Drostan rode Threuna along the road to the McPherson, his brothers by his side. The strong wind threatened rain, and he looped the tartan wool around his shoulders.

Still reeling from the night, he made a useless effort not to remember it. But images of them crept to his mind. It wrenched him dry. In more ways than one. He did not wish to list the other ways aside the one. It confused him. Shook him. Scared him. To want a woman this raggedly could only mean trouble. Everything felt a thousand times deeper than when they married. They had been younger and inexperienced in a life together. With the years, their marriage—or should he say their non-marriage?—offered a new perspective. The separation caused anger, disillusionment, and bitterness in him. To find her again bridged that gap as the reason for her leaving surfaced. After last night, he was more confounded than he had ever been. Everything in him swirled and churned undefined. But sharper, with more saturated colours spinning like a prism. Discerning this mixture proved to be a challenge.

“I am not sure of the exact place where this worm lives.” Lachlan interrupted his muddled musings.

“We shall inquire.” Suggested Drostan distractedly.

“The man must be well disliked in his clan, I would bet.” Added Fingal. “Everyone will know where not to go.”

The people they met on the way showed his words true. Ross owned lands to the south of the McPherson.

Their horses approached a stone building surrounded by a tall wall. The construction was not so big as Freya’s father’s and it looked run down, neglected. These lands proved not barren, what did the man do with its produce?

Traditionally, chieftains held enough land to have tenants and obtain a handsome income. Devoid of their original war functions by English law, they found new ones. In the McKendrick’s and McDougal’s, chieftains became men of varied skills and business. A few supplied fire-wood, others timber, or diverse building materials. Those were who dealt in agricultural implements, and even financial services. By no means destitute, chieftains counted an array of options.

The brothers entered the open gate and stopped their horses at the front door. Lachlan dismounted and banged the knocker. The sound brought a willowy man out, whose cold blue eyes bulged on them. Drostan supposed it might be James as of Freya’s description.

“We came to see Ross.” He said firmly.

“He is—” James started.

“What is it, James?” Behind the willowy McPherson, appeared a short, round man with flinty eyes.

At the sight of green, white, and black tartans, he stopped short. Drostan did not repress the satisfaction of seeing the man go rather grey.

Even so, he eyed Drostan directly. “McKendrick.” That the man knew whom to address, not having met the Laird formally, said something about him and his machinations. “To what do I owe your…unexpected visit?” He had the cheek to ask.

“I am here for my wife and son.” He stated in a brusque tone. It would be better to infer that he did not hear of their whereabouts, inducing Ross to estimate his plan met with success.

“How the blazes will I know?” The worm’s brow furrowed as if he did not have the slightest idea.

“You are the one bullying them.” He accused with no qualms. “For years.”

Lachlan, who had not mounted his horse yet, prowled to him. Drostan and Fingal held no doubt their brother would pummel the man at the slightest provocation.

The flinty stare became smug. “Prove it and I shall offer my formal apologies.” The villain proposed.

Apologies? For years wasted away? Anger erupted in Drostan at the man’s cynicism. “My proof is that they are missing.” His voice came low and menacing.

“Well, you should control your woman better.” Pure rage invaded him at that.

Lachlan’s hands flew to the man’s collar before Drostan could even breathe. “You disgusting villain!” His youngest brother hissed.

Terror smothered the chieftain’s stance. James watched the tableau with squinted eyes.

“Lachlan.” Drostan called evenly despite the turmoil his anger produced in him. “Let him go, please.” Though his blood boiled with fury, he did not wish to give these men an excuse to retaliate.

His brother took long seconds eyeing Ross with contempt before he let go with a jerk. Ross nearly fell with the roughness of it.

“The thing is,” Fingal spoke for the first time in an icy tone. “If you continue to threaten my sister-in-law and nephew, we will have no choice but take this with The McPherson.”

“You cannot prove anything.” James interposed. “She is not the first McPherson to abandon her husband. No one would give credit to your accusations.”

Drostan should have asked Taran to join them here. These men deserved a monstruous thrashing.

“It is not the first time you and Ross show your bad blood.” Drostan stated. “Do you imagine The McPherson would believe you over The McKendrick?”

