Chapter 14
The sky burned red as Calum descended the path through the trees, his stomach cramping at the thought of facing his wife. His steps slowed as the trail dipped through the oak grove toward home.
When the bothy came into view, he halted. It no longer looked so ruined. The tufty grass had been cleared away from the walls, the walk swept, a wreath of holly hung on a door scrubbed clean of moss.
A savory scent greeted him as he pushed inside, and his mouth watered.
He stopped short. The flagstones, once gray with grime, gleamed pale ivory.
A bright quilt covered the bed. Two worn but welcoming chairs faced the fire.
The splintered table wore a linen cloth and a pot of rosemary.
Along the far wall, a board served as a desk, his papers stacked in neat order, quills corralled in a cup.
Their trunks were tucked up into the loft, and bundles of thyme and verbena hung from the rafters, perfuming the air.
And at the hearth stood the most beautiful lass he had ever seen. Hair piled atop her head, leine of pale blue tucked up on one side, she stood barefoot, ladling supper into a bowl. A button gaped at her neckline, baring a velvet inch of skin—and he felt thunderstruck.
He cleared his dry throat. “Evening.”
She hummed a tune, a smile curving over the most perfect, pouting lips he had ever seen. Thought deserted him, swept away by a sudden surge of longing. All he wanted was to draw her close, to kiss her as he had the night before.
Setting a bowl on the table, she beckoned him over with a curve of her finger. “You look pure done in.”
The humor of it wasn’t lost on him. Being attacked by one’s father-in-law and beating him bloody was, in truth, exhausting. “Aye—it was a day.”
He shrugged off his plaid. She held out her hands for it, and after a moment’s hesitation he passed it over. He unbuckled his cuirass and chausses she waited patiently, taking his sword, belt, and armor. “I’ll see to these. Eat your supper.”
As she climbed the ladder with his things, he caught a glimpse of shapely bare calf just before he stumbled over a yelping Bog.
Her head popped from the loft. “Careful. He’s been underfoot all day—big lad in a small bothy. Did anyone claim him?”
Calum sat and unfolded a napkin, still dazed by the meaty supper waiting for him. “Em…no.”
She gave a triumphant laugh and reappeared above. “Does this mean he’s mine?”
He looked up at her radiant smile, knowing he would agree to anything she asked. “Aye.”
A yip of delight rang out as she hurried down the ladder, threw her arms around Bog, and kissed the newly groomed hound—his hair tied back with a neat pink ribbon.
Calum snorted.
“What is it?”
He gestured toward Bog. “The ribbon. The way he’s looking at you. I can see the love hearts rising off his big, dumb head.”
She covered Bog’s floppy ears. “Dinnae be mean to my baby—you’ll hurt his feelings.”
He rolled his eyes, feigning disbelief, though his heart squeezed at the joy lighting her face.
She pointed at the meat. “Go on, eat before it gets cold.”
“Aren’t you going to eat with me?”
She shook her head. “Bog and I ate an hour ago. I was about to take him for a walk so you’d no’ be disturbed.”
He frowned. “Sit. We need to talk.”
Biting her lip, she took the seat.
They spoke at once. “I’m sorry—”
They stared. Then again, together: “Why are you sorry?”
Calum chuckled, reached across the table, and closed his hand over hers. “Before all that, perhaps we need to pray.”
Freya bit her lip. “All right.”
He bowed his head. “Bless us, Lord, and the food I’m about to take, through Your goodness. Bless the hands and heart of my wife who prepared it. Bless our marriage, and help her to forgive me. Amen.”
When he opened his eyes, Freya was watching him, one brow arched.
“What is it?”
She shook her head, blinking quickly. “Nothing.”
He took a bite, the tender meat and sauce filling his mouth with flavor, and grunted his approval. “This is good.”
One perfect gingery brow still arched. “It’s only rabbit.”
He frowned. “Who brought you rabbit?”
“I hunted it this morning by the river.”
His spoon stilled. “You hunted it?”
She nodded. Calum stared, dumbstruck. “That’s my responsibility.”
A glint of humor touched her eyes, her mouth quirking. “Is it?”
“How long did it take you to get the kill?”
She rose, poured him a cup of water, and set it beside his bowl. “About an hour sitting still. Then swift—he came to the burn for a drink.”
Calum shoveled more meat into his mouth, still puzzling. “Where were you?”
“In the brush.”
For a woman to work a bow in dense thickets, threading narrow lanes and awkward angles was a skill he’d only seen in Birdy. “I suppose you skinned and cleaned it?”
Her lips curved, amused at his astonishment. “A’course.”
The cut of masculine skill wrapped in such disarming femininity floored him. “I’ll have to tell Murdoch.”
They sat in quiet for a few minutes, her discordant eyes studying him. The loose button at her neckline tugged at his gaze, and he forced his attention back to his bowl.
“I’m sorry about Da. I know he means to cause trouble.”
Sauce slipped from his spoon onto the table. She reached for a cloth, but he caught her hand. “Leave it. You dinnae need to wait on me hand and foot.”
She shifted. “It’s my responsibility to look after the house. And you.”
He set his spoon down. “I can look after myself.”
The same hurt he’d seen in her eyes that afternoon flickered there again. “What do I do then?”
