The Madam's Highlander

by Madeline Martin

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Freya stared at her mother in horror.

  Ma's upper lip curled up. “Dinna look at me as if ye're shocked. Ye canna expect us to sully our reputations by going to a place where people know about ye. It's bad enough ye're besmirching Ewan by,” she flicked a gaze around the room for Lily before she hiss-whispered, “pretending to be his wife.”

  The fire within Freya which usually rose to such an occasion dwindled beneath her mother's dousing words. In all Freya’s time owning Molly's, never had she felt shame. Yet now it blazed in her cheeks and sat heavy on her tongue.

  “I'm proud to call her my wife.” Ewan stood beside Freya and put his arm around her. “I'm as proud to call her my wife as ye should be ashamed for what ye've said.”

  Ma's cheeks went red. “Ewan, how dare ye—”

  He stepped forward and drew himself upright. “Nay, my lady, how dare ye? Ye allow the coin she makes to feed ye and clothe ye and keep ye in the lifestyle ye were accustomed to. Even before that, ye allowed her to try to run the farm on her own, and then travel to Edinburgh alone to sell herself into servitude. Her profession was one she found by accident. It’s afforded ye a good life - and ye shame her for it?”

  Freya's heart squeezed, this time not with shame, but with such visceral appreciation for the man who defended her on one of the few rare times she actually needed it.

  Ma's mouth flapped open, but Ewan put a hand up to stop her and continued, an imposing figure with his massive shoulders squared and his jaw hard.

  “Do ye know what she does in Edinburgh?” Ewan asked, his voice near booming. “Aside from what ye think - she takes in war widows. They can work there if they like, but she allows them other forms of work and offers free education so that they might find themselves the type of employment they prefer. She even donates food and used blankets to wounded soldiers and to the poor.”

  Ma regarded Freya, her eyes liquid and unreadable.

  Ewan resumed his position beside Freya. “I think ye're ungrateful, and I'm ashamed for ye for the lack of gratitude on yer part. I dinna know what ye expect of a woman left alone to provide for an expensive household, but I think Freya has done the impossible. And I'm damn proud of her.” He stroked a hand down Freya's face and regarded her with such pride and affection, she wanted to kiss him.

  To kiss him, and more. Her body tingled with the memory of his naked skin against hers, those powerful muscles hard beneath her fingertips, pressing against her breasts.

  “I'm sorry,” Ma said.

  Freya pulled her attention from Ewan and looked at her mother to find Ma’s thin brows drawn together over her puckered brow in a wounded expression.

  “I dinna know - I - I dinna think...” Ma stared down at her withered hands for a long moment, as if considering the ropey blue veins beneath her translucent skin. “That's exactly the problem, lass. I dinna think. I judged, and in spite of that, ye pushed on and worked a miracle.” Her mother's words choked off. She swallowed and tried again. “I dinna know ye helped others so much.”

  When Ma looked up, her eyes were red and tears ran freely down her cheeks. “I'm ashamed of me too, Ewan, and I thank ye for being so brave to tell me what I needed to hear.” She came forward and, without hesitation, settled her warm, dry palms on Freya’s forearms. “I'm so, so verra sorry, lass.”

  She stared at her mother’s hands upon her and reveled in the heat seeping into her skin, down into her blood, her bones, her heart. Ma curled her arms around Freya’s waist, drawing her into a hug.

  She was a full head shorter than Freya, and her arms were thin as bird legs, but there was nothing quite like a mother's embrace. It quelled all the hurt and doubt in a single heart-melting moment of love and acceptance.

  “I'm so proud of ye,” Ma whispered into her ear, and tears prickled at Freya's eyes.

  They broke apart, and Ma pulled a handkerchief from her pocket to dab at her wet cheeks. “I think I'd like...” Ma smiled shyly. “I'd like to help ye teach yer ladies too. Let's prepare for Edinburgh.”

  “We are no' going anywhere for a while.” The soft, feminine voice came from the other side of the room. The three of them turned to find Lily standing in the doorway with a grim expression on her face. “Marian will have the child soon.”

