by Lisa Torquay
His wife was not only a warrior-queen, she showed braveness beyond that. To think she struggled all these years to hide and protect their son filled him with overflowing admiration. She left everything behind heedless of the consequences to her, so focused on her aim.
“When did Ross start threatening you?” He asked though he predicted the answer.
“A few weeks before I left.” Her hand tossed her auburn tress back. “He and his brother James told me to leave so as not to produce an heir.” Her hazel gaze locked on his. “Only I did not know I already carried him.”
“And you discovered—” He prompted.
“A month later.” The beginning of a smile came to her full lips as if the memory warmed her.
He finished his food and put the plate away. “And how did you manage to deliver him?”
“As soon as I realised it coming, I walked to a midwife in the McDougal.”
“McDougal?” His stubble cut-glass jaw crumpled.
“If it was a boy, nobody in the McKendricks or the McPherson should hear of it. Here, no one knew who I was.” Her hands joined on the table, her countenance guarded. He could only imagine the hardships she had gone through.
“You are a brave woman, Lady McKendrick.” He offered.
Auburn head bent shyly. “On the contrary, I was afraid of everything.”
“Of course you were, given the circumstances. But you stood up to it.” His voice lowered an octave.
“I had no choice.” Was all she said.
He believed her. Had she stayed in the McKendrick, her kin would have found a way to harm his son, even if she shared her predicament with him. With his clan. The consequences would have been nefarious, she had the right of it. A possible clan war, which would attract English attention and the ensuing loss of his lands and title. His father would pass down the title of Earl the English crown conferred them after Culloden. But a title was nothing compared to the lands and traditions which would be lost. His wife alone held it all together as if upholding a whole wall on her own. It must be his duty to continue her work now.
“I am retiring.” She informed. “Ewan is an early bird.” And left him there with his musings.
Drostan stepped out to care for Threuna.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When the door opened, Freya’s head lifted to see her husband coming into her bedchamber. Her heart somersaulted as arrows of fire shot through her. It had been hard enough to keep looking at him during their conversation, absorbing his big masculine form moving in the cramped front room as a caged wolf.
She did not bother telling him to sleep elsewhere. No use since he did not do it when he found her. In her nightdress, she gave her back to him not to watch him undressing in the intimate candlelight. It would give away how much she missed him. So she lay down eyes fixed on the ceiling, trying hard not to hear the swishing of clothes on the other side of the not-too-spacious double bed.
He also lay his large frame on the straw mattress, taking up two-thirds of the space, their sides touching. One of his hands went under his head, the free arm running along hers. From the corner of her left eye she saw him turn his attention to her.
“Do not worry.” His rumble echoed in the room. “We will pull this through.”
His callused hand reached hers, and their fingers entwined on their own volition. There was no way of avoiding meeting his eyes. “I hope so.” Her breathy voice answered as her hand squeezed his almost disappearing in his much bigger one.
They remained thus for long minutes until his thumb caressed her skin, provoking a shower of goose-bumps throughout her. They did not touch since the attack on the road, and it felt like a lifetime ago.
A lifetime ago, years, centuries of an arid life. A life she must choose in dire circumstances. A life which threw her in loneliness, despair, longing. The only good that came from it was her precious son. Whom she struggled to bring up and protect.
But here, in this faraway cottage, in this frugal bedchamber, in a dim, intimate candlelight, she wondered if she owned the ability to continue in the desert she had lived so far. She wondered if she had enough strength to deny herself all the things she craved, desired. Missed. Everything she locked inside her for this eternity of aridness. Everything that swelled in this moment, with his hand engulfing hers. Everything she remembered, the happiness, the hope, the love, threatened to burst out of her chest with this simple touch. A touch designed to offer comfort, even though it provided so much more. Passion. Temptation. Hunger.
In one swift movement, he came over her still holding her hand, propped on his elbows. Her breath caught, her temperature soared, her resistance faltered. His old-whisky perusal took in every contour of her face as her full lips came apart with the heat she saw there.
In that simple gesture, her questionings came to an end. Found answers. No, she would not be able to remain in that desert. No, she would not have the strength to deny herself. No, she would not be able to hold these feelings inside as they reached bursting point, punctured by that heat in his eyes.
And yes. She said yes when her hazel gaze merged with his. She said yes as her thumb caressed the warm skin of his hand. Said yes to mitigating much of the past longing. At least for the moment, for now. Here. What did she have to lose that she had not already lost? The past, the future? Forever?
So yes. Yes to anything he wanted. Anything she would get for now. Anything that could be tonight.
With a sigh of yes, her lashes weighed down as his mouth came down on a lazy jaunt over her forehead, her temple, her cheeks, her chin. Her nerve-endings registered every single bristle, every single exhale, every single caress with amplified eagerness. Auburn head bent back to make room for his exploration, capitulating with that much ease. To deny him or herself made no sense at that exact moment. No sense at all.
His bristle sensuous lips continued their tour down her throat, to the junction between her neck and her shoulder, where the nightgown interrupted him. He returned up and fastened that delicious mouth on an even more delicious kiss; and she moaned in contentment.
