Chapter 33
Freya was roused from sleep by a chill at her back.
She turned instinctively toward Calum, only to find the bed beside her empty, the fine linen cool where he had lain.
Blinking against the firelight, she sat up searching for him, still craving the closeness they had shared through the long night.
Instead of him, she found traces of his care—the room had been quietly restored to order, the fire in the hearth rebuilt, their clothes gathered and folded on top of the trunk.
Only one thing remained where it had landed—her chemise, still dangling like a victory banner from the bedpost where it had been catapulted the night before.
The sight stirred a small smile and she rose with a blush to fetch it.
Cheeky beggar—though she could understand the sentiment.
At last their marriage was whole, her heart at rest. How strange it felt to wake not with a sense of worry, but wonder.
She was his wife. The ache in her body reminded her of it, his declarations of the night before still echoing in her heart.
She slid the chemise over her head, then drew his plaid around her as she sank into the deep chair beside the fire feeling reborn.
It had been the most stirring night of her life.
Carefully and patiently he had left her doubtless of the love between them.
Every laugh, every tear, every moment they shared were all still there, but in their closeness it was transfigured, burnished by something everlasting.
In happiness she drew her legs up, hugging herself.
It was as if he had waited years to reveal this side of himself—kissing her not with the gentle affection of recent months, but with a fervor that consumed her.
It was the Calum she remembered as a lad, the one who never did anything by half measure, the lad he had long tried to outgrow.
The blush rose to her cheeks again and she covered her smile with her hand.
She loved it. She loved him. Loved the way he could hurtle from patient to wild in the blink of an eye.
Her heart stilled—except when it put him at risk.
When the speed of his will outran everything else around him.
A flash of thunderbolts promising swift retribution.
For a moment she was back on the beach, watching him strike down the men who had tried to take her—his blows punishing, decisive, fatal.
The gray gloom dawning outside the window pressed in, eerie and foreboding. She would tell him today. God help Papa and Rory when she did.
The door opened. Calum slipped inside, shutting it softly behind him, a tray balanced in his arms. His eyes flicked to the bedpost, then back to her, a boyish look of disappointment tugging at his mouth. “I was hoping that if I left it, you might no’ be able to reach it.”
She chuckled as he strode toward her, then placed a warm, lingering kiss upon her mouth. “Good morning, wife.”
She kissed him again. “Good morning, husband.”
He placed the tray laden with holly, an egg, and a caudle down on the table beside her.
“Did you make this yourself?”
Calum smiled. “Aileen made it. Cara and Aoife did the decorating. I believe they’re near as happy as we are this morning.”
Warmth spread over her face. “I suppose they’re wondering where I am.”
He plopped down upon the rug in front of her, passing a hand over the permanent smile he’d worn since late last night. “I can promise, they’re no’ wondering.”
Embarrassment flooded her and he laughed again, kissing her and drawing her into his lap, his tone victorious. “There’s no getting away from me now. Besides, you ought to be proud. That was—”
She covered her eyes. “Och.”
He grinned, his finger tracing over her lips. “I was going to say that was a long time coming, mo rionnag.”
Unable to help herself she kissed him again. Cupping his bearded face she tried to imagine him as he used to look, then stilled, realizing his eyes were raking over her with adoration.
“You make me feel pretty when you look at me like that.”
His delight was unguarded. “Lass, you’re more than pretty—now I know you’re the most heart-stopping woman to ever walk the earth.”
He tilted his head toward the tray. I believe there is a gift for you.
Curious, she leaned over and found a small square note—Freya Fair written across the front. She plucked it from the holly. “What is this?”
A nervous look flickered across his face as she opened it, her eyes scanning the contents…and then slowing. Reading. She paused, unable to believe it. “You’ve written this? For me?”
He nodded.
With a smile she handed it back to him. “Read it for me.”
He licked his lips, taking the note. “All right—but I’m no bard. I’m just—well—I’m not much for words.”
Affection swelled in her chest. “It makes no difference. Go on, read it.”
He cleared his throat.
“Freya Fair—
My love, the fairest star
Her smile metallic light
Heaven adorned afar
To keep within a jar
I’d love, but only blight
My love, the fairest star
Guiding, leading you are
Beams of love and right
Heaven adorned afar
Clouds form to block and bar
The vast beauty of her night
My love, the fairest star
Wand’ring, without her Mars
The skies I search for sight
Heaven adorned afar.”
He folded the ballad and held it out to her, his fingers unsteady. “You are, and have always been, my Freya Fair—shining your soul’s beauty into the vast night.”
Her vision blurred as she took the vellum from him, hardly able to breathe.
He gave a sheepish snort, rubbing the back of his neck. “Cota Liath said it was… passable.”
She laughed and pulled him into her arms, covering his mouth with eager kisses. “Passable? Calum MacLean, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. Not because it’s perfect—but because it’s yours.”
