Chapter 23 #2
She’d spent weeks carving the bead, imagining him wearing it for her—a reminder that he was one of them, that he belonged with the clan, and with her. Yet as she lay beside him now, he did not wear it. Her chest tightened. Had he not liked it? Had he not understood? Or, worse—had he not cared?
For the first time, a monstrous wave of doubt overtook her. His pouch lay with his clothes on the chair. Her pulse quickened.
Quiet as she could, she slipped from the bed. With trembling fingers she untied the cord, praying it would be empty. Instead, at the bottom lay her note, crumpled into a wad, along with the bead she had labored over for hours—carved from the stick from their tree.
Tears welled, dismay swelling until it nearly choked her. Did he not want her love? Or just the gift?
A whine creaked from the bed as he shifted, his dark hand reaching for the empty side.
“MacSorley?”
She hastily knotted the pouch and dropped it back on the chair. “I’m here. I—I got cold, I needed my plaid.”
“Come back to bed.”
Irritation coursed through her. “It’s time to get up and start the day. I expect you’ll need to sleep longer since ye were out last night.”
A searing note cut her voice as she swallowed the sting of rejection, hoping he caught it.
Oblivious, he propped on an elbow, hand reaching for her. His sleepy eyes lingered on her shift before flicking away. “Have a lie in with me. Coorie in, I’ll keep ye warm.”
She crossed her arms. “I dinnae have time to lie in. I have chores.”
He kept his gaze averted, arm still hanging in the air. “Hang the chores, MacSorley. Come back to bed.”
Her anger collapsed into hurt. “Stop calling me MacSorley—I hate it. And why will you no’ look at me?
Why do you no longer show me affection? Is it because I hid my role as the Storyteller?
Because I broke your trust?” She perched her leg on the mattress, tugging up her shift as she rolled down her woolen stocking.
“Is it that my legs still look like this, and you cannae bear it?”
Tears threatened. She sniffed, fighting to stifle them, clinging to her anger. “Why did ye—did ye—” She wanted to ask about the gift but the words refused to come.
A vein twitched in Calum’s forehead. His eyes swept slowly from her scarred leg to her face. “What d’ye mean you hate being called MacSorley? I’ve always called you MacSorley.”
She let out an awkward, wet snort. “That was before.”
He blinked, still fogged with sleep but frowning now. “Before what?”
“Before…” The words pressed at her tongue, but she couldn’t force them out. Before I realized I loved you.
“Before we were together. Before you made me feel this way.”
At once Calum was wide awake, pushing up to his knees. “What way?”
Aggravated, she felt herself about to snap, the words rising.
“Like I want you, Calum. I dinnae ken what tae do. Ye look my way, or touch my hand, or make me laugh, and it’s all I can do no’ to kiss ye.
Like I want tae be your…” Her voice cracked.
She clutched her throat, mortification burning through her.
“Like I want tae be your woman. You say the loveliest things to me, then tack on a teasing ‘MacSorley,’ and I think ye dinnae mean them at all.”
His eyes were huge. “I’m sorry, I willnae call you MacSorley.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. She tugged her skirt down, embarrassed, but he caught her hand and pushed it back up.
With startling reverence his fingertips traced the brown, puckered flesh splashed across her thigh, then curled them beneath her knee.
His thumb lingered at the smooth edge of the scar, a powerful look overtaking him.
Their eyes locked in the flickering firelight.
“I havenae seen them since they healed,” he said thickly.
Shame stung anew, and she tried to push his hand away, but he cupped her leg, steady, unyielding.
“They’re horrible,” she whispered. “I hoped they’d fade, but they haven’t. They’re ugly.”
A strangled expression flickered across his face as his hand lingered. His gaze pierced hers.
“Lass, they’re—”
“Ruined.”
He shook his head. “…Incredible.”
She looked away, unable to bear it. “They’re not.”
“Why are you so cruel to yourself?” He tugged at the ties of his braies.
Flustered, she shut her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Showing you something.”
“Odin’s nightgown, Calum—”
“No. Look.”
He shifted the fabric aside, baring one pale leg. From hip to mid-thigh ran a gouging gash, serrated and purple, long since healed but still raw in its ugliness. He pressed it against hers.
“Got it my first battle,” he said softly, placing her hand upon it.
“Took a javelin to the leg and it putrefied. They thought I’d die, but Ursula wouldnae give up on me.
She saved my leg. Helped me stand again, walk again, even run again.
So there ye are. We match. Does it make you less attracted to me? ”
He held her trembling hand, guiding her fingertips across his scar, and a fierce tenderness spread through her chest. Tears burst from her eyes—hot, messy, unstoppable.
He looked stricken. “Saints, Freya, does it?”
She shook her head hard. “You’re—you’re still…still Calum.”
He tied his braies back up and, for the first time in months, pulled her against his chest, holding her tight.
“And you’re still my Freya. My bonnie, beautiful, irresistible Freya.
My heart races at the mere thought of you.
That’s why I cannae look at you. I’m waiting for you—until you’re ready to love me.
But every fiber of me burns to be with you now. ”
She scrubbed her face with her sleeve and pointed toward the pouch. “Then why did ye shove my gift aside? Why did ye cr-crumple my note? I was telling you how I felt.”
His laugh rumbled through her, shaking her against his chest. “I’m sorry, lass.
I wasn’t angry with you—just with myself for being so dim.
I didnae ken if you wanted me to pursue you, or to remain only your friend.
You’ve been through so much, and I feared if I guessed wrong I’d harm you.
I’ve never been much for fancy words—ask Léo. ”
She pushed back, her anger sparking again. “You’ve always been my lad, MacLean. How can ye be so thick?”
He brushed her tears with gentle fingers, flicking them away. His expression softened. “Aye, you’ve always had a place in my heart too, MacSor—” He cut himself short, grinned, and met her eyes. “Freya.”
His gaze wandered, lingering as though to memorize every line of her.
His fingertips traced the hollow of her collarbone, slipping her sleeve down to bare the curve of her shoulder.
Heat prickled across her skin. His breath brushed her cheek, his face only inches away.
When at last his stormy eyes lifted, they burned with a question.
“Just so I’m clear—you do want me to pursue you?”
A tremor stole her breath. She knew that look—predator’s focus, hunter’s resolve. Once he’d set his mark, there would be no turning back. She cupped his cheek, steady and certain. “Aye.”
His mouth curved, slow and dangerous. Leaning back into their bed, he drew the covers down as though opening a secret place. The wolfhound on his arm stretched outward, his palm open, waiting. His voice was low, velvet, threaded with command. “Then come back to bed lass and let me keep you warm.”
Outside the wind howled, pressing against the drafty stone walls. A fresh chill drifted through her, raising goosebumps along her skin. Yet it was the look in his eyes that made her shiver and she knew, deep in her heart, she was ready to be his completely.
Crossing into his waiting arms felt like stepping over a battle line. She slid beneath the blankets, his bare skin warming her, his hand firm on the small of her back. He kissed her temple, then her ear, then the edge of her jaw before finding the hollow of her neck.
His lips lingered there, his breath stirring her skin. “I trust you more than anyone, Freya.”
She pressed closer, listening to his steady heartbeat beneath her ear. “I trust you, Calum.”
Then his voice dropped, weighted, making her pulse hitch. “I need your help. Something happened tonight. I need your counsel, your strength… and your heart.” He held her gaze. “I need to make a confession. I went to the MacNeil herald on Colonsay to send word to the Shield…”