Chapter 7 #2
But he only lifted her arm higher, his voice booming across the ceilidh. “Tonight…ye shall enjoy the talents of our beautiful, articulate sword-dancing champion. The wonderful sss—sss—”
Afraid he might blurt her secret, she clapped a hand over his mouth. Hot laughter rumbled beneath her palm, his wiry mustache tickling her skin. He winked at the crowd, then pressed a finger against his covered lips as if to say our secret.
Calum vaulted onto the dais, his face tight with concern. “All right, Da. I think ye’ve had enough. Freya doesnae want tae do whatever it is ye have in mind.”
But Tyr planted a hand on his son’s chest and shoved him back as easily as if he were filled with air.
“NONSENSE!” he boomed, voice echoing through the feast hall. “We all know how talented this lass is. Whhhhho here would like tae see her perform for us this evening?”
Spontaneous applause broke out, and Freya stepped forward, pasting a compliant smile to her lips, scrambling to summon her storyteller’s poise—but she hadn’t the faintest idea where Tyr meant to take this. Sweet juniper, now what?
Calum slipped an arm around his father and steered him back toward the high seat.
Tyr dropped into it with a graceless thunk, gesturing with his horn and half the mead within it toward Murdoch.
“Play something lovely for the lass and let us enjoy a reel. My s-son tells me he’s been counting on a dance this eve! ”
Murdoch bowed with mock solemnity before raising his flute. He closed his eyes, and the first notes unfurled—long and low, a haunting caoineadh4 that drifted through the hall like mist curling in firelight.
A dance. Not a story. Relief broke over her in a giddy rush, and she gave a small, nervous laugh as she steadied her face and tried to breathe again. The couples in the hall edged back, leaving the space around the fire clear, the melody dipping and repeating, tugging her into its rhythm.
Tyr hollered from his seat, mead sloshing in his horn. “Come, let us see if you MacSorleys can still best the MacLeans in dance. Dance with my son, in celebration of his return!”
Calum’s head snapped up, his gaze locking on hers. Caught beneath it, Freya bit her lip, her confidence wavering.
From his cluster of admirers, Anneli stepped forward with a smug little curtsy. “I’ll dance with your son, Cù Ceartas. We wouldnae want to embarrass Freya the Foul.”
A ripple of laughter trickled through his hen party, but something fierce sparked inside her.
The Storyteller lifted her chin, casting off the shadows of hiding.
Freya aligned her toes with the dais, and let the sneer slide past her.
Closing her eyes, she drew the music into herself, each note stitching courage into her bones, until her heartbeat matched the rhythm of the song.
The last strains of the caoineadh faded, ghostlike, into the rafters.
Freya lifted her arms in a slow arc, fingers suspended as if she held the silence itself.
Then the pluck of the reel broke loose, and with it she swept her hands down, vaulting into motion.
Her knees sprang high, her heels tapped out a bright meter, her body spinning light as a flame.
Her fingers traced the lines of her waist, and traveled up into her hair, before she let them fall, graceful as a falling leaf.
She claimed the hall with every step, leaping down from the dais and skipping around the fire as pipes and harp joined Murdoch’s flute.
Her skirts swirled, her breath caught, the crowd clapped time to her rhythm.
The music lifted her higher—she was no longer Freya the Foul, nor her father’s daughter, but the Storyteller made flesh.
She surged back toward the dais, head tipped, eyes flashing, and arched in front of Calum. The spin of her body, the swift double clip of her heels—she performed the sword dance step he had once thrown away for her, winking at him as he whistled after her.
Leaving him behind, she spun back through the crowd, skimming around Anneli on the tips of her toes before bounding to the dais again. With a bold sweep of her arm, she beckoned Calum to join her. The clan erupted in cheers and stomps of approval.
The drum snapped into a march, rolling into triplets, leaping into a jig. Tyr gave Calum a shove with his boot, sending him stumbling from the dais. His eyes caught hers, gleaming with challenge.
He seized her waist, circling her as the reel quickened. “Are ye afraid I’ll best you, foul MacSorley?”