At this, James displayed a healthy dose of apprehension.

“So, Ross,” Fingal returned even icier. “Stop your threats or you might lose your chieftainship and lands.”

Both McPherson brothers looked at him with no small complacency. They certainly trusted that, with Freya and Ewan out of the way, their plans would come out on top. Mother and son were witnesses to their plotting. With them missing, the brothers were almost untouchable.

“We are not losing anything because we are guilty of nothing.” Ross threw.

“Of course not.” Lachlan ironized.

“I will find my family.” Drostan added. “By then we will see.”

“Be my guest.” Ross bowed mockingly.

 

“I do not think this went too well.” Lachlan started an hour into their ride back.

The three of them trotted their horses in grim silence. Face to face with the men who caused so much distress to Freya and Ewan had been an exercise in self-control. For the three McKendricks!

“It did.” Came Drostan’s confident retort.

“How would that be? They did not look intimidated at all.” The youngest answered with disdain.

“For one, they will sit back smug that their plan is working like a charm.” The Laird listed. “Which I made sure to emphasise by asking for my wife.”

“And they know we know.” Fingal complemented.

“Exactly.” Drostan said.

“So they will not overestimate their luck.” Concluded Lachlan.

The eldest nodded. “They will thread carefully from now on.”

“They did get intimidated without even realising it.” Celebrated the third McKendrick.

“I would say so.” Fingal had a side smile on him.

“Let us hope it will buy us time until we hear from Irvine.” The McKendrick replied.

 

Freya could not sit still for the life of her. And she tried. Hard. Worried sick, she haunted the manor’s every room looking for something that would take her mind from her husband’s safety. She even requested a bath, speculating that the warm water might calm her nerves. To no avail.

The McKendricks’ argumentation that the brothers would not get harmed seemed sensible, but did not put her at ease. Ross’s ambitions overruled him, and the wait for his turn to be the Laird did not help. She had dealt with him for a long time. She was aware of the limitations. More than that, her kin threatened to harm Drostan in clear words. The thought alone caused terror to quake over her.

Logically, Ross had no reason to do anything to her husband if he made sure she was crossing the Atlantic. But who would guarantee her decoy had really foiled the villain? She hoped she did though she could not be certain. She must not question this, or she would go mad.

To avoid going mad, she headed to the nursery and keep company to Ewan. The boy recovered completely and went back to being his sunny self.

“Mama!” He ran to her at her entrance.

Freya hugged him, looking closely to see if his health returned. “Hello, my love.”

“Bess and I are building a castle.” He said cheerfully. That he had gone back to his sunny self spread relief in her.

On the carpet, small wooden bricks were disposed half-way built. “That is exciting.” She commented, and he took her hand to go play with him.

While she stayed with her son, Bess took a break.

Not half an hour passed when he talked to her. “Mama.” He raised his beautiful eyes to his mother as if forgetting all about the castle. “Are we living here forever?”

Her eyes held his unsure of what to answer. “Do you like it here?”

Ewan beamed at her and nodded vigorously. “And I like to be with papa, too.”

His mother caressed his tousled chestnut hair. “Let us hope we can be here for a long time.” It was not possible to promise more than that. She did not even know if her husband would come back today.

The click at the entrance made her look at it expecting Bess. Instead, she nearly turned inside out with her husband standing by it, damp hair, fresh tartan, and a scent of soap invading her nostrils. Her heart came close to exploding with relief and exhilaration. A good thing she sat on the carpet with Ewan, for her knees might not have kept her upstanding.

“Papa!” Ewan skipped to the man, giving her time to at least seem balanced on the surface.  

His father hoisted him in his arms and came to where the toys lay scattered. His tall frame lowered to the carpet as he settled Ewan on it before sitting by her side. All the time, his old-whisky stare remained on her as hers on his, causing a scalding flush to surface on her skin.

He broke the otherwise permanent spell to talk to the boy. “What have you been up to, mo balach?”

“Just finished our castle.” He cheered. “I will live in it forever with you and mama. And nobody will send us away!”