  ***

  Minutes passed like hours. Silence became a tangible thing which clung to the mind and strained upon the inner ear. The carriage Captain Crosby had arranged arrived and lay hidden in the barn, the trustworthy driver content to nap within as he waited for Marian to deliver her child.

  Even then, they might not be ready.

  Ewan waited with the others, quiet in his impatience. Freya sat at his side, her expression furrowed with worry. He didn't blame her.

  According to Freya's mother, Marian's labor was starting far too early. Ewan didn't know much about babies, but he knew this was never a good thing.

  The mothers were in and out of the room with Marian, pausing from time to time to whisper between them, information they did not share with anyone else. Their nervous frowns, however, kept anyone from pressing for details.

  After all, what they did not know could not break their hearts. Yet.

  The English captain was perhaps the worst of them all, pacing like an anxious father and jerking up with puppy-like anticipation at every opening of the door. Each time, one of the mothers would shake her head and the captain's shoulders would fall, his pacing resuming.

  “Thank ye,” Freya said softly to Ewan. “For what ye did with my ma. It was kind of ye.”

  Ewan stared down at her. The glow of candlelight caught like strands of gold in her hair and left her skin creamy, the smattering of freckles like a constellation of beautiful stars over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She was perhaps the loveliest woman he'd ever seen. Not just in this light, but in all light. Ever.

  “Ye dinna need to thank me,” Ewan said. “I meant every word of it.”

  She studied his face for a long moment, her expression gentle. “I like the idea of ye working the farm with me when spring comes.” Her gaze flicked to his. “I like the idea of being with ye that long.”

  Ewan's chest tightened, not because he didn't want to be with her that long too, but because he did.

  And he knew it wouldn't happen.

  A soft moan came from Marian's room, the girl within as tender in her struggle with labor as she was with all things in her life. The captain scrabbled to the door and pressed his ear to its wooden surface.

  Freya's worried expression flitted from the direction of the moan and back to Ewan, seeking comfort.

  He reached out and took her hand in his. “Tell me what this spring will be like, so I'm ready.”

  She turned her face from Marian's room, as if doing so might block it all. “We'll have to ready the soil with the tools ye so carefully sharpened. It's been a while since the land has been turned and it may be a bit stubborn.”

  “I deal well with stubborn,” he said.

  Freya smiled and, was it a play of the firelight, or was a blush spreading over her cheeks?

  “Aye, that ye do,” she conceded. “And the land will be hard, but ready to be broken into black, lush earth where we can then spread the seed. It's hard work.”

  “I dinna mind hard work. And I'll get to be with ye.” Heat touched his own cheeks now. His gut twisted. He shouldn't be doing this, painting the scene for her that could never come to pass. And yet he could not help but give himself the opportunity to dream with her, to see it on her face. To have this combined wish to cherish, along with the memories they’d already made together.

  “I like being with ye,” she said.

  He reached out a hand and stroked it over her smooth face. She closed her eyes and turned into his palm. His heart swelled.

  “I like ye being my wife,” he said quietly.

  Her soft intake of breath whispered over the heel of his hand. Her eyes opened and regarded him with a beautiful blue he would nev
er forget.

  “I dinna want ye to do it, Ewan,” she said.

  He didn't bother to ask what she referred to. She understood his intent even as she’d played along with his fantasy.

  Ewan stroked her cheek. “I have to.”

  She shook her head free of his tender hold, and tears shone bright in her eyes. “Ye could go now. Ye could run and then we can meet up when it's safer for ye.”

  “They'll interrogate ye,” Ewan said. “All of ye. And they willna always be kind about it. Freya, ye’ve seen what they do.”

  “Ewan, please, I—”

  The whinny of a horse broke through the silence. The clop of hooves on the hard-packed dirt outside the home became apparent. Several sets of hooves.

  Freya stiffened and fumbled with her full skirts. She grabbed the pistol and shoved it at him. “I'll fight by yer side.”

