Chapter 6
The days following his reunion with Freya were, for Calum, fraught.
His father had left the morning after his return to tend to a clan matter in the south and had not yet come back.
Already working with a small economy of days to organize the defense, he grew more agitated as time wore on with no word of when his father would return.
By the third day, Maw had had enough of his hovering. She gave him a long talking-to, reminding him that the Jurans did not live as the coigreach did. Would he please accept this pause in duty as a gift from his father, a chance to rest before the work began in earnest?
Rest made no sense to his soldier’s brain. Obedience he knew. Schedules he knew. Order and the completion of a mission without question or complaint. Rest was something he had not known since Hector had stolen his wife back from the Wolf a few years earlier.
For his part, Murdoch accepted the break from Tyr with gratitude, heading north for better fishing and a few days of quiet in the wilderness.
Now alone and at a loss for what to do with himself, Calum rose and went for another run.
He ran to the little chapel in Tarbert to greet the friar, only to find him away on Iona.
Trying to think of anything other than Freya and the bruise on her cheek, he ran back through miles of thick forest, up hillsides veiled in low fog, across heather and heath alternately sprinkled by rain and blinded by sudden bursts of sun through heavy cloud.
As Inverlussa came into view, he drew a deep breath of sea and pine, struck with a fierce appreciation for the land he belonged to.
Nothing else could cure him like this. Deer dashed across the open ground in bounding herds, familiar faces smiled and waved, and worn paths carried him around places he had loved to run as a boy.
He thought of his childhood, then his father and mother, then of Freya. Passing the MacSorley longhouse, a wish wound itself around his heart—he wanted to stay. He wanted to wake every day in his home. He wanted to fulfill his duty as tànaiste.
…And, God help him, more than anything, he wanted to knock Rory tail over tankard and steal his woman.
Startled by his own thoughts, he pulled himself up short.
What on earth was the matter with him? He couldn’t get her out of his blood.
Freya wasn’t his. She was only a lass, no different from the others he had courted, wooed, and kissed.
He could conquer this. It was only Freya MacSorley.
Quiet, strange, awkward, selfless, lovely, brave, achingly beautiful Freya Mac—Saints he was doomed.
Breath coming in steady bursts, he ran the cliff stretch from Inverlussa to Lealt with new determination.
If Da and Maw were not concerned for her safety, well then why should he be?
She was betrothed to that walloper Rory MacDonald.
An idiot though he was, surely any man would provide a better home than Ragnall.
He frowned, wiping sweat from his brow, his thoughts circling back to the bruise and to what he would do if ever he found himself near Ragnall with no witnesses.
Ridiculous. She was only a lass—lovely of heart, yes—but that was all. That was why she filled his thoughts. Yet his mind wandered back to their reunion, to the fitted red gown, and he corrected himself with a low laugh—fine of heart, and of form. Aye, very fine of form.
Out of nowhere something cracked against his head.
He went flying backward, pain flashing through his nose and brow as he landed hard on his back.
Stunned, he clutched his face and rolled in the dirt.
Dear faeries—the Lord Himself must have seen the direction of his thoughts and smacked him straight down.
“Are you hale?”
Disoriented, the wind knocked clean out of him, he lolled on the ground, unable to form words. Above him, the face he most wanted to see hovered close. And then—her hands were on him.
A squeak escaped his throat as Freya’s palms skimmed his forehead, jaw, nose—sweet juniper—then his chest.
“Your nose. Odin’s nightgown, you’re bleeding.” She leaned closer and ran her thumb along his cheekbone, biting into her full lip.
At last, fresh air rushed into his lungs, only to be overtaken by the earthy scent of heather. She palmed his cheeks. “Does it hurt?”
The pain had already begun to fade, but he nodded. “Aye. Just above my heart.”
Her brow arched. “Your heart?” Still taut with concern, she smoothed her hand lower, pressing gently. “Here?”
He nodded, biting back a smile. “Aye, just there.”
She fumbled with the ties of his tunic, baring his chest before pressing her ear against it. “It’s racing. Pains in the chest can be grave. Is that why ye ran into the branch?”
He bit back a grin, unwilling to admit the humiliating truth. “Just had the wind knocked out of me.”
Leaning up, she rubbed slow circles over his chest. “Does that help?”
His smile broke free. Propping himself on an elbow, he leaned closer, his breath brushing hers. “Perhaps a kiss would help.”