Freya and Drostan exchanged a meaningful glance. Like that, playing and building his make-believe, their son expressed the knowledge that someone stood behind their constant moving. Sorrowful tears needled her eyes as they became shiny, her husband witnessing it closely.

His large callused hand lifted to her cheek, thumb shaping solace on the delicate skin. “You can live wherever you want, with whomever you like, mo balach.” The hoarse tone betrayed his own emotions, his attention never wavering from her.

His answer came like a promise. Like a litany. Like hopeful spring.

Feminine lips wobbled as they forced a faint smile at him when her hand covered his and her face turned to kiss his rough palm. A strong arm pulled his son close, and time stopped while the family lived this moment together.

Bess’s entrance broke the moment, but never the family.

 

Days later, the McKendrick men and Freya sat at breakfast when Baxter entered with a silver tray holding a letter which he placed on Droatan’s hand.

Strong fingers opened the seal and read through, a grave expression coming to his chiselled features. “Irvine is inviting the clan leaders and their families to The McPherson Sunday next.” He informed the stunned table.

Freya eyed him, mixed emotions playing on her delicate stance. Expectancy, apprehension, puzzlement.

“He has decided, then.” Wallace placed his silverware on the table.

“Let us hope this to be the case.” Fingal said before he served himself with porridge.

“If not, why would he call such a gathering?” Lachlan questioned.

“It is going to be big, by the looks of it.” Drostan commented. “It will provide dozens of witnesses.”

“A good sign I would say.” The older McKendrick added.

Conflicting thoughts zinged Drostan’s mind. On one hand, if The McPherson appointed an heir, or successor, it would free Freya and Ewan from the danger looming over them. This being the most important outcome of his father-in-law’s decision. On the other hand, it might create dissention in the McPherson if the appointed successor did not satisfy most of the clan. He sincerely hoped Freya’s father chose someone who would be a consensus in his clan to avoid further conflicts. That done, he must deal with Ross’s and James’s ambitions, certainly a tricky event. Whichever way, Drostan would keep alert.

 

Fortunately, the snow which had caught up with Freya and Ewan when they returned to the manor had been washed by the sloshing rain that came afterwards. It did not snow anew. They had a few days without rain which made the roads more dusty than muddy, but not impassable. This first week in December brought that sort of crisp windy weather usual between autumn and winter.

Freya and Ewan travelled in a carriage while the McKendrick men rode their impressive horses. Inside the carriage, the servants had placed hot bricks to protect Ewan from the chilli air. In spite of the risks, Drostan and Freya decided to take their son as the gathering would provide a good opportunity for the boy to meet his grandparents. To leave him alone with the nanny in the manor did not seem sensible though there would be servants around to take care of the four-year-old.  Freya did not feel confident enough to be separated from him, in any case.

The McKendricks lived close enough to travel to and from in the same day. Several Lairds did not have the same convenience and would have to overnight at the McPherson, like in the old days. A sense of nostalgia came over the lady at this. Her grandfather used to be too fond of the glorious days of Scotland and regaled her with innumerable stories of wars, adventures, and clan rivalry. He even sang the old ballads to her in his croaky voice. A wistful smile drew her lips. She would certainly pass on this to Ewan. She had already started doing it in their bleak days in the derelict cottage where she had found refuge for those horrible years.

Her father’s letter induced contradictory feelings in her. Relief was the foremost because his decision would resolve this awkward situation and free her and Ewan from the dangers they endured in the past years. Any probability that he would choose Ross as the new leader should be regarded as slim at best. This man would not accept it so easily which meant he would continue his machinations towards his sole goal. The knowledge of it caused extreme apprehension in her. Not for herself, but for the successor. If the clan did not support him, the man would be in for a very hard time. She would be sure to alert the appointed successor to it.

Despite these musings, optimism overruled the other feelings. Not having seen her parents in years, the visit inspired eagerness in her. Without siblings, she had bonded with her nearest cousins who provided her with countless childhood memories. They would be there for sure, and she would be able to rekindle their bonds.

Through the window, she saw the manor where she grew up as enthusiasm dominated her. She checked her white blouse, black external corset, and green, black, and white plaid skirt, under her elegant cloak, smoothing any possible wrinkles. Also, a pat on her simple chignon, with auburn wisps falling from it assured her of her hair’s tidiness.

