Chapter 29
Freya woke to pounding on Fraser’s door. Bog exploded in furious barking, claws raking the wood as if he meant to rip through and devour whoever dared knock.
Fraser stumbled from his room, hair wild, shouting for the caller to name themselves—but his voice was swallowed by the dog’s howls.
“It’s Calum—”
At once, Bog fell silent, then bounded with joy, tail lashing the air.
Freya slipped from bed, murmured an apology to Fraser and Gavina, and hurried outside with the dog.
The moment she saw Calum, the memories of the day before surged back, pressing like a weight on her chest. She ought to tell him everything—yet the words died on her tongue when she met his exhausted, worried gaze.
“Why weren’t you at home?” His voice was rough, frayed by sleeplessness.
Her throat tightened. She pulled her plaid closer around her shoulders, eyes still heavy with sleep. “I felt safer here. I thought you would stay in the south and head straight to Knockrome. I’m sorry—I should have left a note.”
He pulled her into his arms, unaware of the fear knotting her chest as her eyes flicked to the trees and brush, half-expecting Rory to be watching.
“No need to apologize. I’d prefer you stay with Fraser on training nights myself.”
He squinted through the dark at the linen wrapped around her hand. “Did you cut yourself?”
Her heart stilled, but she kept her expression light. “A blister.”
He rolled his eyes. “You spend too much time worrying about the state of our floors, MacSorley. Every time I come home you’re bent over them scrubbing. I’m telling ye, it’s a fruitless endeavor between my boots and Bog’s paws.”
She gave him a smile as he lifted her open palm and kissed it. “I think you’re right. It’s fruitless.”
It was explanation enough, and he let it rest. The shadows under his eyes told of a punishing night; sweat still clung to his skin from the drills.
He didn’t ask what had driven her to Fraser’s, and she didn’t offer.
They walked home in silence, her mind circling back to the afternoon—the hunger in Rory’s gaze, her skirts being wrenched up, her father’s cold indifference to her shame.
Later, after Calum had bathed and crawled into bed, he reached for her as always.
And for the first time since their wedding night, she hesitated.
Exhaustion pressed down on her. All she wanted was to sink into his arms, confess everything, hear him promise that Rory’s words—and hands—could never touch her again.
Instead, she lowered herself into the chair, palm pressed to her pounding skull.
“What’s the matter?”
She forced a faint smile and shook her head. “It’s nothing… just a headache. I knocked it on the wall earlier. It throbs when I lie down.” Her voice caught, eyes dropping. “I think I’d rather stay in the chair, if that’s all right.”
He’d straightened, asking softly if there was anything he could do for her. She only shook her head, the movement sharp enough to make her temple throb, and murmured a refusal.
So he left her to the chair, to the crackle of the fire and Bog’s steady snore.
She sat hunched forward, hands clasped in her lap, eyes fixed on the shifting flames.
As she spun her mother’s ring round her finger thoughts circled and collided—Calum’s quiet concern, Rory’s vile words, her father’s hand crushing her mouth and nose, her own hesitation at the bedside.
Again and again she turned it over, trying to decide whether to speak, to keep it buried, or to try and correct the horrible mess she’d made.
By the time the fire burned low, she still hadn’t chosen.
The following day passed in its familiar pattern. She prepared breakfast, saw to the chores, whispered her prayers, returned his kiss before he and Bog left for the hunt. Yet when he lingered in the doorway, his hand warm on her cheek, she wavered.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything the matter?”
Everything was the matter, and she didn’t know where to begin. Instead, she touched her aching temple and forced a small smile. “Just a headache. I’m hale. Truly.”
The cool gray of his eyes misted over her, and he lingered. “Perhaps I should stay home today.”
Her chest ached at the thought. A whole day with him—his presence, his protection—was what she craved, instinctively, elementally, like air or water. Every fiber of her longed to melt into him, to be soothed and safe.
But was she clinging to him only to quiet the truth of what she feared she was—a curse? When he learned about Rory and Papa, what would he do?
She shook her head, forcing herself back to reason. He should go about his day. There was nothing either of them could do about Papa or Rory. “No…though perhaps you could walk me to Gavina’s this morning? I’m sure she wouldnae mind keeping me company. I’ll bring my embroidery.”
She spent the day at Fraser and Gavina’s, and Calum came for her in the evening. Surprise flickered in his eyes to find her still there.
“I simply felt like company today. I’m sorry I havenae gotten your supper.”
Suspicion stirred in his gaze, but he said nothing. She followed him home, set about preparing a simple supper, and then returned to her embroidery. When he asked for a tale, she shook her head. “I’m tired,” she murmured, unable to face telling any more stories—even for him.
When they dressed for bed and lit the night-watch candle, she slipped under the blankets beside him. This time, he would not let her retreat. Gently, he turned her face to his, tracing each feature with tender fingers.
“What is it, mo rionnag1?”
“I suppose the past few months are weighing heavy on my mind.”
Understanding softened his expression, and her love for him deepened. He said nothing, offered no empty reassurances. Instead, he gathered her close, holding her tight. Her defenses crumbled, and she clung to him, squeezing her eyes shut. “I wish I could make everything disappear.”
When he released her, the air grew charged, alive with a pull she could neither name nor resist. She could read his thoughts as if they were her own, just as he could read hers. One thing lay unfinished between them—one thing that would, for this night at least, make everything else disappear.
With one long look, he’d touched her cheek, her ear, her neck.
Absently, her fingers slid over the ridge of his shoulder.
He kissed her slowly, dragging his lips over hers in a tender caress.
For a few moments all she could recognize was how right it felt.
The scratch of his beard against her chin.
The weight and warmth of his hand traveling to her waist. The arm that cradled her close. The way his kiss began to build.
She wanted to belong to him with all of her heart.
But it wasn’t right. It had never been right.
Memories haunted her like tormenting spirits.
The skiff. The stories. The pledge of fealty.
Their dance. The night he’d saved her. Their wedding.
The attack. The sacrifice of his clan. It should never have happened.
He threaded his fingers through her hair, pulling her closer, his forehead pressing against hers. His lips brushed hers, just barely, as if testing the line between restraint and abandon. His voice broke on a whisper. “Please… lass… will you… have me?”
It was the question she had longed to hear since the night he’d surrendered his chieftainship. And yet… she couldn’t say yes. She couldn’t take from him the only chance he had to undo what she had done—the one path that might free him from this marriage, bound to a curse he had never asked for.
Tears spilled, hot and unbidden.
He froze, braced above her, confusion and apologies tumbling from his lips before she could form a single excuse.
“I’m sorry. Och, lass—you’re not ready. Forgive me. I’m a numpty—please dinnae cry. I feel dreadful.”
His swift contrition, tender and unguarded, only made things worse. Soon she was shuddering with sobs, clutched against the steady wall of his chest while he stroked her hair, letting her weep it all out.
“I’m sorry, Calum—I wish I could explain—”
He gathered her close, attempting a soft laugh as he brushed the wetness from her cheeks. “Hush now. You owe no one an explanation. This is yours to give, not mine to take.”
Feeling as though she were already letting him go, she curled into his chest, silent tears slipping down her cheek long after he had fallen asleep. Her heart ached.
He was the rarest kind of warrior—not one who sought to conquer her, but to set her free. He had given her space for her imagination, her words, her voice—allowed her to be wholly herself. And now she must free him in return.
Somehow she had to cling to that final boundary, the fragile line that kept her from claiming him fully. When he was restored as chieftain, she would go to Iona and take the veil. For his sake, for his mission, she must let him go.