  The pistol's weight was hefty in his hands, the metal cool against his palm. He shook his head. “I canna.”

  “Ye can,” she whispered vehemently.

  “And risk a bullet hitting Marian as she labors? Hitting one of our mothers? Risk losing ye?”

  “Ewan.” Her voice broke on his name. “Ye canna go. I...I...”

  Footsteps pounded up the few stairs and thundered over the porch. Danger loomed over them, coming closer, closer.

  “I love ye.” Emotion left her voice thick and tightened its grip on Ewan’s own throat.

  He pushed the gun into her lap and settled her hand fully atop it. “I love ye too, my beautiful, fiery Freya.”

  A fist banged heartily at the door, and she gave a little jump. She slipped the pistol hastily into her pocket and gave a nervous glance at the door. “Please, Ewan.”

  Captain Crosby strode across the room, his shoulders squared.

  “I love ye,” Ewan said again, this time with more ferocity, with all the warmth swelling in his heart and the desperate hurt shattering his soul. Then he bent over her and captured her mouth with his, savoring the fullness of her bottom lip, the soft brush of their tongues, the sweet powdery scent of her embracing him.

  He wanted her scent on his skin, her kiss on his lips, and her love in his heart. God help him, he needed them.

  The door opened.

  “We are here for Ewan Fraser.” The man's voice was familiar.

  Too familiar. A finger of ice scraped up Ewan's back.

  Clemmons. The bastard from the Black Watch who had always undermined Ewan’s word, who'd forever sought to destroy him.

  And now Clemmons had finally won.

  Ewan pulled away from Freya while he still could, before his heart could overwhelm his mind. Her hands shot up in a desperate plea to grab for him.

  At the door, Captain Crosby looked to Ewan and nodded. “He's coming.”

  “Nay!” Footsteps pattered from Marian's room.

  Ewan jerked his head and found his mother standing there, her hair in gray wisps around her stricken face. “Dinna do this, son.” She shook her head and stepped toward him. “Dinna do this.”

  Ewan sank to his knees before her and kissed her hands. “I beg yer forgiveness, Ma. I abandoned the Black Watch. I'm a traitor.” She shook her head, but he got to his feet and backed to the open door. “And now I have to meet my fate.” He swallowed thickly. “Just like da.”

  “Nay, yer father wasna a traitor,” his mother cried. “The English called him that, but he was a Scotsman. He died protecting his people, his family - us. He died a hero.” Tears streamed down her face, each one a new pebble lodging in his heart. “He protected his people.”

  Ewan stared at his mother. “They called him a traitor.”

  “The English did. He was a traitor to them.” His mother touched his face. “But he was a hero to us.”

  Ewan wished there was more time, to hear the story his mother had never told him, to cradle Freya in his arms one last time, to live the life on the hay farm with his family who loved him.

  But it was time. And he would do the one thing he could to protect his family.

  Just like his da.

  He turned away from all of those he loved to give himself up to his enemies. To do what was right.

  Clemmons accepted him with greedy hands, roughly spinning him around. Metal clinked behind Ewan and the cold, heavy weight of manacles settled tightly over his wrists. Several redcoats stood by, anticipation glittering in their moonlit stares.

  “This is him,” Clemmons said.

  “These people were hiding him,” one soldier said. “Show them what happens to those who hide a criminal, then burn the house down.”

  Fear raked her ugly claws through Ewan’s heart. He fought against the manacles. “Nay, I gave myself up for them.”

  Clemmons merely chuckled behind him. The bastard.

  Captain Crosby stood in front of the doorway, blocking it with his body. “Don't do this, Patrick.”

  “If you're refusing me entry, then you're a traitor too,” the other English officer said.

  Ewan's heartbeat roared in his ears. This was not happening. This could not be happening. He'd turned himself in. It should be done.

  Crosby squared his shoulders. “There is a woman birthing a child inside. I apologize, but I cannot allow you to enter this home.”