He looked around at the transformed bothy, breathed in its freshness, and chose his words with care. “I dinnae mean I’m no’ grateful. You must’ve killed yourself to do all this—the yard, the floors, the flowers, Bog. I dinnae ken how a wee lass like you hauled two trunks up a ladder.”
Her mismatched eyes lifted to his, a sly smile curving her mouth. “I’ll never tell.”
The coyness hit him like a blow, stirring fierce longing. He tamped it down. Friend. They were to be friends first.
“I assume you worked like this every day for your papa,” he said gently, “but I wish you’d rest. You’re no’ yet fully healed. You needn’t stay about the house slaving all day. Go where you like. I can look after myself.”
She traced the rim of his cup with a finger, eyes wide and pleading. “I like taking care of you.”
He couldn’t hold back any longer. Leaning over the table, he cupped her face and kissed her softly—once, then again. “I know I hurt you today, Freya. I’m sorry. Losing my temper, attacking your father—it was…horrible of me.”
She eased his hands from her cheeks. “Dinnae be sorry. I’m grateful for what you said—for caring enough to say it. Maybe not for breaking Papa’s nose, but…for the rest. And I ken.”
He frowned, spoon in hand. “What do you ken?”
“That what you feel for me is friendly, and nothing more. It was good the clan heard it from you.”
He went still.
She gave a small, nervous laugh. “It’s nae bother. No man in your place would have treated me so kindly. I’m a pebble in your shoe, and you were generous with your compliments today, but I know you didnae mean them. I’ll stay out of your way. I dinnae wish to be a curse to you.”
She could not have been further from the truth. His voice came rough. “Freya, what I feel for you is no’ friendly.”
Her eyes darted over him, her smile fading. “It tisn’t?”
He drew her into his lap, his thumb grazing the curve of her jaw, the bow of her lips, the fine ridge of her cheekbone.
His hands trembled with the weight of what he had carried for so long.
“What I feel for you passed the bounds of friendship more than ten years ago. It has burned in me ever since—fierce, unrelenting, and impossible to set aside.”
For a long moment they stared at each other, the same pull sparking between them that he had felt the night she rose from her fever. He leaned closer, lips nearly brushing hers—when she suddenly sprang to her feet.
Disappointment crashed through him, sharp and certain. His feelings were not returned. And now they both knew it.
She fussed with her leine, fastening the loose button, words spilling in a rush. “I’ll be out washing the pottery. Can I do anything for you while I’m up?”
He looked away, wishing he’d kept his feelings to himself. “No. I’ve a strategy to think on.”
She balanced the used crockery on her hip, hovering in the doorway. “What sort of strategy?”
“I’ve to win the MacSorleys without your father’s help. And I have to find the one they call the Storyteller.”
Her smile tightened. “The Storyteller?”
“You ken who he is?”
“I’ve heard of him, aye.”
“You’ve never seen him?”
She shifted the pottery higher. “No…never seen him.”
He blew out a breath. “I wish you had. You could tell me who he is, what he looks like.”
The dishes trembled against her hip. “I’m certain he’s about.”
Calum caught on her words. “So he lives nearby. On Jura?”
Her eyes widened, tongue darting across her lips. “I’ve heard some claim they know him. Perhaps I could ask Fraser.”
“When did you first hear the tales?”
Her brow knit. “At Gavina and Fraser’s cottage. From the children—not them, the children. Maybe…ten years ago?” She squinted at him. “I thought the man told stories to help you.”
“You think he’s a MacLean? Someone of my blood?”
“I dinnae think so.”
“But a Juran? Someone in the clan?”
She glanced toward the loft, thinking. “Perhaps. Why do you need to find him now? I thought you’d given up.”
“Your father called Murdoch and me by our war names. He shouldnae have known Murdoch’s connection to the Shield.
That means there must be additional Shield stories, ones that point to his identity.
A few others at the training said new Shield stories crop up every few months.
If the man’s Juran, he’s stolen my father’s missives.
I’ll have to take it up with Da—Heaven only knows how that will go. ”
Her brow furrowed. “You think he’ll resist?”
“He avoids conversation about anything deeper than the weather—about the clan, rebuilding, the Storyteller, our past. You’ve a warmer way with him. Maybe we could visit my parents for supper tomorrow evening.”
She fumbled. The crockery slipped, crashing to the floor. Bog leapt at it at once, licking around the mess.
Calum sprang to his feet, but she waved him off, her brow creased. “No, no. I’ve got it.”
He bent anyway, sweeping up shards and pushing Bog away. “Next time let me carry it, it was too heavy for you. I still dinnae ken how you got those trunks into the loft.”
Her smile was brittle. “I’ve go’ it, Cal, truly.” She gathered the wreck and hurried outside.
Calum sat back down, his spoon poised, but his eyes followed her as she swept food into the yard.
She seemed unsettled. When she returned a few minutes later, still flushed, he knew he must have made her uncomfortable.
“Freya—what I said earlier, about feeling more than friendship for ye. Did I say too much?”
She shook her head, her face unreadable. “No, Calum. …That reminds me, I’ve made a sweet pudding.”
His ears pricked up, as did Bog’s. “I love pudding.”
She smiled faintly. “I’ll fetch some—and warm a little milk.”