Her hand moulded to his strong neck, over warm skin. Its twin joined in, and they travelled up to wavy smooth hair which caressed each cell of her fingers while they dived with so much longing in the strands. How she missed the feel of his wavy strands! She arched into his bare steel torso and let him kiss her. Let herself kiss him back, eyes closed; and every nerve opened to his ministrations.
Experienced fingers untied the lace of her nightgown on the neck and lowered it with a feather caress. Like the wings of a nightingale, his lips alighted on her shoulder, and the surrounding bristles migrated from there downwards in a sheer recognition mission. His hand departed from the side of her thigh upwards, admiring the curve of her hips, the indentation of her narrow waist. To lodge at her ribs under the fabric as if every inch was precious silk coming from faraway lands.
One of her hands set out on a journey of its own over his strong neck, down a bunched shoulder, appreciating each spot of warm velvety skin; to find the indentation of his spine, and slid along it to its base where it became thwarted by the tartan around his waist.
While she rediscovered his heavenly geography, his mouth set sail down her chest. And latched on the treasure island of her breast, suckling on it to make her go adrift with pleasure. Her frame arched more for him as his other hand wandered to give attention to her other breast, causing a tempest in her sea of sensations.
Her knees bent to cradle him and his famished manhood, revelling with every crisp hair along his legs. She melted into his muscled body, so discontent with the plaid barrier that persisted between their bodies.
But his expedition continued down her length with relentless carnality. Those bristles rounded her navel and proceeded down to the silky auburn patch on the top of her thighs. Only to anchor in the lost paradise of her folds and circumnavigate its hidden pearl as a weathered captain who had studied her map for long years. His mouth rekindled a dormant volcano,
and it came back to life with a sudden explosion punctuated with her gasps.
When he finally pilgrimed back up, her nightgown and his tartan had perished, and their frames glued skin to hot skin. His glorious manhood rested on her belly. One of her hands returned to his luxuriant hair, and the other remoulded on his firm buttock to coax further trips.
He understood his route and positioned himself to fulfil it. And when he entered her, the whole world disappeared and reappeared centred in how delectably he filled her. She received him back in her body with unbridled exhilaration. A sigh escaped her lips, her arms and legs chained him to her length, and she gave him everything in her and more. His strong arm banded her waist as they moved in locked tandem. His head buried in her neck, fast breathing warming the surface there. She wriggled hungry for him. He lunged hungry for her. They would never get enough of each other. Still, they tried. And sought. And moaned. Groaned. Moved faster.
Her wrenching eruption repeated with earthquake intensity. She cried his name and held him tighter if that was possible. His merciless thrusts sped, lost their compass as he flooded her with waves of release, his grunts muffled by her neck; her name uttered as if she was his haven.
Drostan rolled to the mattress and brought her with him as he covered both. The candle cast its waning light over them, but their eyes closed, drinking in each other’s warmth while their irregular breaths went back to normal.
They held fast together wordless since their bodies had done all the communication they needed. Sleep found them sated.
The first greyish rays of morning seeped through the small glass window when Drostan opened his eyes. His large hands palmed the bed looking for his woman and did not find her. His gaze darted to the window to see her standing there wrapped in his tartan, attention on the frost outside. In the night, he had undone her braid as he took her again. Her glossy auburn strands fell down her back dishevelled, the silhouette of her bare slim shoulders and calves visible out of the plaid.
He stood up and came behind her, banding one arm around her waist, the other hand on her shapely hips. Her head fell on his chest, covering it with her hair. The woman who gave life to his son became so much more delicious with her new curves. He had not been able to keep his hands off her during the night. Neither her him, it seemed.
“What are you doing here?” He asked hoarse and his lips found her delicate neck.
When their hands joined together the previous night, he had been unable to stop himself from shifting to his wife and caressing her. It had been stronger than him. And how terribly happy he became when she did not stop him. When she gave stroke for stroke, revelled in his advances, welcomed him in her. Together with her again, reacquainting his body with hers had tasted like coming back to life. As if he lived in this half-existence for the past several years. He had, to tell the truth. Her absence had transformed his days in a barren land, his future in a lonely hollowness. Finding her and discovering his son brought him a newfound drive. The blood-boiling night they had just spent crowned it with special energy.
“Admiring the dawn.” She answered silkily.
“Hm.” From her hips, his hand came to her full breast over the tartan. She sighed her pleasure. “Come back to bed.” He suggested none too subtle.
His Freya turned to him and let the plaid fall to the floorboards, revealing all her glorious femininity. He needed no further encouragement as powerful arms picked her up and put her back on the bed.
They kissed deep, and his state of arousal left no doubt where they were heading.
Drostan stepped into the front room from the bedchamber to find his wife serving a hearty porridge to their son. The sound of the door closing caused her to look at him. Their stares met, and an electric current passed between them. With a blush, she lowered hers.
“Ewan, eat your porridge before it gets cold.” She advised.
But the boy also heard the entrance of his father. “Papa, good morning.” And ran to the tall man.
