Chapter 12
Freya’s heart threatened to burst as she followed the narrow path through the trees toward the shackelty-looking bothy.
The day had been lovely—a simple wedding, a quiet celebratory meal at Moy with Calum’s parents and friends, and then the journey home to Jura.
Yet now, walking behind him toward what would be their first marital home, she felt only trepidation at what lay ahead.
She told herself she could endure it. For Calum’s sake.
The prospect of congress with him was not entirely repellent, and the thought of children, of one day holding a babe of her own, filled her with happiness.
There was only one path to such a future.
She licked her lips, nerves simmering, and resolved that if for nothing else but gratitude, she could perform this one duty.
Her palms were damp when Calum lifted the latch, only for the door to resist him.
His brow furrowed. He drove a shoulder against the moss-covered wood, and it gave at last, screeching on rusted hinges.
The gap widened to reveal a dark, windowless room that could scarcely be called more than basic shelter.
Rough stone walls leaned beneath a thatched roof gone thin and ragged.
A small hearth sat in the western wall, promising little warmth in the winter to come.
She stepped inside, grit crunching under her shoes as her eyes tried to adjust to the dim surroundings.
Lingering by the door, she watched him begin to build a fire and forced herself not to dwell on what was to come.
She slipped the ivory plaid from her shoulders and folded it into a neat square.
A small table stood shoved against the wall, cluttered with crumpled clothes and loose papers; she cleared a corner and laid her plaid there carefully, wary of disturbing his things.
The bothy was a dreadful mess. Cobwebs hung in corners and drifted with the drafts that seeped through the stones.
A pale arc scarred the flagstone floor where the door swept wide, and in the eaves yawned a gaping notch that might well harbor bats.
The air was damp and musty, the walls earthy and close, aching for a good airing.
Her polished trunk sat prim and foreign in the gloom, stiffly out of place beside his battered one.
She schooled her face into neutrality, even pleasure, though inwardly she squirmed.
If he could be content in such disorder, what else might lie between them that could not be mended?
Overwhelmed, she pressed a hand to her brow, and when she turned again she found him shrugging off his cuirass, his plaid tossed carelessly across her own.
A moment later the leather was discarded too.
His ink-darkened hand reached behind his shoulders to strip away his tunic, and the wolfhound emerged—its paw gripping the hard knot of muscle along his back, the beast seeming almost alive as firelight began to stir in the hearth.
Her heart pounding, she backed toward her trunk and flipped open the lid.
Thinking fast, she tugged pins from her hair, racing to undress while his back was still turned.
Fingers flew over the buttons, shoes were kicked aside, gown and chemise wrenched over her head.
She snatched up a fresh chemise, dropped it over herself, folded the discarded gown and laid it on top.
She turned back, still pulling pins from her hair—finding him fully dressed in a fresh tunic, his mouth hanging open.
Mortification froze her where she stood.
She glanced down at the thin shift clinging to her, then up again, her hands motionless in her half-loosened hair.
Sweet juniper. How long had he been turned around?
Calum’s voice stumbled out, unsteady, his face awestruck.
“I was going to walk to Inverlussa, check on the construction of the watchtowers while it was still light. I didnae realize you wanted…”
There was no way to grab for her plaid beneath the pile of his things. She’d have to pretend that this was what she was intending to do, even though she was silently praying for his Jesus to strike her dead.
“I-I’m an early riser. I always go to bed early.”
Somewhere outside gulls screeched, declaring that it was still absurdly early to be going to sleep.
Calum’s mouth quirked and he pulled the tunic back over his head. “I’ll go tomorrow morning.”
Odin’s nightgown. Heat rushed through her, and she felt her eyes widen, her lips parting before she could stop them.
He had been bare-chested the night she was scalded, but she had been too lost in pain to truly notice him.
Now she could not help but notice. In her memory he was still sixteen, lean and lithe as when he had received the Pictish mark of Jura.
The man before her was something else—broader, battle-carved, a body shaped by ten relentless years of fighting.
The thought of her ruined legs, still bandaged beneath her chemise, filled her with fresh dread.
What would he see when he looked at her—scarred flesh from hip to knee, discolored and forever marked by the worst night of her life?