The great McPherson hall already displayed several people in colourful plaids. Most men dressed the traditional tartan and most women chose attires like hers in their own clan plaids. Her eyes surveyed the place expecting to see Ross, but he seemed not to have arrived yet, a calming breath inundated her lungs.

Drostan at her side, they held Ewan’s hands as the boy’s wondering gaze took in his surroundings. Wallace, Fingal, and Lachlan followed close, on the lookout for any strange moves. Her parents stood right ahead greeting the newcomers. A smile came to her as they approached the elderly couple.  Both opened their arms to her. Edna McPherson still preserved strands of auburn hair among grey ones, but her luminous brown eyes continued vivacious like Freya remembered.

“Oh, Freya.” She smiled openly. “I am so happy to see you.” Her eyes lowered. “And who is this gorgeous young man here?”

“Mama, meet Ewan.” Mother turned to son. “Ewan, greet your grandmother Edna and grandfather Irvine.”

Edna lifted the boy in her arms and his grandparents talked proud to him. Not shy, her son answered their questions.

After the greetings, the McKendricks advanced inside, coming across Aileen and Taran. The Lady McDougal hugged her brothers, and the men exchanged camaraderie handshakes with their brother-in-law.

“I do not think you have met my son Sam.” The McDougal introduced. “He is already home for Christmas.”

Freya looked at the lanky red-haired lad bearing round glasses over green eyes the replica of his father’s. “Sam, it is nice to finally meet you.” She smiled. “I am Freya, your cousin.” Fiona gave him his hair colour though.

He smiled shyly behind his glasses. “My father said you have come for a visit.” He started. “A pity we never met before.” He bowed formally to her.

“Laird McTavish is at the back of the room. You remember him, do you not, Fingal?” Drostan asked his brother suggestively. The man sent the marriage proposal for Fingal and his second daughter Anna.

“I remember him.” Fingal answered above the noisy conversations around them. “The years passed for him too.” He surveyed the man’s black hair gone grey. His daughters did not come as they stayed in London to further their ladies’ education.

“The hard-working McKendricks found time for a social outing.” A saucy female voice directed at Lachlan who had wandered away from his siblings.

His eyes fell on the not so tall lass, observing her Darroch plaid, but not recognising her. The lass looked too pretty for her own good.

“You do not remember me, I can see.” She guessed. “Moira Darroch at your service, my Laird.” She made a mocking curtsy, her mischievous eyes direct on his. The Laird Darroch’s daughter, then.

At eight and twenty, the youngest McKendrick was by no means a cold-blooded highlander. And the daring lass was by no means devoid of good looks. Her attitude stirred his curiosity together with his hot-blooded response. “Dame Moira.” He mock-bowed to her, following her playful tone. “A pleasure to rekindle our acquaintance.” They had surely met at one or other festival held during spring and summer. He would have remembered if they had talked or danced. Especially danced, his eyes strolled down her hour-glass figure.

“Pleasure’s all mine, my Laird.” Her attention accessed him in return, without a single drop of demureness. Which caused the expected effect in Lachlan. “I will see you around.” She said as she went to join her clan.

The guests were taking their places and the McKendricks would occupy the honoured seats by Laird and Lady McPherson on the elevated table at the front of the hall.

Footmen passed trays of food, ale and whisky among the guests.

 

From here, Freya could see the whole hall swarming with people. The McPherson chieftains all reunited at one side. A movement at the entrance attracted her attention. Ross and James had just arrived, causing a frosty chill to wash over her. Between her father and Drostan, with Ewan on her lap, her visibility was high.

Ross turned to the high table and his flinty eyes squinted on her with such hatred and contempt it moved the air about her. Stare directly on him, she did not show her apprehension. Under the table, Drostan squeezed her hand in a sign of support. “He cannot do anything to us here.” Her husband assured her between his teeth.

No, not here. And after this day, she would be rid of his threats, she steeled herself.

At that moment, her father stood up, and the hall fell silent. “It makes me happy to see you lairds and lasses gathered here.” He began.