Her laugh rang out, light as the notes spiraling around them. “Not at all, vile MacLean.”
Bringing her palm to his chest, she rose onto her toes, and together they moved in time—apart, circling, then face-to-face again. The crowd clapped with the building pulse of the tune, urging them on.
Calum caught her hand, his cool eyes alive with amusement. Forward and back, side by side, their feet struck the floor in the intricate pattern of the jig. With a sudden shift he drew her into his arms.
“At last you’ve decided to join me?” he murmured, his hand threading through her hair.
Her fingers slid up his chest, curling beneath his ear as they moved in unison.
“Tyr didnae give me much of a choice,” she teased, breath quickening.
“And I believe it is you who are joining me.” He let out a wild yelp and spun her, and she broke away with a laugh as he gave chase down the feast hall.
The crowd shouted encouragement until he caught her hand again, pulling her tight against his stony chest. A few sharp whistles cut through the music, and she leaned into his embrace, daring to play along.
Lost in the steps, the weight of everything she carried slipped from her shoulders.
Her arms twined around his neck, their foreheads nearly touching, his breath warm against her lips.
His nose brushed hers, and she closed her eyes—safe, suspended, the long expanse of years collapsing into this single moment.
Faster he spun her, her skirts flaring wide. She lifted one arm high, their fingers lacing overhead, and tipped her head back with laughter, carried away by nothing but freedom, the music, and the hammering beat of his heart.
When she looked back at him, their mouths were a whisper apart.
“Kiss her!” someone in the crowd called.
Calum slowed their spin, drawing her tight against him, his eyes fixed on hers, his smile slipping away.
Freya held her breath, clutching the big muscles of his arms, her own heart hammering.
Little Arne MacSorley wriggled to the front of the clan. “Go on! Give her a proper one, Lightning!”
At that, Calum’s eyes flashed, and his mouth curved into a half smile.
Freya stilled as their spin slowed to a stop. Her breath tangled in her chest. His eyes held that old, familiar fire—the one he carried into every dare since boyhood. Calum MacLean had never been a lad to refuse a challenge.
His hand steadied her at the small of her back, his eyes searching hers, and for a breathless instant it seemed inevitable as he leaned down toward her, his eyes closing—
The song ended, and a bit of disappointment flooded her heart.
The hall erupted in applause, but she felt only the weight of his hand cradling her spine, holding her close, unwilling to release her.
Gratefulness welled up in her, and she tightened her arms around the lad who had once saved her with a sword dance, wishing she could keep him forever.
In an instant, something in him went taut. His body stiffened, and he lowered her to the floor as if setting her out of harm’s way.
“What is it?”
His face had gone hard, his eyes fixed over her shoulder. “Stay behind me.”
Afraid to look back, she swallowed and turned her head.
There, standing beside her livid father, was Rory.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Horrified at being caught in Calum’s arms, she dropped them at once, only to find herself pushed firmly behind him as he stepped forward to shield her.
Her father’s voice pealed over the room. “Freya. Come here. Now.”
Terrified, she took a step out from behind Calum, but he took hold of her hand, threading it through his arm. Numb, she let him lead her toward her father, his grip steadying her staggering steps.
He bowed curtly. “Thane Ragnall. Commander MacDonald. Welcome.”
Dizzy, she clung tighter, until Calum released her to accept the sealed vellum Rory extended.
“Tànaiste MacLean,” Rory said, his voice unreadable. “The king requests your report.”
Palms sweating, Freya caught the bulge of her father’s eyes, the flush climbing his cheeks, the vein pulsing at his temple. Her throat burned with alarm and her voice cracked out, “Papa, I’m sorry.”
Rory stepped in smoothly, tugging her hand from Calum and brushing her cheek with a rough kiss. “Beloved, there’s nothing to be sorry for. Your father agreed this visit was most acceptable.”
Nothing in her father’s face suggested agreement. Calum must have been of the same mind, for his eyes fixed on Ragnall, sharp and unyielding.
Rory’s fingers clamped tighter around hers until her knuckles ached. “I didnae realize my betrothed carried such talent for dance.”