Grief for her ruined appearance struck hard, and in an instant she felt sixteen again before him—dressed in lad’s clothes, frame thin and unwell, hair shorn, hopeless to match the beauty of the Jura lasses he preferred.
Foolish tears stung her eyes, and at once he was beside her, his eyes soft with concern. “What’s the matter?”
Eyes hot, she blinked hard, fighting to steady herself, unwilling to cry before him. “You’re so handsome, and I’m only a teuchter from Inverlussa. You should have married some pretty lass from Mull, or Skye, or Scotland. I know I’m a disappointment.”
A raw burst of laughter broke from his chest, as though she had said something so absurd he could scarcely believe it. He wrapped his arms around her with slow deliberation. “I’m a teuchter from Inverlussa too—and you are anything but a disappointment.”
The bowed-in walls of the bothy seemed to press closer as he pulled her against him, her body molding to the warmth of his bare chest. His marked fingers traced lightly along her collarbone, pausing at the edge of her chemise where it met her shoulder.
Then, with the crook of an ink-darkened finger, he tipped her chin back, guiding her mouth toward his.
He bent nearer, his breath mingling with hers, his eyes heavy-lidded with intent.
Realizing he believed she wanted this, she willed herself to relax—but the harder she tried, the more her nerves rebelled. She was untried, unworldly, and he was…he was Calum MacLean.
Her arms hung stiff at her sides like carved wood. Where should her hands go? Where did their noses fit? How was she supposed to breathe? His mouth descended toward hers, and in a panic she twisted away as if scalded a second time, toppling backward over her trunk.
Calum froze, dumbfounded, then bent to offer a hand. “I didnae mean to frighten you. I thought—”
Scratching sounded at the door and she burst to her feet, streaks of dirt smudging the white of her chemise. “Someone’s at the door!”
Thankful that someone, anyone, had come to save her, she rushed to the table, yanking her plaid from beneath his armor and sending his things clattering to the floor.
“Wait, lass—”
Not waiting, she wrenched the door open—and was immediately bowled over by a massive, furry black shape. She threw up her hands as the beast landed on her, slobbering across her face while its whip-like tail drummed against her knees.
Calum lunged, but the animal dodged aside, and he came down squarely on top of her in a most compromising sprawl.
Her face blazed hot, and she yelped. He scrambled off her as if scorched.
The intruder, a hulking wolfhound reeking of the outdoors, wobbled to Calum and leapt at him next, plastering his face with licks as its tail lashed the air.
“Och!” Calum wrestled to keep the dog’s slobbering jaws from his face.
Freya scrambled up and threw her arms around the beast’s neck, trying to pull him back. “Come, laddie, that’s a lad.”
The hound bounded toward her in a frenzy of wagging, and she darted around the bothy, clambering onto a chair to escape him. Snatching a strip of dried meat from a shelf, she held it aloft. “Sit!”
The dog’s hindquarters hovered uncertainly above the floor. She tossed the meat, and he snapped it out of the air before lunging toward her again. “Ack—no. Sit!”
This time he planted himself down. “Stay where you are.”
The beast regarded her with eyes hooded by shaggy gray tufts arched like eyebrows, a questioning look creasing his brow as a long strand of drool stretched toward the floor. She lobbed another piece of meat, and he caught it neatly.
Calum pushed to his feet. “Not the venison, MacSorley.”
Rolling her eyes, she dangled another strip before the hound. “I’ll make you more.”
His mouth twisted. “You can smoke venison?”
“Aye. Cannae every lass?”
“I dinnae ken. I’ve never had a lass before.”
The dog barked, and she lifted a finger. “No, no. That was verra naughty. Patience. Now—what are we calling him?”
Calum folded his arms across his bare chest, bewildered. “Calling him? We’re no’ keeping him.”
Another string of drool stretched toward the floor. She tossed the hound a morsel. “We cannae turn him out.”
Calum’s brows arched, his eyes narrowing. “How no?”
“Look at him. Skin and bone, the poor beggar.”
A look of crumpled absurdity crossed his face. He lifted his hands in annoyance. “He’s a wild beast, used to hunting his own food. The more we feed him, the more dependent he’ll be. And you’re still recovering. Get down before you fall again.”
Looping her arms around his neck, she let him lift her down to the floor. She went straight toward the hound, brushing aside his sensible warning. “He’s black all over. What about Blackie?”