Chapter 9
There, standing waist-deep in the current, was Freya—her shoulders shaking, her face hidden in her hands. The sight struck him like a mighty thunderclap. And then—darkness.
A bolt of lightning split the sky, cracking toward him. A majestic voice shook him, rattling his bones.
Calum, GET UP.
He jolted awake, clutching his skull as though it might cleave in two. His chest heaved, heavy as stone, his kyrtill plastered with sweat. The nausea of sudden sea-sickness overwhelmed him and he toppled from the bed to his knees, gasping, desperate for air.
From her bed across the room, Maw sat up. “I heard you cry out.”
Dragging on his trousers, he rasped, “Only a dream. I need air.”
Murdoch stirred, his voice hoarse with sleep. “Do ye want me tae come wi’ you?”
Calum shook his head. “I’ll be all right.”
Da grunted from his pillow, throwing an arm over Maw. “Please—will ye stop screaming? My head’s done in.”
Maw chuckled. “Make sure to close the door tight on the way out and keep the chill at bay.”
Nodding, he headed for the door, then went back for his sword, feeling a bit foolish as he belted it on but unable to escape the feeling of doom strangling him.
Outside, the village slept. No torches burned, no footsteps sounded, nothing to suggest danger had come to Jura.
Yet his heart thundered as though chased, his body compelled forward.
Something—someone—pulled him up the road, and before he knew it, he was running, feet pounding the earth in the direction of Freya’s longhouse.
He paused outside her home. All was dark, too quiet.
The gate hung open on its hinge, swaying slightly in the wind.
His gaze swept the path noticing the scuffed gravel, as though dragged feet had stumbled across it.
At the bottom of the steps lay the iron lid of a cauldron, blackened and out of place.
Cold certainty washed through him. Something was wrong. A force slammed through his chest, and he broke into a run, his legs struggling to keep pace with the frantic pounding of his heart.
He remembered the way she had left the ceilidh—her father red-faced, eyes smoldering, her words trembling: Papa, I’m sorry.
If Ragnall had whipped his daughter for a misstep in dance, what would he do now, when she had defied him again before the whole clan?
Rage sharpened into purpose. He drew his sword as he plunged into the wood, the unseen threat pressing closer, impossible to ignore.
The river lay just ahead when he heard raw and unguarded weeping. He burst through the trees and found Freya waist-deep in the freezing current, the crimson damask of her gown bunched in her arms, her body shuddering with cold.
“Freya?”
Her head snapped toward him, streaks of tears catching the moonlight.
He jammed the blade back into its scabbard and charged into the river. The water was a shock of ice, numbing his legs, but he slogged forward.
Her cry was frantic, breaking against the current. “No! Please…stay back. You cannae look.”
Not knowing what else to do, he froze midstream, but he did not retreat to the bank. His chest heaved, lungs aching with the cold air, and still the unseen force that had wakened him thrust harder, demanding he act. He needed her weight in his arms, needed to surround her and keep her safe.
Each passing second of denial tore at him. At last he forced the words out, ragged. “Why are ye crying?”
The same anguish he’d seen in her face as a child beneath the rowan tree rushed over her features again. Her brows pinched tight, her eyes squeezed against pain, her hands trembling as tears streamed unchecked.
“My papa.”
He felt it like a knife in his ribs. Physical hurt was written plain across her face.
“What’s happened?”
“I’m hurt.”
That word cleaved through his last restraint. No force in hell could hold him back now. He waded toward her, chilly water surging against his thighs, refusing to look anywhere but into her eyes.
“No, Calum, please!”
He reached her anyway, his hand firm as he brushed her tears aside, then drew her head forward until her cheek rested against his chest.
“Shh. Coorie in.” He rested a hand against her back, curling her small frame into him. “I’m going to help you.”
A sob shuddered out of her throat, one trembling arm creeping around his shoulders. He enfolded her fully, the thrumming in his chest quieting but not abating.
“Because of the dance?”
She nodded. “Da…his mind. It isnae well.”
Rage like nothing he’d ever known ripped through him, but he forced it down, tightening his arms around her instead. “Is it your legs?”
Her trembling slowed into stiffness. “Aye—but please, dinnae look. It isnae proper.”
He glanced around the trees, the forest still as death. His voice dropped, firm but tender. “We’re past proper, ye ken? I must see if you need a healer.”
Soft, wet sniffs seeped into his sleeve, soaking it with tears. “Papa doesnae like healers.”
The words nearly snapped his restraint, but he kept his voice even. “Then Papa can hang. You need tending.” He guided her toward the shallows, his grip steady. “Lower your gown. Show me where the whips start.”
She tugged the sodden gown down, then gave a faint nod.
Kneeling in the freezing water, he steeled himself. But the sight stole his breath. Not welts—not lashes. Blistered flesh, red and raw, gaping where skin had burned away. A violent surge of nausea twisted his gut, and he clenched his jaw, unwilling to let her see his horror.
The clouds shifted, and a spear of moonlight revealed the shiny gleam of pebbles stuck to her blistered flesh, half-caked in river mud. The wounds were grave—too grave to clean without tearing her further. She needed a healer tonight, or she might not survive.
Panic clawed at him. He yanked his kyrtill over his head, plunged it into the river, then wrung the garment free of silt.
“What did he do to you? Freya—this is bad.” With a savage jerk, he ripped the kyrtill in half.
Her breath came in jagged bursts, sweat dotting her brow.
“When we got back, he…lost himself. Threw things, shouted. I tried to give him supper, warm milk, but he kicked the cauldron. It swung and spilled all over me. Then he screamed at me to get out.” She let out a strangled cry, shaking. “It hurts! What are ye doing?”
