Chapter 30
Calum was accustomed to the shift from battle tension to the long, dull waiting of a guardsman.
Yet the expectancy that followed Freya’s performance at Findlugan filled him with an unfamiliar apprehension.
It prickled at his senses, a telltale warning that trouble lurked just out of sight, ready to strike.
At first, he had welcomed the mission. After months of idleness, action had felt like a release. But as the days dragged on and his contact with the others was limited to training nights, that relief soured.
The evidence suggested otherwise. Freya’s first mission had been a rousing success, Hector reported, with Bonnie Morven already reaching the Isles and Highlands, stirring the same outrage as at Findlugan. The assembly of the Juran horde, the next piece of his plan, had come together easily.
Then yesterday, something shifted. He had returned from the north with the day’s kill and gone straight to the chieftain’s smokehouse. As he hefted the stag onto the salter’s beam, unease slid over him, a cool shiver of awareness.
Bog crouched low at the same instant, hackles raised, stalking toward the door.
Hand to his dagger, Calum slipped outside, rounded the squat log building—and saw them.
Ragnall and Rory, standing under the meetinghouse porch, watching.
Rain curtained his vision as he met their eyes. Ragnall lifted a hand in greeting.
Beside him, Bog let out a volley of barks. Always alert to knocks or sounds at the door, this reaction was different—urgent, tense.
More unsettling was the calm on their faces: Ragnall’s neutrality, Rory’s curt nod. Had they jeered, he could have dismissed it. But the courtesy beat like a war drum.
He gave them a short nod, walked over the hillcrest, then broke into a sprint.
Wary they suspected something, he bolted the three miles back to Lealt. Breath ragged, he found only silence. Freya had not yet returned from Fraser’s. The emptiness unsettled him, though he couldn’t say why.
He thought of the night before. She had been unusually quiet, like in the early days of their marriage when she would sometimes slip into long bouts of reflection, sitting in front of the fire with her embroidery in hand, needle still and unmoving.
At last, with gentle coaxing, she had whispered that her mind was troubled.
I wish I could make everything disappear.
Still shaken from training, his heart heavy with unrest, all he could cling to was her presence.
Looking into the harmony of her blue-green eyes, he realized how much he needed her, to ground him, to steady the chaos inside.
And perhaps, she needed him in the same way.
His world had reduced to her face nestled within his hand, to the press of her mouth against his.
At the first touch of her lips, the anger that had been swelling for days dissolved.
Peace washed through him, slow and steady, carried by the movement of their lips.
The kiss unfurled, rich and consuming. She was the only one who truly saw him; she always had been.
And how he loved her in return—his Freya.
He burned for her, needing to believe they would be bound forever.
He broke away, voice ragged, and asked the question he had longed to since their wedding day.
She burst into tears.
Her shock seared him with shame. Words tumbled out—apologies, excuses—foolish and desperate. What had he been thinking? The lass was already carrying too much, and instead of keeping vigil with her sorrow, he had pressed his own longing on her. Selfish. Blind as a daft cuddy.
And that was why he could hardly look at her as they followed the team toward John Mór’s solar in the windswept halls of Rathlin House.
When he had helped her from the cog, she’d met his gaze only to turn away.
The rebuff struck him, hot and merciless.
How could he have been so blind? So consumed by his own longing that he trampled the fragile affection she had begun to show?
His vow to protect and honor her had been smothered beneath desire, and now the weight of it crushed him.
Through the stately corridors of the manor, he searched for words, anything that would soften her silence, but each thought withered on his tongue, sounding emptier and more foolish than the last.
Somehow, he would make it right. Gift her something that spoke to her heart, like her bead had for him. A ballad. Yes—a ballad. It was perfect. Something that would speak to her about his feelings, so that she would know he saw her as more than just a bed companion.
They climbed the long stone steps, passing stained-glass windows that glowed with the nativity. In the third panel, a single star blazed in the corner, its beams spilling over the grazing sheep, the shepherds below lifting their faces in wonder.
Mo rionnag. It was how he thought of her—from the starburst stitched upon her cloak to the way she illuminated his heart.
He could write a love ballad about…stars.
No, one star. Maybe with…beams of light.
Or wandering—something about wandering, looking for guidance?
He frowned. That didn’t seem right. He could do this…
stars… skies… stardust… darkness… lightness.