The entire room cheered before he could continue. “I have been deliberating the need to appoint my successor or make an election for years, balancing the pros and cons of possible candidates.” His voice boomed in the torch lit place. A big fire blazed in the enormous fireplace to one corner. “You are here today to bear witness of my choice.”

“Before doing that, though, I am extremely proud to present my grandson to you.” He picked Ewan by his waist and lifted him high over his head to face the crowd. “This is Ewan McKendrick.”

The hall exploded in cheers of ‘Hail, Ewan’.

Irvine sat the boy on his shoulder. Ewan seemed very comfortable being the centre of everyone’s attention. “I declare Ewan McKendrick my sole heir apparent.”

The statement made the room fall so silent that one heard the fire cracking. Freya’s blood drained from her face as dizziness nearly overcame her. Irvine did nothing short of transforming her son in a target. How could he be so clumsy? Inhaling gulps of air, she forced herself to regain her clarity. With the corner of her eyes, she tried to gauge Drostan’s reaction, but he was looking straight ahead. She got no chance of determining what he thought about it.

“I made my choice based on what most kin in my clan conceived of a coalition between the McPhersons and the McKendricks.” Her father resumed after long minutes. “I realised that joining forces will strengthen both clans.” The explanation might be sound, but still... “By doing it, I will strengthen the Highland’s traditions and assets.”

He had the right of it, no doubt. But she did not know the cost. Irvine should have talked to her and Drostan before he announced his heir. Her father must have thought she and her husband would be exhilarated with his choice. Her eyes turned directly to The McKendrick as he displayed mixed expressions on his stance. His old-whisky eyes glared menacingly at Ross while his sensuous mouth upturned in a satisfied smile. Proud and worried, she concluded.

Irvine placed Ewan back on her lap, and she hugged the boy with trembling arms.

“It has come to my attention,” The McPherson’s voice regained the room’s silence. “That a certain chieftain among mine has transformed my daughter’s life in hell.” His hand pointed at her for emphasis. “I hereby ban Ross McPherson and his brother from my lands for the remaining of their life.”

All the people in black and yellow stood and cheered so noisily it deafened her. The entire audience looked at said chieftain who found no way of hiding a scarlet face and a furious glint on flinty eyes. He and James stomped out of the hall.

Though it was good to know Ross got what he deserved, it made her no less tense. Without a place to live and an income, he and James may resort to more criminal acts against anyone in the Highlands. In her opinion, both should be forced to become tenants or even peasants. Naturally, complete destitution came heavy with humiliation. This was probably what her father intended in the first place.

For the rest of the day, the people present ate, drank and interacted festively.

 

Past mid-afternoon, Freya jostled in the carriage back to the McKendrick. There had been no opportunity to talk privately with Drostan about the day’s events. They had only the chance to invite the McDougals to overnight at their manor with more comfort than at her parents’. In a last-minute decision, Freya had asked Aileen if they could take Ewan in their carriage for safety reasons. Taran did not even blink as he assented, understanding what was at stake. Lachlan and Wallace accompanied them in their horses. They had departed a few minutes ahead of her, Drostan and Fingal.

Of course this new coalition would have consequences for the other clans, too. With it, the McKendricks would gain even more influence and assets. In her mind, she reviewed the network and concluded that the McKendricks had formed alliances or agreements with most of the clans. Everyone would benefit direct or indirectly from the new development. The real effect would take years yet. Her father still had a long time to rule, and Ewan would be able to undertake his place only at eighteen. For the time being, not much would change, she soothed herself.

 

Outside, behind the carriage, Drostan and Fingal rode sedately through the grey weather. As the father to the heir of two clans’ leadership, Drostan swelled with pride. His approach of preserving Highland’s traditions and force seemed more solid with Irvine’s decision. He would make sure to raise Ewan to prioritise cooperation and win-win attitudes so that everyone shared in the advantages of the coalition. Safety must be reinforced though, he understood it all too clearly.

“My value has increased considerably in the marriage mart.” Fingal said with a pinch of sarcasm.

Drostan scoffed at his brother. “Going to be cocky about it?”