He bound one leg with the wet wool, then the other. “I’m keeping your wounds moist. Put your arms around my neck.”
“Why?”
When she didn’t move, he lifted her arms himself, draping them around his shoulders. Careful to keep her gown from brushing her legs, he gathered her close. “Because I’m going to carry you.”
“Carry me where?”
He slid an arm around her back. “Someplace with help.”
Her eyes widened and her gaze jerked to his, tears spilling, green and blue whirlpools dragging him under. “It hurts, Calum. I cannae bear it out of the water.”
His forehead came to rest against hers. “I know. But you cannae stay here. Nod when you’re ready—I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
She tightened her arms around him, braced, and nodded. A scream tore from her throat as he lifted her. “Hold on tight.”
Sprinting, he flew with her through the wood. Each step jostled her her body and she whimpered with every step he took. Her head rocked against his neck, her tears dampening his skin, the faint scent of heather and broth clinging to her.
“Hold on, love.”
Her weight sagged heavier with faintness, but he ran harder, terror biting at his heels. He would not lose her. Not again.
He didn’t slow until he reached his parents’ door, slamming his boot against it. Freya shivered, her color draining.
“Stay with me, Freya. I’ve got you.”
The door flew open. Da staggered forward, axe in hand, eyes squinting. “Och, son—my head’s pounding, you’ll wake our forefathers with that—” He stopped cold, seeing Freya limp in Calum’s arms. His face hardened as he brushed her hair from her clammy cheek. “What’s happened?”
Maw rushed out behind him, alarm flashing in her eyes. “Where did you go?” Her gaze swept from Calum’s bare chest to Freya’s shaking body, her skirt bunched high over blistered legs. “Sweet juniper—what have you done? Ragnall will be spitting fire—”
“I havenae done anything. She needs a healer.”
Murdoch stumbled from the cottage, froze at the glimpse of Freya’s bare legs, and turned his eyes away.
Maw hurried forward, pressing a hand to Freya’s cheek. “There’s a healer in Knockrome.”
Calum shifted her weight in his arms, his patience burning away. “Her legs are scalded, Maw—bad. She needs a competent healer, no’ some Knockrome witch stuffing goat eyes in her mouth. I’m taking her to Lochbuie.”
Freya began to shift in his arms. “I cannae leave Papa. He’ll recover in the morning—I—I’ve never left Jura. I’ve never even been to Islay.”
Calum ignored her plea. If he went to Ragnall to attempt an explanation, he was afraid of what he might do. “I’m taking you where he’ll need an army to get to you. To get past me. His days of doing whatever he pleases to you are over.”
Da’s face became solemn. “Son, do you ken what this will mean?”
By taking her in the middle of the night Calum was claiming her as his own, creating a legally binding union between his family and hers. He would need to bring her home as his wedded wife, along with the bride-price for her father’s coffers.
Calum felt her shiver again in his arms. “Aye. I’ve made my choice.”
Da bent to kiss her forehead. “I’ll face your father in the morning, my star. Stay with Calum. Trust him—he will protect you.”
Murdoch moved to follow. “I’ll go with you.”
“No!” Calum snapped, patience fraying. “Stay with Da. He’ll need a witness when he confronts Ragnall. I’ll need all the help I can get if this matter is brought before the king.”
Freya sobbed, clutching at the bandages. “I want to claw at them—please, just leave me to die.”
Maw lifted the wet cloth from her legs. Her face blanched, eyes wide with horror. She motioned frantically. “Hurry, Calum. Run. Run!”
He bolted across the field, crashing down the boat slip and lowering her into the auld skiff.
From the bottom of the boat she began to shift, tears streaking her cheeks.
“I’m afraid—I’m so afraid. Please, Calum…
” She reached for him, clutching his neck as if she would be dragged her back into the nightmare she’d lived for twenty-six years. “Calum, don’t let me go.”
Her fear was a spear to his chest. Holding her tight, he willed his strength into her trembling frame.
“Shhh, love. I’m here. Listen to me.” He wiped her tears, forcing her anguished eyes to his.
“Your wounds are grave. If I leave you here, there’s every chance you willnae survive the night.
And if you do, I fear your father will do worse.
That’s why you’re staying with me—from this moment on. ”
An agonized sob tore from her chest. “I dinnae want to survive. I just want it all to end. I cannae do this anymore.”
Her trembling worsened, and he felt the pulse thrumming at her neck, noting the way her breathing was labored.
He’d seen it once before. A young warrior at the skirmish in Inverness burned with boiling oil.
Shock was setting in, he needed to get her flat.
“I promise you do want to make it through this. Do you remember the day you helped me escape?”
“Aye. Of course.”
He pressed her hand to the bare skin above his heart. “Then remember—I swore to protect you. I’ll walk with you from this day until my last. Do you trust me, MacSorley?”
A faint smile ghosted her lips. “I trust you, MacLean.”
Warm relief surged through his chest. “I need you to lay down, then. Prop your feet up here on the seat.”
She shook her head. “Where will you sit?”
Unable to believe that even in this moment she thought of others before herself, he nestled her into the bottom of the skiff, tucking his plaid around her chest and arms. “Dinnae worry about me.”
With a short run he easily shoved the skiff into the sea, stronger and more certain than ever.
Ten years on from the day they’d nearly fled together, he knew without any doubt that he could defend her to the death, though in this moment it was more certain he would kill whoever threatened her long before that happened.
He leapt into the skiff and rowed hard against the tide, resolve burning in him. God had kept Freya safe until his return, and now he would keep her from this moment until the end of his days. Never again would she ever feel pain.
He had made his choice, the choice that he would make again, and again, and again—above propriety, above Rory’s claim, above his own clan. Freya MacSorley had always been his.