by Lisa Torquay
Next moment, his muscular frame shifted. To her. Unconsciously, a bunched arm banded her waist, a hand cupped her round beaded breast and a stubble mouth glued to her nape. Her entire body vibrated as their length touched. He still had his tartan around his waist which did nothing to disguise the bulge of him cradling against her. He used to hold her thusly after he took her to that sensual paradise she found only with him
The temptation to cover his hand with hers, to lean on him, to move so as his masculine lips grazed more soft skin assailed her like a rapid river rushing over her. Helpless and inevitable in its swirls and twirls, drowning her, carrying her to its depths.
Her breath caught in the struggle to stay immovable and hope he would switch to the other side soon. But he did not. Not while she was able to resist. Long minutes passed, her whole being clenched in arduous restraint. Her muscles started aching with the effort. Moving to untangle from him must have awoken him. His steel arm remained stubbornly tight around her waist.
“Freya.” He murmured in her ear before his mouth went wandering over the curve of her neck, pulling the fabric of her nightdress and advancing towards her shoulder. Goosebumps sprinkled over her together with ripples of sensations so familiar, so missed, so starving.
If she gave in to her impulses, he would know. He would know nothing had changed. Know her feelings for him still survived. No, increased. Deepened. Despaired. He would not let her go. She would not go. Not willingly. She would not have the strength. Not this time. Not ever again. Which would turn out to be a suicidal decision. Made even more serious because there was Ewan to consider now. His safety. His life.
So, in a brusque jerk, she jumped out of bed trembling like kingdom come and paced to the other end of the cramped chamber. One dainty hand clamped her mouth to stave her breathless, ragged state.
“What the blazes are you doing?” Her heated utterance came furious, channelling the cauldron of how he made her feel.
In the pitch dark without the candle, she did not see him. Jagged breaths came from the bed though. Restless movements. Hands grazing on stubble. The wooden frame creaked, feet touched the floorboard.
“You know what I was doing. We did it countless times.” The rumble of his tone neared. “Ewan is here to prove it.”
“And you think I am available whenever you are?” They had been apart for four years for pity’s sake! And time vanished when he touched her as if he had done it just this morning.
“You used to be.” His chuckle reverberated in the air. “Eagerly.”
Eager? No. Famished! Up to this very minute.
“Not anymore.” And she wondered when she would stop lying. It became tiresome after a while.
“Really? Your body sent a whole different message.” The remark came dripping in smugness.
“You read me wrong.” She contradicted. Another lie.
“Did I?” The question came rhetorical as his tone implied he had the answer.
Her face received his large hand, callused, firm, warm. The desire to move her head and kiss it nearly undid her. Her breath hitched, her eyes bulged unseeing. A blunt thumb found her lower lip and caressed it. Her lashes weighed down; the need to suck that thumb in her mouth ached. And ached some more.
Tartan touched nightdress as he came closer. He was going to kiss her. One of those delicious kisses—his calamitous specialty.
She mustered the rest of her feeble strength, drew in air and steeled her voice. “Stay away from me.” It came out sure and definite. Cold.
The large hand fell away. She sighed relieved. No, not relieved. There would never be relief. The ache still throbbed in her. Endless. At least, she succeeded in putting distance between them.
So much distance that the chamber door opened and closed. He left her alone. And lonely.
A lonely as brutal as it would eternally be.
CHAPTER THREE
A night spent sitting on a bench by the fire did not predict a very fresh day, Drostan thought as he saddled his horse before sunrise. Neither did the frustrated desire which had coursed through him from the moment his wife opened this blasted front door. To tangle with her in his sleep proved to be fatal. A fatal weakness he seemed unable to get rid of, damn it!
This rekindling of his body with hers compared to inebriation with the finest whisky. The coarse scent of soap on her silky skin merely heightened his already sharpened senses. His hunger for her escalated tenfold instead of dousing. She was leaner, but her breasts became more voluptuous and her hips more enticingly rounded with childbirth.
His bairn. His family. His woman!
Her response to him so much more...heated. She might deny it if she wanted, but there was no contradicting its intensity. Keener, sultrier. More urgent. As if these years apart had affected her, too. Because it did him. More than he cared to admit. To find her here bared the depth of it.
During her absence, he had tried to dampen the void her disappearance caused in him. The manor’s daily chores transformed in his refuge. A way to forget. A way not to seek answers. Or to seek her. The moment he had first set eyes on her, she spoiled him for other women. The possibility of sharing his body with anyone but her disgusted him. No solace for him, no. Just loneliness and unsolved questions.
Her rejection implied he must stay away. To accomplish it would mean torture of the most refined cruelty. If only he stopped wanting her. If only he brought himself to eliminate the memories. Their time together engraved itself in his brain, though, minute by torturous minute.
One thing he should not ignore. Drostan would have to decide what he would do about Ewan, his heir. The bairn must come to the McKendricks. He needed training on the duties he should carry out when he inherited. He required protection and guidance. Impossible to obtain those in a crumbling cottage with precarious conditions. On this, he would not compromise.
“Papa.” The Laird turned to a yawning Ewan.