“I should, should I not?” A side smile came to his features. “I might play hard to get.”

“That would be a funny thing to see.”

“Seriously now.” His stance became grave. “I believe I shall accept the McTavish lass.”

Drostan’s gaze turned to his second brother. “Are you sure?”

“I am not so in a hurry to be leg-shackled, but the lass would bring a new branch into our alliance network.” His cinnamon eyes looked ahead in reflection.

“I cannot disagree.” His brother answered. “They say the lass is one of the prettiest in the Highlands, tall and slender.” The eldest said with detachment. The lass’s appearance meant nothing to him.

“Well, I will not complain about these secondary advantages.”

“Secondary, huh.” Not that Fingal was a womaniser, but he counted his share of ‘interested’ lasses. “Alright, I will send a letter to The McTavish.” Fingal nodded in acknowledgement.

 

With a book in hand, Freya did not pay attention to what Drostan and Fingal talked outside. The nanny had put the tome in the carriage saying Ewan might fall asleep and the lady would have time for it. Freya was grateful for the afterthought.

Pounding hooves and shouting in the distance tore her from her reading. The carriage screeched to a stop. Hazel gaze peered out at the road, and saw two riders and the McPherson colours. No need for more visuals to know who they were.

Ross and James pulled their reins about fifty yards away from their group, rifles in hand.

Extreme despair wrenched her insides. These men had nothing else to lose. Or they had little else to lose, except their life. But they did not seem to care for it anymore.

“Get down from your horses.” James ordered.

Before the McPherson brothers neared, Fingal positioned himself in front of the carriage to surround Freya with more protection. He made the coachman go down.

Heart pounding inside her ribs, fear for her husband clogging her throat, she would not sit and watch those villains do whatever they wanted. In a decisive movement, her hand shoved the carriage door.

“Stay inside!” Drostan’s hoarse edit scratched her ears.

They pointed each riffle at The McKendrick, and Freya’s world tilted perilously into darkened vision. Her throat swallowed what had to be sand as she forced her legs to pace to her Laird.

She stood in front of her husband, shielding him from the riffles. Everything she had seen in her nightmares. Everything she had worked so hard to avoid. The years apart, the longing, the fear. Everything she had in her life, outside her son. Everything…did not spare the love of her life from this moment. It had all been for nothing! The sorrow, the despair, the hopelessness. Fat tears spurted from her eyes. She did not swallow them. They cascaded down her cheeks freely. And silently. For she did not want her husband grieved by them.

“Have you gone insane, woman?” He held her upper arm, trying to move her from his front. “Go to the ground.” He ordered.

She heard none of it. Would do none of it. Her heart overflowed with searing, intense emotions burning through her. No chance of hearing anything outside what this soft organ of hers demanded, needed. Craved. And it must come out. At once. There was only one thing she wanted to give as answer.

“Drostan, I want you to know I love you.” She started, straining not to let her tears seep into her words.  “I love you so much, it hurts. I have always loved you since I was eighteen. Not for an hour, not for a minute, not for a second have I stopped loving you.” Her voice so soft only for him.  “Everything I did, everything I will ever do is for you and your safety.” She sniffed pitifully. “Because I…I cannot live in a world where there is no you. Do you understand?”

“Freya…” He murmured in a tone that suggested her words shifted his guts.

“Did I not say I would kill him if you ever came back?” Ross spat at her, insensitive to her moist cheeks.

Though her stare remained on Ross, she did not deign to listen to his vitriol. He was the criminal. Whatever he said or did not say did not signify. His actions would be harmful and that was all that kept her talking to her husband.

“I hope you forgive me if I have upset you.” She carried on without heeding her kin. “In case I am gone, I want you to be happy. To marry again and give Ewan brothers and sisters. You hear me?”

“Stop it, Freya.” He emitted, but his hand on her was not so steady now.

“Ha!” Ross continued. “I told the lass that if she did not leave you, I would kill you, McKendrick.” That mocking a disgusting interruption. “The lass scurried away like a mouse.”

The villains got down from their horses and paced to them.

“Promise me, Drostan.” She asked unafraid of the riffles approaching them

“No.” He said with finality. His glare never leaving the McPhersons.