“Good morning, Ewan.” The father answered. He held the boy’s hand and took him back to the table to do as his mother bid.
Freya gave him a grateful glance, and he picked up his bowl to serve himself. “Do you have any plans for today?” He asked his wife.
“I have to do laundry and mend a few of Ewan’s clothes.” She said, eyeing him bashful.
It meant she would need him to look after his active son. “How about we build traps and go hunting, mo balach? He suggested to his son.
The bairn beamed at him and he swelled with pride. “Can we really?” Then his smile vanished. “I do not know how to build traps.”
“So we will have to learn, will we not?” The father answered.
“Do you know how to do it?” The wee one inquired hopeful.
“Of course I do.” Drostan said. “I started when I was your age.”
“Yay! Let us go.” He stood up, his porridge forgotten.
“Not before we finish breakfast.” He managed to make a serious face though he wanted to smile at the youngster’s impatience.
Ewan attacked his bowl and was done in no time. He ran outside after his father helped him with his coat and boots.
Freya’s hazel eyes followed the little one outside. But his never left her which made her blush when she realised it.
That his wife of five years still blushed was nothing short of mesmerising. So much so that Drostan rounded the table and came near her. Auburn head bent back to meet his gaze and they merged in each other for long seconds. He did not curb the impulse of taking her cheeks in his large hands, caressing the fine skin with his thumbs. Their breaths merged, eagerness hanging in the air. His sensuous lips came on hers. Her lashes fell as she corresponded, opening for him. What started like a quick goodbye kiss soon incandesced, taking longer than expected.
“Papa?” Ewan came in again. Freya stepped back embarrassed. “You are kissing mama?”
Without diverting his attention from her, he answered. “Yes, papas and mamas kiss sometimes.”
The boy approached them. “I kiss mama, too.” He contributed.
Drostan hoisted him in his arms. “Maybe you want to make her happy?”
The boy hugged his mother and bussed her cheek. She curved one arm around his shoulder as her husband did the same to her. The three of them stood in the silent morning connected by this affectionate moment for several minutes.
“Are we going hunting now?” An impatient Ewan demanded, breaking the spell.
“Sure.” He must slip his arm from her. Pity. “We will not go far.” The information meant for her.
“Take care the both of you.” To the boy. “And, Ewan, do as your father says, alright.”
“Yes, mama.” And loped outside again.
Freya watched father and son walking side by side chatting as a sigh drew out from her. If every day of her life could be as this one, spent peacefully around her family. Peaceful during the day and…well…hot in the night. Her cheeks heated yet again at the memory. Her husband had simply outdone himself. She remembered their bursting lovemaking from before, but this time…this time it felt more—she looked for the right word—intense, yes, intense. The years apart matured them, for sure. Drostan became more profound, as if a deep loch ran underneath, calm on the surface, but hiding tempestuous waters. It awed and fascinated her. And made her crave him with a hungrier streak.
Not only that. His taut body also showed delicious changes. He was more muscular, broader, more powerful. A hot wave cut through her. She never wanted to leave her bed this morning. She wished to stay in it and explore every bunched muscle on his body. The mere thought got her ready for him.
For pity’s sake, this would be a temporary situation at best. There should be no becoming too comfortable in it. Sooner or later he would have to go back to his duties and she… What would she do with this scenario?
It would not be possible to hide here until Ewan grew up. They were too near the McPhersons for that. And had not her kin found
out about her son even before Drostan did? She needed an effective plan. And convince her husband of it on the side. Therein lay the point. Her stubborn Laird would not comply easily with any plan if his response to it yesterday was anything to go by. The man wanted to control her every movement. This would generate disagreement between them.
But it would be necessary to wait. Winter would set foot here in no time. Travel would become difficult, if not impossible, depending on the quantity of snow. With a child, it would be out of question. She thought it superfluous to risk Ewan’s health if she could help it. Thus, the waiting game would start with the snow. She had gone through four long winters with the danger they evoked and pulled through. With extreme care and common sense, that is.
She preferred not to remember the strain of the past winters. The uncertainty of having enough to feed Ewan; inevitable trips to the village, carrying the little bundle, afraid of him getting cold. Those diseases which lurked children in this season. Or even mal-nourished adults. The difficulty of finding a healer in that far-away place in case she needed one. It had not been easy in the least, but they got lucky enough to survive. And survive they did.
Freya did the laundry as best as she could and hung the clothes by the fireplace to dry. Since Ewan was out with his father, she gained a leisure time to prepare a bath and enjoy it properly. At ease on an armchair, she busied herself with the mending.
Mid-afternoon, Ewan burst through the entrance holding a hare by the ears. “Mama, look what I hunted!” He exclaimed enthusiastic, flushed with the trip outdoors.
“That is smart of you.” She replied proud. Unfortunate she never learned how to hunt as it had always been a man’s activity. It would have fed them better, she guessed.
Behind the boy, came Drostan wrapped in the tartan that made him so compelling. Their stares crossed and a bolt of heat assailed her. Darn it all! Would she never stop wanting the man? One would think that an entire night with a husband should be enough. At least for a while.