Chapter 10
Searing heat screamed across Freya’s skin and muscles. A cry swelled in her chest; she needed to scream, to release the agony twisting her flesh, blistered and flayed.
Shuddering, she tried to yell, but no sound came. Desperate for mercy, for someone to find her in this sweltering dark, she forced one eye open. The room lurched as if untethered, swirling in nauseating heaves. She gripped the bed’s edge to keep from tumbling, her head swimming.
Panic set in. A plastered ceiling loomed where her father’s soot-dark timbers should have been. By the hearth sat an unfamiliar woman in a wooden chair, oblivious to her pain. Freya thrust out her arm, but it flopped uselessly back against her pillow.
Dizzy, she was swallowed again by fever haze—half-dream, half-memory—a boiling cauldron, an inked hand holding her down, stones pulled from her skin, screams of pain, lips on her forehead, whispers of contrition.
I never should have let you out of my sight.
I should have followed you home. Forgive me. Please forgive me.
A soft knock pulled her back. Freya forced her eyes open, swaying atop the enormous mattress.
The healer cracked the door. “Shh…”
Summoning all her strength, Freya lifted to an elbow. She had to get home.
“Awake,” she croaked. “Awake.”
The woman rushed to her side. “How are you feeling?”
“Hurts…Calum?”
A cool hand passed over her forehead. Freya whimpered, suddenly longing for her mother. Darkness dragged her back, but the healer’s voice anchored her.
“She’s worse. By the saints, it’s death fever. Take off the covers.”
Cool air swept over her skin and she moaned in relief.
“Do you know who I am?”
“The healer.”
“Where are you?”
“I dinnae ken.” Her eyelids drooped again.
“No, lass. Stay with me.” Something cold and wet washed over her face. “Look at me. Focus.”
Her eyes landed on the red gown cast over a chair before her heavy lids closed. Red gown. The ceilidh. Calum’s arms at the dance. Papa. Rory’s crushing grip. The cauldron. The river. Calum charging through the woods.
Tears formed. “Lochbuie. Moy Castle.”
Throwing a leg out, she tried to move, but fire ripped across her lap and she shrieked.
“Aoife, stop her!”
Hands pressed her shoulders down. A pretty maid’s face hovered above her in the haze, eyes wide, curls spilling from a knot. “Dinnae move, mistress.”
The healer’s voice sounded. “She needs a tonic before she tears herself apart.”
Freya drifted in twilight, reliving the same scenes over and over, unable to tear herself out of the horrible, swirling confusion. Rory’s crushing hand, the scalding pottage, screaming in the woods.
A hand caught hers.
“Calum?”
The healer pressed a stone cup to her lips. “Drink.”
She gulped greedily, liquid spilling down her chin, then began to cry again for thirst.
She had to go home. She shifted her legs, biting down the pain, reaching for the bed’s edge—only to be forced back by three sets of hands. The maid stripped away her chemise, the healer fanned her skin, and a red-haired woman pinned her down.
Freya narrowed her eyes. “Who are ye?”
The red-haired woman squeezed her shoulder, voice gentle. “Cara MacLean. I’m taking care of you.”
She remembered the name, certain now she was dreaming. “Lochindorb.”
Cara’s freckles lifted in a brief smile, though her eyes stayed wary. “That’s right.”
The maid fanned her. “Rest, mistress.”
Frigid, icy water washed her bare skin and she shivered.
“Chills,” the healer said. “Better.”
Freya’s voice croaked. “Calum…please.”
Cara shook her head. “He’s gone.”
“No!”
“He’ll return. He and Hector are tending matters.”
“The betrothal,” the maid reminded her softly.
Freya’s heart sank. “Rory?”
Cara and the maid exchanged a look.
Cara cleared her throat. “Hector’s sent word to Shadow to track him. If he comes near Moy, Calum’s team will…redirect him.”
Freya tried to understand. “Calum’s team?”
Cara nodded. “Yes. Do you understand?”
Freya shook her head, understanding the parts, but unable to fit them together. Again her eyes shut, her head beginning to throb. “No.”
“Think back to last night,” Cara whispered. “Calum has taken you for his bride.”
Heat sucked her under, keeping her lost in the murky darkness. Her heart pounded, fresh tears welled, sobs tearing from her throat. “Papa will kill him. Rory will kill my lad…my Calum…save him, please…sword dance…our tree…my Calum, my lad…”
Unruffled, Cara blotted Freya’s damp forehead. “He is one step ahead of them. He is strong. Rest, lass. When you wake, all will be in order.”
Panic surged as sleep pressed in. Freya forced her eyes open. “Stop him. Mistake. I’m a curse. Please…no sleep.”