“Promise me, please.” She pleaded not disguising the tears in her voice anymore.

“No.” He repeated, his arm pulling her to lean on his warm taut body.

Time froze around them. Fingal unable to do anything, held his ground.

“Where is the bairn?” James asked eager to draw blood.

“He is not here.” Her husband’s tone dripped loathing.

Ross did not look at his brother, but jerked his head to the carriage behind Freya and Drostan. James walked to it.

“When I say down, you throw yourself to the ground, got me?” Drostan murmured softly in her ear.

In the smallest of movements, she nodded. She would do anything for him, except let him die.

“The little wretch is not inside.” James proffered.

Ross’s eyes darted to his brother. It was the millisecond they needed.

“Down!” Drostan thundered and tumbled her to the ground, covering her with his frame.

Alarmed, Ross shot in their direction. As Drostan and Freya fell, the shot caught James on his arm and his disgraceful person thumped on the road screaming.

With the only ball in the riffle gone, Ross ran to take James’s, but Fingal was faster and pointed the newly acquired gun to the willowy McPherson on the ground, immobilising him.

Quick as lightning, Drostan stood on his feet and advanced on Ross, who showed a look of dread on him. The McKendrick grabbed him by his collar and flew countless punches on his despicable nose. The older man was no match against his out-of-control rage and lost balance. With an angry push, the fat-bellied man hit the dust, Drostan came over him, still discharging non-stop punches, releasing a lifetime of bottled ire.

More horse hooves announced other people coming towards them. Freya finally regained her capacity to react and looked up to see Taran, Wallace and Lachlan galloping and shouting. She managed to stand up.

Her husband seemed not to have registered the newcomers as his fists pounded tirelessly down, his stance crumped with extreme fury. Ross had passed out long ago. She did not want her husband to be the criminal. Her kin were.

Fingal and the coachman tied James and dragged him away.

Stumbling to him, she placed a light hand on his muscled shoulder. “My love.” Her voice came soft and calm.

He froze in a second, his old-whisky eyes lifting to meet hers. That marvellous steel frame unfolded from the ground.

Bloody knuckles, sweat jaw, dusty shirt, rumpled tartan, he was the very image of a fierce warrior. He glared at her hard as his bunched biceps banded her by the waist, pivoted and pressed her against the carriage, his mouth nosediving to hers.

With a moan blocked at her throat, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back as though they were alone. Or in bed.

Or in heaven.

“Ahem.” Wallace cleared his throat.

“I know this might not be a good time to interrupt.” Fingal’s voice did not penetrate the haze the couple merged in.

“Since it is the appropriate place for this type of…demonstration.” Came Lachlan ironic.

Drostan and Freya did not pay heed.

“A rather…healthy demonstration.” Taran put in.

Still, they did not disentangle from each other. If anything, they seemed take the kiss to the next level.

“Papa is kissing mama again!” Ewan, who had just arrived in Aileen’s carriage, exclaimed.

His parents let go at once.

Meanwhile, Fingal was explaining what had happened and how Drostan had bloodied Ross.

“Never do this to me again.” Drostan rasped for her ears solely.

Their noses’ tip still touching. “I will do whatever I have to protect you.” She murmured back.

“Impossible woman!” After which, he deigned to pay attention to the people surrounding them.

“We thought it better to stay behind to be able to keep an eye on you.” Aileen provided, holding Ewan’s hand.

Only now did Sam alight from the carriage with a heavy science book in his hand and an abstracted look in his eyes.

“But you handled the criminals well.” Taran conceded.

“I will tie Ross and call the magistrate.” Volunteered Lachlan.

“Bearing forbidden guns, these men will rot in jail.” Predicted Sam.

 

Next morning, Drostan awoke with a start with grey lights of dawn trickling through the drawn drapes. He groped the rumpled sheets for his wife and found merely cold cloth. His head jerked around, an empty bedchamber greeted him.

Strong legs sprang from the bed as he wrapped his tartan messily around him.