Fraser slipped a horn of mead into Rory’s free hand. “Aye, that she has. Won the sword dance at the Ostara5 feast when she were a slip of a thing. How fortunate for us you’ve brought a missive. Did I tell ye the thatch has no’ sprung any more leaks?”
Silent, cheek twitching, Rory listened while Fraser rambled through two weeks of humdrum news. Heart pounding, Freya half-heard his tale of an egg-bound hen, forcing a smile as Rory’s grip on her fingers tightened and tightened.
Calum’s eyes never left her. He did not laugh when Fraser mimed the chicken’s great squawk in the wash tub. He was watching her hands trapped in Rory’s, her lips pressed tight, the pain that she was certain must be evident in her face.
Nils MacLean leaned into the circle, clapping Rory on the shoulder. “Rory, my lad, how wonderful to see ye. How’s yer galley?”
Rory released her throbbing hand to give the wherryman the handsál, all easy smiles. “She’s bonnie. I took her up Loch Linnhe last week—she’s well maintained. You’ve a gift.”
Nils grinned wide, gaps flashing. “Ah, the secret’s to patch the fothering with a board already weathered. A young plank’ll never bend or settle as snug…”
Freya tilted her head as though listening, but her gaze darted sideways.
Out of the corner of her eye she searched for Tyr.
She needed to reach him, to find some excuse, any excuse, to ask what to say or do.
Her mind was an empty pail, sloshing with fear of what her father must have done when he woke.
She rose on her toes and brushed a kiss across Rory’s cheek.
“I need a bit of water. I’ll be right back. ”
But his fingers caught her chin, holding her in place. His gaze bored into hers, a pulse quivering in his hand. “Actually, Freya…I must be going.”
The chatter around them died in an instant.
She froze, searching his eyes for meaning, but he didn’t release her.
“I came only to collect the banns from your father and to deliver the king’s missive.
I hadnae realized the MacLean laws for certifying handfasting banns mirror the Christian rite.
So I’ll be taking them to Chief MacLean myself—on my return from Islay in two days’ time. ”
Swallowing hard, she nodded. “When—when will you be back?”
Rory’s smile was smooth, his tone perfectly cordial. “The handfast will be in one week’s time. You’ll return with me to Ardtornish for a spell, so we may get to know each other. His Grace has set aside his finest solar for us—until our home in Jura is complete.”
Bile scorched the back of her throat. Still, she widened her mouth into a smile, her voice trembling. “Yes. I am sure Ardtornish will be l—love…” She caught herself. “What I meant was—of course—our time there will be lovely.”
Guiding her by the chin, he gave her a deep kiss, and she tried to understand what to do as he intruded her mouth. Never had she kissed a man, and now terror clenched her chest, nausea rising. Her stomach lurched with the urge to gag as he plundered her with thinly veiled lust.
At last he broke the kiss, dragging her tight against him, his cheek rough against hers. His whisper seared her ear as his grip on her hand turned merciless, pain sparking through her fingers. She bit down hard on her lip to stifle a cry.
“See that it is.”
When Rory let her go, he clapped Calum on the shoulder as though nothing were amiss. “MacLean.”
The intensity of Calum’s gaze penetrated with all the subtlety of an adder’s strike, venom flashing in his eyes. She could see the tic pulsing above his jaw. Her heartbeat caught. He didn’t like Rory either, but why? His silence wasn’t indifference, it seemed as if he was restraining himself.
As Rory strode out, Papa seized her wrist. “Come, Freya. We’ve much to discuss.”
Her body obeyed, feet dragging as she cast one desperate glance behind her. Tyr slumped asleep in the high seat, Mariota shaking him awake, her face taut with the same fear coiled in Freya’s chest.
“Have a pleasant evening!” Fraser called cheerily as the crowd closed in again.
Her mind scrambled, legs heavy as stone. She turned and searched for an anchor, someone to save her, but all she found was Calum—slipping back into the dancers’ whirl, bending toward Anneli, as though their dance had been nothing at all.