Embarrassment flared across her face, darkening into a scowl. With a huff, she smacked his already smarting cheek and shoved herself away. “Ye vile MacLean, I tho’ you were hurt!”
He staggered to his feet, rubbing his stinging jaw. “Aye, I am hurt—and ye smacked me, ye foul MacSorley.”
She snatched up her basket, brushing dirt from her leine. “Ye ken what I meant. And here I was worried about ye taking a branch to the pate, charging like a mad stallion. I thought you were supposed to be good at running.”
Laughter burst out of him, warm and helpless. He shoved his hair back, tugging up his kyrtill to wipe the blood from his nose. “I thought so too.”
He studied her, still struggling to reconcile this woman with the lass who used to perch in rafters to spy on clan ceilidhs.
1 Everything about her seemed new and dazzling—the quick blink and narrowing of her wide eyes, the hand braced against the exquisite curve of her hip, the faint crinkle between the elegant arches of her eyebrows.
Catching himself staring, he bent to retrieve a handkerchief that had fallen from her basket and held it out. “Still stitching?”
She took it, her gaze lingering on his bare chest. For a moment a potent wave masculine pride roared through him—until her fingers slipped inside his tunic and tugged the cord at his neck. The small pouch thumped against his breast. “Still wearing this?”
All humor drained out of him, and he glanced down at the time-worn pouch, suddenly exposed. “Aye. ’Tis empty now, I’m afraid.”
She pinned him with her eyes for a long moment, released the cord, and stepped back. “I cannae believe ye kept it.”
Fumbling with the ties of his tunic, he tucked it away again. “It was the only thing I had of home.”
A breeze teased the loose ends of her hair, and she brushed it behind her ear before lifting her basket. “Yes, I’m still stitching. I bring these to Gavina MacSorley on Wednesdays, pick up my coin, and collect next week’s commissions.”
He remembered her younger self, forever walking with needlework in hand, her embroidery coveted by wives across the island. “Only Wednesdays?”
Her gaze flicked to him, lips catching nervously between her teeth. “Ever since… Papa keeps a close watch. Says there’s no need for me to be running about.”
He understood her meaning without further explanation. He was the reason she was only allowed out of the house on Wednesdays.
Staring up at him, she placed her basket down, then picked it up again, clearly conflicted about walking away from him but wanting to do nothing else. He should let her go, keep running, but questions pressed against his ribs, a thousand of them, all about her.
“It’s good to see you again. I almost didnae recognize you.”
A blush bloomed across her cheeks, ripe as raspberries. “Forgot me so quickly? We saw each other only the other night.”
Without thinking, he caught her hand—then released it. “There’s no forgetting you, Freya MacSorley. I’d know you anywhere.”
Her gaze flicked up, her mouth quirking. He realized too late he’d contradicted himself. To cover, he forced a grin. “I mean—not the way you look—”
She gasped in mock outrage. “Repulsive, am I?”
“To be honest…” he let the words hang, enjoying the spark in her eyes, “…a wee bit rough at the edges. I preferred the trousers.”
A laugh burst out of her—so unladylike it startled him.
He froze, caught like a frog in a beam of light, awed by the width of her smile, the curve of her lips, the way her eyes crinkled with unrestrained amusement.
It was the same smile from the skiff—and God help him, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
She wiped her streaming eyes, still grinning. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard in years. Rough at the edges.” She chuckle-snorted as if she were still the awkward lass he remembered. “Perhaps I should ask Papa to cut my hair when I return home. Improve my appearance.”
He caught the silken end of her hair, giving it a playful shake. “Heaven forbid. I cannae deny—it’s lovely.”
Threading her arm through the basket, she tossed the compliment aside. “Thank ye. Grew it myself.”
He inclined his head toward their tree. “Glad to see it still stands. Apt that we ran into each other here. The last I remember, you were eight years auld, crying beneath it, wounded and worried about your father.”
She blinked slowly, her gaze drifting from him to the rowan. She said nothing.
“Have ye forgotten that day?”
She shook her head. “Of course no’. That day changed everything.”
It was the day they slipped from enemies to allies, the day he began searching her out wherever he went. The day that would later cause Freya to disobey her father for the first time. A choice that gave him freedom—at the cost of her own.
“I suppose it did.”
A heavy silence fell between them. Calum drank deeply from the skin of water slung at his side, then held out a hand toward her basket. “May I carry that for you?”