  The other officer said nothing, but lifted his pistol and shot Captain Crosby.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  One by one the redcoats came into the house, each of the four men stepping over Captain Crosby's body with purpose. It was impossible for Freya to tell where the captain had been hit, but he had certainly been hit as was evidenced by the pool of blood spreading beneath him.

  The first man approached Ewan's mother. Lily pulled something from her bodice and held it in front of her. A knife. The blade trembled with the older woman’s poor resolve.

  Freya tried to edge closer to her, to protect the frail woman whose eyes had gone near white with fear. A large red chest filled Freya's vision.

  “You should worry about yourself,” the man said with a contemptuous note of arrogance.

  Freya glared up at the man's wide, blunt face. “I have the same advice for ye.” She drew up her leg with all the force she could muster and hit him square between the legs with the point of her shoe. The man pitched forward with a squeak and clutched at his wounded genitals.

  No sooner had the man gone down than the one in front of Lily drew back his arm and punched her across the face. She went down with such suddenness, Freya feared the older woman might be dead. The knife she held skittered from her and landed by Freya's foot.

  A withered hand extended blindly from Lily’s crumpled form. Freya fumbled with her own waistband to draw free the pistol and kicked the blade over to Lily.

  One bullet. Freya had one bullet loaded. She glanced to the man bent over in front of her, the one leering over Ewan’s mother, another stalking toward her while the fourth strode confidently through the doorway to the heart of the house. As if he lived there. As if he belonged.

  Lily’s hand found the handle of the blade and she bolted upright. This time there was no tremble of hesitation. This time the jagged blade plunged into the tender, vulnerable skin of the soldier’s throat.

  The first man straightened with offense and then winced at his injured crotch. “Get the bitch.” He motioned to the man approaching behind him, indicating Freya. “We'll have her first. The old one's not going to go anywhere. Let her watch her daughter be used before we kill them both.”

  Freya's fingers burrowed frantically into the smooth cotton of her dress, skimming the heavy bulk of the pistol atop a layer of fabric. Panic scrabbled through her thoughts and turned her mind to jelly. And then clarity intervened, beautiful and logical.

  There were two men. One pistol with one bullet wouldn't do. But a hunting blade might.

  Thoughts finally clear, Freya pulled the blade from her waist and slashed at the new man. He was short, smaller than her, with stocky arms and legs and a belly that strained against his wool coat.
He yelped and drew back like a scalded cat.

  The first man grabbed her around the waist. “Stop fooling around and get her.”

  “I'm not fooling around,” the stocky man said. “She cut me.”

  Freya jerked her elbow back hard and caught the other man in the gut. Before he had time to react, she drew her heel down hard on his foot. The man cursed and let her go. She lunged for the stocky man, blade swiping the air with an audible whip.

  He leapt back, as expected.

  She ran forward, over the bleeding form of Captain Crosby. If she could lure the two men outside, only one would remain inside. She would have the advantage outside as only one man could come through the door at a time.

  One blade. One bullet. Two men.

  The chilled night air nipped at her cheeks, but the extreme cold was not what made her go still.

  Clemmons stood behind Ewan with a pistol aimed directly at his head. Freya had a choice to make an immediate decision - one which would cost either his life or hers. She pulled back the hand that held the dagger and launched it at Clemmons.

  The first man slammed into her from behind. She flew forward and landed face down on the cold, hard floorboards of the porch. The second man's footsteps reverberated under her throbbing cheek.

  One at a time through the door, as she'd predicted. A slick, ugly ball of dread coiled low in her belly. She knew where this would lead. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried not to think of Marian's screams as she had tried to fight. But Freya wouldn't cry out. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

  The pistol.

  Her arm flopped numbly at her side, fingertips grazing the fabric, finding the slit. Yes, almost there. Her nails skidded over the polished metal of the barrel.

  Rough hands grabbed her around the waist and hauled her upright. Her hand was wrenched from her pocket with the action. She gazed frantically around her in the hopes of seeing Ewan or Clemmons. To know if she'd been successful.