“Good morning, son.” He suspected Freya would not allow the boy out this early. He would usher him inside before he left.
“Are you leaving?” The rising sun illuminated his tousled hair and the cool breeze dishevelled it even more.
“I need to, mo bhalach, my boy.” He fastened the saddle buckle. “I would like to stay longer with you, but I have duties waiting for me.” The wee one must recognise his father cared for him.
“I want to go with you.” At this, Drostan straightened and stared at an identical pair of eyes.
“Your mama would not allow it.” He explained.
“Bring her, too.” He rubbed his eyes.
“I cannot.” Air exhaled forcefully through his nostrils. If things were as easy as a child imagined them.
“I do not want to be without mama.” The sadness in his cherubic face tore him in two. “But I would like to see your cottage.”
“I live in a manor.” What his bairn asked was to have both his parents together, his behaviour clear on that.
The younger stance lit up. “Really?”
“Yes. And rather bigger than a cottage.” The boy neared and Drostan crouched to his level.
“Oh.” His tiny brow creased. “Can I come and see it?”
“Maybe.” Of course, Freya would object to it. But he was the boy’s father, was he not? In a marriage, the children belonged to the father after all.
What if he granted it, Drostan contemplated? He might take the boy to meet his family and ride with him back here in a day or two. The temptation loomed too great. If he took his son, she would follow, no doubt. Not a very noble way to lure her back, he understood. But they would find a middle ground in this foggy situation. And if she did not come, he would bring Ewan to her. She would certainly be worried sick, and he had no intension of distressing her.
“I will bring you here in less than a week. Agreed?”
Ewan beamed and nodded. “Agreed.”
Without stopping to consider the morals of it, Drostan rushed inside, found a scrap of paper with a pencil, and scribbled a note
to Freya. He grabbed Ewan’s worn coat and dressed him in his humble rags. The McKendrick lifted the boy on the saddle before mounting behind him and setting off on the dusty road.
Hours later, Freya awoke from a restless sleep to the sun leaking through the creases on the wooden window. Her body jerked up as she looked around. Birds song broke the morning stillness as she tossed the covers and hurried to dress. Ewan would be about soon, and she must prepare his breakfast. Luckily, she bought eggs and a little bacon the last time she walked to the village.
In quick movements, she put on her second-hand dress and left the chamber. To enter an eerily silent front room. Little light came from under the closed door. Hazel eyes darted to the cot. Empty. Rushing there, she touched the blankets. Cold. He had gone for long.
Worried, she scrambled to the unbarred entrance and threw it open. No horse. And no hope the worst had not happened. But she checked around anyway. Ewan liked climbing trees and exploring the river bank. Nothing.
Her hand rubbed her brow as she paced towards the front room. Light poured in. It fell on paper and pencil on the table.
Ewan asked to come with me. I will bring him back in a day or two. D.
Blood curdled in her veins as her sight darkened perilously. She covered her face with unsteady hands on the verge of collapsing in a heap of terror on the floor. Trying to swallow on gritty throat, she forced herself to inhale deep, and avoid losing consciousness. Her feet scrambled to the basin where she splashed freezing water on her face. It did not get better.
The extension of what had just transpired hit her like a down-hill rolling rock.
Four years straining to keep her son in anonymity razed with a one-line note. Just like that, father and son launched themselves into deadly danger. The urge to scream, to cry, to hit something stormed in her like a hurricane.
Since Ewan was born, she had made him wear hoods to conceal his face. She had walked through back roads to avoid meeting familiar people. Had trekked to the most distant markets and villages outside McKendrick lands. And had dressed in a way to blend in with the crowds.
Ewan counted too few friends because she allowed him limited contact with children his age. Freya met no friends because small villages tended to make the wrong news run too fast to the wrong ears. The Lady McKendrick had not seen her parents since Beltane more than four years ago, and had not heard of them either.
She gave up the husband she loved more than everything. Deprived Ewan of a father. Deprived herself of social interaction. Deprived her son of the comforts he was due. Lived in the shadows, hiding, looking over her shoulders, dodging unnecessary risks.
And the tears? Buckets-full of those. For her. For her son. For her fears. For their losses.
But mostly, she had lived in fear. Fear that any tiny slip would burst a clan war that would threaten Drostan’s life. A war that would attract English attention and jeopardise everything the McKendricks held dear. Their clan. Their traditions. Values. Traditions which they kept with preciousness. Those which inspired admiration and respect in the Highlands.
All rendered useless by a one-line note. Crumbled. Gone to waste. Turned to dust.
Impatiently, she dragged her hands over her tear-streaked face, and steeled herself. Despair would take her nowhere.
How on Earth would she put this to right?
First, she must go fetch Ewan. Nonetheless, walking to the McKendrick in broad daylight would be a foolish thing to do. It would have to be after nightfall. The long distance would take hours to cover. It mattered not. The most important was to return Ewan to safety and keep his domineering father at arm’s length. And safe, too.
Meanwhile, there were chores she must do in the cottage. Repairs, cleaning, tending to the vegetable garden on the back. Followed by a dip in the frigid river to keep alert. Intense activity would hold sanity and her hands too busy to fret.