The healer crouched, squeezing her arm. “You are a blessing, no’ a curse. You are safe in Chief MacLean’s walls. None will reach you here. Rest and recover.”
Darkness closed in, her limbs heavy, fear ebbing. “Calum…I want Calum. He will protect me.”
“We will send for him,” Ursula’s voice drifted like faerie light. “We will pray, lass. Fight this.”
Sleep tugged her under. The heathland. Their rowan tree. Calum’s arms holding her beneath the stars.
When Freya woke next, she was cold. Very cold. Shaking with it.
Bathed in night, she shot up, disoriented, her legs throbbing, head muddled. “Papa?”
A flickering light drew close. A woman in a thick plaid leaned over, pulled off a knit glove, and pressed her hand to Freya’s forehead.
“Where am I?” Freya swayed, forcing herself to stay upright.
The woman felt her cheeks and neck, her copious, curly gray hair lending her the look of a mad forest crone. “Thank the blessed Lord. The fever has broken.” She jerked the door open. “Aoife, bring peat. The fever has broken.”
Freya recognized the maid moving toward the hearth. She looked down at her nakedness, shivering, heat rushing to her face as she crossed her arms trying to cover herself and keep warm.
The older woman closed the wooden shutters. “Do you remember me? Ursula.”
“The healer.”
“You came from Jura ten days ago with scalds on your legs. They became corrupted and you’ve been down with a fever. Do you remember?”
A veil lifted. “Did you say ten days?”
Ursula nodded. “That’s right.”
Aoife stoked the fire, then eased a clean chemise and soft ryeland gown over Freya’s head, warmth sinking into her bones.
Ursula adjusted the sheet, laying a sable fur across her.
“I’m sorry for the cold. With death fever we had to strip you down.
A fever blanket1 would not have been enough to save you. ”
Unable to believe she had walked to the edge of death and returned, Freya could only whisper an insufficient, “Thank you.” Testing her movement, she was relieved to find only a dull throb, none of the searing pain from before. “My legs feel a bit better.”
Ursula shook her head. “That’s numbness, lass. The sinews are dead, and you’re still very swollen. Healing will take months, so you must be cautious.”
Her stomach dropped. “They’ll scar?”
“Aye. There’s no preventing it. The good news is the burns missed your knees and joints. You’ll keep your movement.”
Freya looked down at her covered legs, dread coiling. What would Rory think? A thought tugged at the edge of her mind as she stared, struggling through the haze of sleeping tonics. Then it struck her. She was not to marry Rory.
Keeping her voice steady, Freya asked the only question that mattered to her. “Where is Calum?”
A knowing smile touched Ursula’s lips. “Right outside. He hasnae left the door in days.”
Her breath caught. “May I see him?”
“Aye. I think the lad has earned that.” Ursula rose. “I’ll wait just outside. Aoife, send up leek and parsley soup.”
Aoife gathered the soiled linens and crockery, a warm look passing over her face. “Right away, madam.”
Ursula opened the door, smiling softly into the hall. “Your bride is asking for you again, Calum. Would you like to see her now?”
A bedraggled, sleep deprived, and worried-looking Calum appeared in the doorway.
The tunic he wore was rumpled, his hair loose and knotted looking as if he’d repeatedly raked his hands through it, his prayer book clutched in his stigmaed hand.
Most disturbing was a healing bruise beneath his right eye.
Nerves spiraled in her belly. Even disheveled, he was painfully handsome. She’d longed to see him, but now that he stood before her, she wanted to both reach for him and shrink away.
At last she managed a smile. “Good eve’n, MacLean.”
He crashed into her, arms locking tight as he buried his face in her shoulder. “You scared me half out of my mind, MacSorley.”
Her chin pressed awkwardly to his hard shoulder, her arms trapped at her sides.
And yet she breathed him in—solid heat, the faint spice of clove, and something deeply, unmistakably him.
For all his size and forbidding strength, his embrace was unchanged: the same haven it had been when she was eight, wrapping her as safely as the softest plaid.
Still squirming with shyness, she tried to lighten the moment. “Were you in a fight?”
His cool grey eyes swept over her as he let go. “Sort of.”
Rory. Or worse—Papa. Shame rushed over her, words pouring out in a rush. “I hope you’ve not done anything rash. Calum, this whole situation—it’s my fault. Papa only raged because I disobeyed him and went to the ceilidh. I’ve told you, his mind is no’ right. He cannae help what he does.”
He tilted his head toward hers, his brow furrowing. “You’re no’ serious, are you?”
She fiddled with her sleeve. “I need to go home. The longer I stay away, the worse his agitation will grow. The worse this will all look. Can you no’ see—”
His jaw hardened. “You’re no’ going home.”
“I am. I can handle Papa.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Calum.”
“Freya.”
“Take me home—”