant—like the lady she was meant to be.
Her heart sank, and she fought the urge to muss her hair, to undo the illusion that she was a willing participant in this folly.
The copper bell of the meetinghouse tolled, its loud, metallic strike reverberating through the night.
The spell of the mirror broke. Papa and Rory were waiting.
And she was late. Fear snaked down her spine, and she bolted from the door, skirts bunched in her fists.
Heart hammering, she scrambled over the fence, sprinting past the marker stone and into the woodland path.
She was nearly clear of the trees when her toe snagged on a root, the hem tangling her other foot, and she pitched forward.
A cry tore from her lips. She caught herself against the rough bark of a tree, palm burning, as the gown hovered only a hair’s breadth above a muddy puddle. Her breath hitched at the narrow escape. One misstep, and Papa’s precious gift—and her fragile safety—would be ruined.
She stepped carefully over the muck and pressed on, dread mounting with each stride. The meetinghouse loomed ahead, its shadow hanging over her like an axe. From the ridge above Somerled’s auld longhouse, she glimpsed MacLeans and MacSorleys streaming through the doors.
Straightening the precious crimson gown, she smoothed her hands down its length, swallowing back the bile creeping up her throat. She had made it. Just barely.
The last man slipped through the massive doors of the meetinghouse. This was it—the moment she had dreaded for months was upon her. Tonight Rory MacDonald would be named her husband: a man as cruel as Papa, with a temper twice as quick.
For a breath she stood still, collecting herself.
Tilting her gaze to the heavy clouds above, she imagined Calum’s man-god upon his throne, watching this night unravel as disastrously as Calum’s tànaiste ceremony had a decade ago.
She knew little of this god, save that his people did not need to bow before runestones in order to be heard.
What harm could there be in trying? At worst, she would meet the same silence Calum had borne these past ten years.
Her whisper drifted upward, half a prayer, half a jest. “I dinnae know how to mend what’s about to unfold, man-god. But if you’re listening…do something. I—I need you. You gave Calum a way out. If it’s no’ too much trouble, perhaps you could spare a skiff for me, too?”
A grim chuckle escaped her. Of course there would be no skiff. She had been dragged from the only one she ever had.