He straightened, gathering his things into the trunk. “Are ye ready to go, lass? We’ve only a few hours we can spare from home. Iain’s readying the cog now.”
The joy she felt trembled, and she clutched the ballad to her chest wishing it could shield her from what was about to unfold. She nodded quickly, smoothing her expression into something steady. “Aye, I need to wash and change, but I can be ready in a few minutes.”
He buckled on his dirk. “I’ve go’ to go talk with Hector. He said there’s something urgent he needs to discuss. I dinnae ken what.”
The words struck like a bell inside her, sharp and terrible. Surely Hector did not mean to reveal what had happened without her. Her heart leapt into her throat, but she forced a calm mask. “I couldnae imagine what.”
“I’ll meet you onboard in just a few minutes. David will be in to collect the trunk when you’re ready.”
She nodded, her hands sweating as the door clicked shut.
As quick as a hare, she snatched the mirror from the table and froze at the sight—her face streaked with smudged silver leaf, her fletters half unbound and knotted in a furious mess.
Panic shook her hands as she plunged them into the water, scrubbing until her skin was raw and pink.
She pulled a plain blue leine over her head, wadded her discarded finery, and shoved it into the trunk. She would deal with the mess later.
Her nerves were inside-out and simmering with each step as she rushed up the hall, bursting into the kitchen where Cara, Aoife, and Aileen were gathered. They squealed at once, rushing to her in delight.
Aoife clasped her hands. “Oh, it’s happened for you, love. How indescribably wonderful.”
“Aye, yes—but—” Freya’s voice cracked with hysteria. “Cara, he’s gone. Calum’s headed to the cog, Hector has asked to meet with him. I thought he would wait until we were safely seabound to speak of it—I’m no’ even there.”
Cara threaded her fingers gently through the tangles of Freya’s hair, her calm a counterpoint to Freya’s dread. “Shh…shh…he won’t. I know he won’t. He’s likely trying to soften Calum’s mood beforehand, that’s all. All will be well.”
Aileen didn’t look as convinced. Her face had gone ashen, and she signed quickly before yanking off her apron and heading for the door. She nearly collided with David MacKenzie as he stuck his head inside.
“Is your trunk ready, Freya?” His eyes swept over her hair. “Been out in this wind?”
She tried to chuckle. “N–no, I just—I—we…” Her tongue stilled, the words drying up. After a few moments she gave up entirely, cheeks burning.
“I was going to help her with it,” Aoife jumped in smoothly. “She needs another set of hands for waterfall plaits.”
David gave a grunt and strode down the hall, wholly uninterested.
The moment he was gone, Cara and Aoife’s fingers flew, tugging through the tangles and plaiting as fast as they could.
“Aileen’s gone for Léo,” Cara murmured. “They’ll see to it Calum’s in a jovial mood. All will be well.” She repeated it, firmer this time, as if sheer insistence might make it true. “All will be well.”
From the cracked window came a sudden thwapping flutter. All three of them jerked as a silvery-black bird landed on the sill, tilting its head with a harsh squawk.
Aoife crossed herself. “A jackdaw.”
Freya’s gaze snapped to her. “What is it?”
Cara clucked, fingers never slowing as she brought the plait around the crown of Freya’s head. “An old superstition in Ireland. Said to be a harbinger of misfortune.”
Freya fidgeted, wishing their hands would move faster. “We have to go.”
Cara tied the plait, forcing a smile. “All will be well. Let’s go.”
Aoife finished her knot. “Aye, ready.”
They hurried from the cottage toward the beach. The Leviathan bobbed at the slip, Calum’s white-blond head bent toward Hector’s on the deck. Freya slipped her hand into her pocket, searching for his ballad—only to find it gone.
She froze, spinning back toward the cottage. “I’ve forgotten it.”
Cara frowned. “Forgotten what?”
“The ballad. Calum wrote me a ballad. I left it. I cannae lose it—but we must hurry.”
Aoife thrust her small bag into Cara’s hands. “Go—keep things calm. I’ll help her search.”
Cara nodded and ran for the slip.
Freya and Aoife bolted back inside, tearing through the rooms. Not in the bedchamber. Not in the hall. Not in the kitchens. They split up again, retracing their steps, panic rising—until at last Aoife cried out.
“I found it, it slipped under the basin!”
Freya hurried down the corridor and rounded back into the bedchamber. “Thank God.” She snatched the ballad from Aoife and slid it inside her cloak. She turned—
A thunderous clap split her senses. She staggered into Aoife, who cried out as they both went down. Rough cloth dropped over her head. Blind and gasping, Freya clawed for Aoife’s hand and caught it—only to feel their fingers crushed together, then torn apart.
“FREYA!”
“AOIFE!”
Coarse rope bit into her wrists. Freya heard Aoife’s muffled struggle, her ragged breaths, then a violent yank wrenched Freya upright. Something slammed into her middle—an elbow, a knee—driving the air from her lungs.
They were dragged across the house. Hoisted. Then running.