Freya lamented she did not have a black cloak. It would help her mingle in the dark. What she did have was a very worn and mended one which had been green once—when Drostan gifted it to her. Faded and old, it still shielded her from the crisp autumn air.
Her feet gained the road to the McKendrick at the exact moment it started to rain. Darn it. It had not rained all these days. But now it poured the skies open. It did not signify, it should be a small price to pay for what she must do.
One hand pulled the hood to better conceal her face; though it would be difficult to identify her in the faint lantern she carried. Her old boots sloshed on the puddles, causing her feet to freeze. She shut her mind to the discomfort and forged ahead.
A little less than a year into her marriage, two of her third cousins had caught her unawares collecting flowers by the loch not far from the manor. Ross, a not so popular McPherson chieftain, and his younger brother James were manoeuvring to snatch power in the clan after her father passed.
Her father, Irvine, was the youngest brother on the lineage of their clan’s Lairds. Like his much older brother, Stuart, Fiona’s father, he issued no male heirs. The unwritten rule dictated that in the lack of male heirs, an election should ensue. The clan must appoint names. Also, candidates could step forward for the election. These candidates might be any kin with a drop of McPherson blood.
Therein lay the problem. Should Freya produce a male offspring, he would become a strong name for succession as a direct descendant of the McPherson laird, albeit through a female. Because Irvine could appoint him as the successor. As the male heir, Ewan held the chance to unite both clans and shift the power balance in the Highlands. Ross and James did not like the idea. Hence, they wanted to prevent her from having any children. They threatened to “eliminate” any male heirs she may have. To stand on the safe side, they instructed her to leave, or would kill Drostan if she did not. Naturally, she was not to spill a word of this to The McKendrick, or…
Ross, followed by James, had incurred in every dishonesty possible. Nobody could prove it, but rumours abounded.
After her kin spoke to her, Freya spent weeks torn with doubts. If she did what her instincts guided her to do, and talk to Drostan, she would put his life in danger. And she preferred a trip to hell than cause this. Even more serious, it might deflagrate a clan war. Informed of the threat, The McKendrick would not hesitate to do everything in his power to safeguard his family.
If she told him nothing, she would be complying with her kin’s criminal designs. With the dreadful consequence of it inadvertently helping them achieve their aims—thereby putting her clan in the worst hands possible.
Her father and her old uncle before him had steered the McPherson into peace and prosperity. Stuart’s daughter married The McDougal, Taran, in a valuable alliance. Their son, Sam would inherit after The McDougal. Of course the union did not go so well since Fiona did not carry out the marriage as she should have before her tragic death in Aberdeen. But an heir they produced anyhow.
With Stuart’s passing, Irvine continued his brother’s work with impressive improvements. The marriage agreed between Wallace, Drostan’s and her father consolidated the clan’s position in the Highlands.
Not that she had been any disagreeable with her destiny. She had hoped for it, in fact. To have fallen girlishly in love with her future husband at sixteen, at twenty-one, she burned for him. Her friends regarded her as the most fortunate bride in the world because Drostan gave all the signs he corresponded. Freya thought herself lucky, too. And thus it was that she felt so elated in her wedding day, she could hardly hold it in herself. The whole of the McKendricks and the McPhersons witnessed her happiness. Which gave her kin leverage for blackmail.
After deciding that Drostan’s life was much more important than any clan skirmish, she left as if it had been the last day of her life. And it had. She died inside the night she stepped into the late summer air with unknown destination and a shattered heart.
Two hours into her sloshing in the mud proved to be extremely arduous. The rain stopped by then which made it slightly better though her
clothes got thoroughly soaked. Autumn wind blew into the threadbare fabric chilling her skin. Nonetheless, her blood ran so troubled she did not feel it.
The swishing of trees in the pitch dark made for an eerie journey. With no moon and an overcast sky, danger loomed. A noise deep in the woods startled her, and she ran to hide behind a huge rock on the road side, hoping it was not a wolf in search of its meal. Or a bear. Even if it would be better an animal than a threatening human being. The night went still anew before she regained the road.
Hungry, exhausted, cold and in squirming emotions, Freya approached the McKendrick’s front porch as early morning light fell on her face. Her heart flipped with the splintering memories that struck her. This had been her home—her happy home—for the best part of a year.
As her hand drummed the door-knocker repeatedly, she waited until the butler unlocked it. And his crinkled eyes widened on her. “My Lady McKendrick.”
It had been a long time she did not hear the title uttered to her, one more gash bleeding from another life. “Good morning, Baxter.” A freezing hand pulled the hood away from her ashen face. “I need to see Ewan.”
The old man’s brows creased at her bedraggled state and made way for her. “I am afraid there has been an accident, my lady.”
Her head snapped to the man, brows creased. “An accident?” A dainty hand rubbed her dusty forehead. “Ewan…” Wide hazel eyes swam in anxiety and her heart boomed with tragic possibilities.
“Ewan in fine.” Drostan’s grave voice came from behind her. Then to the butler. “Baxter, have a warm bath prepared in my chambers and a tray of breakfast taken up, please.”
“Yes, my laird.” And hurried away.