The events of the previous afternoon blew him away. There should be expecting retaliation from Ross, certainly. And he wanted to prepare for it. Only he did not have the chance. Strong revolt took him over as the villain finally revealed what blackmail convinced his wife to leave him. He still reeled from it. On that road, his mind had been so focused on the danger, and on how to overcome it he did not respond to her voice pouring her heart out for him.

His woman had run, hidden and endured the harshest of conditions for her own husband. He wished she had come to him. He wished she had trusted him with that burden, shared it. Wished these years of hardship had never happened. But they did. And Freya’s unwavering courage humbled him. The depth of her love. For him. For Ewan. The depth of her commitment to their marriage and what it meant to her. Commitment to their family. Her loyalty and firmness. All of it made his admiration and respect soar sky high.

After delivering the criminals to the magistrate, they returned to the manor, arranged accommodation to Taran and Aileen, and Sam; and put Ewan to bed. A fortunate thing Ewan travelled with the McDougals and did not see what transpired on the road.

He had lost his mind. Awareness of Ross’s blackmail, of Freya’s reasons and feelings unleashed the worst in him. His fists simply dumped these years of loneliness and injustice on the man. Not that the kin did not deserve it, well understood. But, if Freya had not stopped him, he feared the worst would have taken place. Maybe it was shock though finding excuses made nothing better. The fact was he spun out of control, and his wife had been the one to bring him back to reality. She was not only his north, she was his ground. Her simple loving gesture had grounded him and put the episode in perspective.

Drostan would never understand how he survived without her these past years.

When they reached their bedchamber at last, a bath waited for them before the night had been out. They helped each other wash with that reverence solely a traumatic evening brought. As though they valued their life as though they realised the preciousness it encompassed. As he carried her to bed, he made love to her desperately. Then solemnly. Then tenderly. He could not seem to let go. Neither she. They clung. And clung some more.

The Laird had an idea of where his wife might be. Outside, he strode purposely along the hallway. On the top of one wing, the stairs led up to a terrace overlooking the McKendrick’s lands. She used to come and enjoy the landscape before she left.

And there she stood, wrapped in one of his tartans over her pristine nightgown shimmering in the morning first lights, her back to him. A cool wind combed through her loose auburn strands, her gaze in the far away.

Mists floated in the horizon, giving a mythical tinge to the distant mountains; they hovered about the loch where she and he met so many times as betrothed. The dry grass tickled the airy gauze with a shy shaft of sunlight struggling to participate in the scene. She had always loved the view.

“It is too chilly for you to stay here.” He neared her and wrapped his arms around her slim waist as she rested her head on his chest.

“I missed this terrace.” Her tone expressed wistfulness.

“It missed you.” He answered to lighten the mood. Lowering his head, he inhaled the perfume of the auburn ringlets.

She breathed a small smile. “I could not sleep.” Her words did not surprise him.

“I must say I did not have this problem.” The comment came in a husky voice.

“Of course.” She jested. “After our nightly exertions.”

“The best I can think of.” His lips found the tender skin of her neck.

“And deserved.” Seriousness coming to her. “You saved all of us from too long a threat.”

“If only I did it from the start.” His palms jaunted along her side.

At that, she turned in his arms, her eyes lifting to meet his, hands on his shoulders. “Never.” It came as a whisper, sadness in her gaze.

“I just cannot imagine the depth of the sacrifice you made for us, Freya.” Vexation covered his chiselled features.

“It was no sacrifice because it was for you.” So simple words with so deep meaning.

“Do you know how much I love you?” He devolved with a crumpled expression. “I loved you all these years, trying hard not to.” The confession came in a rasp. “In my head, you left me because you did not…”

Her forefinger on his sensuous lips prevented him from finishing. “Do not let it mar what we have now.”

“Hell, Freya!” He sought the curve of her shoulder as strong arms held her tighter.

“Let us not regret the past, Drostan.” Delicate hands took his jaw and their stares merged. “We have the future.”

“And I will go mad if it is not a future together.” His long fingers raised to hold her dainty cheeks

“It will be, mo gradh, my love.” Her suave whisper seemed to soothe him.

“Never stop calling me that.” Her Laird commanded.

“Mo gradh.” She repeated to his utter satisfaction before she regaled him with one of those explosive kisses of hers.