He frowned again. Was lightness even a word in that sense?
Suddenly it seemed wrong. Lighting? Lightning?
Or was it lightening? Light rays? Blast it all, how did she do this—how did she pour out her heart on the page and make it look easy?
Oh saints. What if he was too dim for this? He’d never been studious.
Birdy tugged on his sleeve and he cast a look over his shoulder.
Why are you scowling?
He turned slightly, signing back. I’m trying to think of how to write something for Freya, something meaningful. Is it L-I-G-H-T-N-I-N-G or is it L-I-G-H-T-E-N-I-N-G?
Birdy made the sign for his sobriquet. Lightning is the weather. L-I-G-H-T-E-N means to make something lighter or brighter. How do you mean it?
His lips twisted in a crooked line. Not the weather. Although I’m not sure I mean L-I-G-H-T— He paused, impatient. What’s the sign?
She brought both hands up, palms turned to the sky, fingers extended with middle fingers curled up. Lighten.
He mimicked her. Lighten?
She shook her head. No, that looks vulgar. Lighten.
He tried again. Lighten?
She shook her head. Still wrong. She made the sign again, sweeping her middle fingers up. Lighten.
They turned down a long corridor, and he walked backwards so he could see her. He repeated the sign again, straining to get it.
No Lightning, LIGHTEN. She caught his hands, reformed his fingers correctly, and drew them up slowly. Liiiiighhhhten.
He pushed her hands away. Forget it. I’ve always been hopeless at language. It was a stupid idea.
A pitiful look crossed her face. Don’t say that. You’re very fluent in my signs.
Skepticism washed over him. How did I do learning the signs compared to Iain, or Rock, or Angus?
Birdy’s face stretched into a tight, unconvincing grin. Really well.
Odin’s beard, I was horrible, wasn’t I?
She shook with silent laughter. It was endearing. It’s still endearing.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN STILL?!
Hector pushed through the heavy oak doors, and Calum held it open for Freya.
He hoped to catch her eye, but she kept her head lowered, murmuring only a quiet thanks as she passed.
Cursed mind. He must master it—find some way to show her he wasn’t a lascivious clod. A ballad would win her heart, surely.
The rain-soaked day cast dim light across the polished flagstone of John Mór’s solar.
The chamber was grand, yet restrained. Velvet-covered chairs lined the walls, as if waiting for judges instead of guests.
Tapestries hung from the walls with motifs of the Irish coastline.
The warm scent of beeswax drifted from a tall candelabrum whose flames glowed steadily against the gloom.
At the far end, the would-be king sat behind a dark-wood desk, hands folded over ledgers and letters. Beside him waited Cota Liath.
The slender minstrel rose with lanky elegance, removing his chaperon with a flourish, its tufty plume swaying. “My lords and ladies.”
John Mór rose, extending a hand to Hector.
“It’s been a success. I was just reading over the dispatches from the MacNeils, the MacQuarries, the MacFies, and the MacAlisters.
They’ve pledged support for our cause and the continued fight against Stewart.
Also the Campbells, though I’m wary of inviting them—they’ve always been keen to exert their own mastery of the west. Of course, there’s some lingering opposition, as I expected. ”
A potent release of relief swept over Calum. The supporting clans were small, but well respected. With Chattan and the Campbells on their side, they might actually have a chance.
Hector nodded, his face neutral. “And what of the opposition?”
John sank back into his chair. “The MacDonalds of Lewis, who temporarily control the lands in escheat1 around Garmoran and Castle Tioram, and Clan Ranald in Moidart have reservations about unseating the ruler. Still, they support the continued war against the Wolf given his increasing proximity to their lands. The MacDonalds of Islay, on lands around Findlugan and Dunnyvaig, have forced Dómhnall out. He’s withdrawn… ”
The look on John Mór’s face was tight with agitation.
Léo’s brow quirked. “Not to?”
John Mór nodded. “Ardtornish.”
They were all staggered. It didn’t seem possible.
Iain drug a chair over plopping down and running his hands through his hair. “Dómhnall would put down a rebellion with an alliance with… the Wolf?”
Freya’s hand shot out, clutching his arm, her face pale. Her knees buckled and her head dipped forward. Calum caught her just in time, holding her upright. A sharp gasp escaped her lips.
The others surged forward, eyes wide, faces taut with concern, swarming around her.