Chapter 27
Soft falls the frozen winter night
Howling wind, the hoarfrost bite
Within his eye reflected light…
Changed by her mission, changed by love, Freya’s hand flew to the page, determined to set in ink the truth she saw in the boy she had loved all her life.
Words long buried in her heart spilled across the page.
She summoned the wolfhound etched upon him—lines winding from fingers to hand, from arm to chest and neck—the living mark that bound him to his clan, and first bound him to her.
In her mind, the inked beast stirred, its knots and runes rising with his breath, as if it might tear free of his skin.
She saw the swell of his chest beneath it, the ripple of muscle lending the creature life, the silent promise of his power.
She felt the fear of his enemies, reading the wolfhound before they ever dared test his strength.
Within the ink they saw the myth; within his body, they would meet its truth.
…Legend whispered on the wind.
She lowered her quill, easing back in her chair to study her work, feeling as though her husband loomed right beside her.
“The Wolfhound.”
By the fire, Bog lifted his head.
“Not you, Boggy.” Her smile lingered on the words. “Da.”
At the sound of his master’s name, the dog’s long, whiplike tail drummed against the footstool, scattering her embroidery across the floor. The sudden mess jolted her from her scribing fog. Dear faeries…Arne’s gift!
The lad was turning eleven today, and she had embroidered a woolen kyrtill to match his father’s, the same acanthus stitched along the sleeves and hem. She had promised to deliver it while he was out pulling nets with his father, so the boy would find a surprise waiting when he returned.
Snatching her cloak, she hurried out the door, whistling for Bog, praying she wasn’t too late.
Even as she ran through the rain and gloom, blissful happiness poured over her like sunlight, every step fueled by the thought of Calum.
At last there were no questions between them.
For more than a week she had tested her new freedom with him—holding his hand, kissing him at will, flirting without shame—and she loved every moment of it.
She thought of the way he had held her that morning, his hands tender, his kisses lingering.
He loved her, of that she was sure, and she was more than ready. The thought made her stomach flip.
If the mission had proven anything, it was that war would soon rise again. And when it did, she wanted him to march into it certain that she was—now and forever—entirely his. She was ready to confess her love, to be his wife in every sense, not merely his companion.
As she leapt over the burn toward Inverlussa, she wanted to sing, to wrap her arms around herself with happiness. She pictured them before their fire, children at their feet. Children—that was exactly what she wanted with him. Headstrong, blond little versions of Calum. She would take a dozen.
His plan would work. She felt it in her bones, knew it in the deepest reaches of her heart. He was too good a man for God to ignore. No one she had ever met was like him—not as kind, not as faithful, not as hopeless at language or keeping a room neat, or as steadfast at loving her.
As she emerged from the hidden path just outside her father’s auld longhouse, her spirits dipped.
She stopped at the stone fence, staring at the home that held such painful memories, unwilling to go inside.
She sucked in a breath, forcing her feet forward.
Papa didn’t live there anymore. She didn’t live there anymore.
That time of pain, anguish, and fear was over for good—and Arne MacSorley deserved his present.
The gate squeaked as she pushed it open, her heart thudding as her feet ground along the pebbled path. She climbed the three steps to the porch and lingered at the alder door. It was new—heavier, sturdier than the last. No doubt one of the men had reinforced it after the attack.
Beside her, muddy-pawed Bog swiped at the door, leaving a fresh scratch. She winced, leaning down to stroke his neck. “Stay here, Boggy. I’ll only be a minute.”
He whined, tilting his head toward the door.
She stood and cracked it open—only to shove it shut again when he tried to shoulder inside, nearly catching his head. “Och, what are ye doing? How is it you’ll listen to your da and no’ to me?”
Dropping her voice an octave, she tried Calum’s tone. “Back.”
Bog’s ears pricked, and he stepped away.
“Back, I said.”
He made a tight circle and moved to the porch’s edge.
“Sit.”
The dog sat.
“Guard.”
He shifted, alert and watchful.
She rolled her eyes. Perhaps it was the deep voice. As she opened the door again, he gave a plaintive, panting whine, nearly breaking his post.
“I’ll only be a minute, ye big baby.”
She slipped inside the darkened longhouse, surprised to find none of its thirty-three inhabitants at home.
Restlessness clawed at her, a sharp, panicky feeling as if the walls were closing in.
Nearly twenty-six years of confinement felt as nigh as the day she had been scalded.
Irrationally afraid, she stumbled forward, arms out, groping for the back window.
She fell three times—over trunks, makeshift pallets, and a wooden toy or two—finally reaching the rough-hewn boards of the wall. She felt for the window shutter, but it was nailed shut, another likely precaution from the attack.
Sparks flew from the back of the room into a tinderbox, the flame licking upward and illuminating Papa’s face.
All thought dissolved in her mind; her hands trembled. They hadn’t been face to face since the day he became chieftain. He held out the flame, lighting a candle in an unseen figure’s hand.
Rory’s dark eyes held a look she’d only seen in Calum’s—but this was different: crude, lustful. “You’re late.”
Fear leapt into her throat. “BOG!”
It was all she managed before Rory stormed across the room, covering her mouth with one large hand. He pinned her to the wall as she kicked and struggled. Bog’s claws scraped against the wood, sniffing at the door. Dear God, if only she could scream.
“Wheesht. Don’t be afraid. We just want to talk with you, Freya.”
She shook her head furiously, lashing out like a wild woman. Her fingers broke free long enough to rake across his cheek. Papa was on her in a second, pinning her arms. Rory struck, his hand connecting with her cheek in a furious slap.
“BOG! BOG!”
Papa clamped his hand over her mouth and nose, holding until her lungs burned. Bog barked and gouged at the door while she thrashed, struggling for precious air.
His eyes bulged, bloodshot and wild, sweat rolling down his brow despite the chill. His hand trembled with rage. “If you scream again, I’ll end you. I swear it.”
She forced herself still, slowing her pounding heart, nodding once. Still he didn’t let go.
“If you so much as peep, you’re done. Do you understand?”
Spots danced before her eyes. She nodded again, tears spilling over his big hand. At last he released her. She sucked in air, head throbbing, keeping silent.
Rory drew his dagger, leveling the point at her chest. “We’ve had an interesting report from the Council of the Isles. A female minstrel performed on Findlugan, Saint Valentine’s Day. Told a tale about the MacKenzie whelp who died in one of the Wolf’s campaigns.”
Her mind raced, scrambling for what they might know. She schooled her face into stillness.
Rory leaned closer, the devil’s grin on his lips. “It reminded me of something.”
From his tunic he withdrew a roll of parchment tied with saffron ribbon. Unfurling it, he held it out—the tale she had written of Lochindorb.
She swallowed, masking the tremor in her hands as she took it. “What is it?”
Rory shook the parchment. “Do you see? Do you see who’s named within it?”
Pretending ignorance would get her nowhere; it would only incense them.
She nodded. “Aye. Cù Cogaidh.”
Papa’s grip on her arm tightened until it throbbed. “Did you know Rory was sent to root out the author? Did you know the king hunts him now for high treason?”
She drew a steadying breath, keeping her face smooth. “He sent Calum, not Rory. At least that’s what my husband told me after we wed. And yes, I’ve heard the king worries about the secrecy of the tales. Who wouldn’t?”
Papa’s eyes narrowed. “You used to be a biddable daughter. Now you speak with no respect.”
She lowered her gaze, feigning meekness. “Forgive me, Papa. I mean no disrespect. I only wish to be honest—to help you find the answers you seek.”
The lie stung her tongue. Anger kindled. How dare they? What right had they to detain her, to seize the clan, to rule as if they were gods when they were nothing but men? She could do this. She must—for Calum, for Tyr, for Rock and Morven, for the mission.
Rory leaned in, breath hot on her cheek, his fingers clamping her chin, eyes boring into hers. “We’ve had more than one report from villagers claiming you have a talent for tales.”
This part was tricky. She drew a breath, considering her words.
At last she gave a careful nod. “I’ll admit it—though I’m ashamed.
Yes, I sneaked out a few times to tell stories, but only to the children of the clan.
I swear it on my mother’s grave. I told them her stories—of Queen Boudica, Finn MacCool, of Kelpies, Merrow, Púca. How would I have known tales of Calum?”
It was the truth—or part of it.
Papa leaned close. “Tyr. He could have told you.”
Freya blinked, praying the risk she was about to take would not endanger anyone else. “When would he have told me? Ask any of the families—Tyr was never at our storytelling nights. They were faerie tales for children, not war reports for grown men.”
Papa snarled and thrust her hand over the flame of the candle. Heat seared her skin, and she gasped, chest heaving.
“Where did you tell these stories?”
“Different houses. Many different ones.”
“Whose?”