January 1810

January came white and blue. The steady snow made the world outside a rhapsody in white crowned by blue sky. Ewan and Freya engaged in a snowball war in the front yard, the boy laughing and running around the place. Her son’s happiness was the most precious gift she could ever wish.

But she got much more than she wished for. Or else, she got everything she ever dreamed of. Endless joy with her family. Peaceful moments. Daily life with her husband. Loving him and receiving love in return. Agreeing, disagreeing, comforting, being comforted. Kisses, chores, chats, walks. She understood exactly the value of this. And she would never ever complain because one day, alone in a derelict cottage, it had been her craziest fantasy. One she did not expect to come true. Yet here she stood, contemplating these gifts, and revelling in them.

A snowball crashed on her shoulder, pivoting, she saw her husband’s mischievous glint. With an exaggerated expression of revanches, she rolled snow in her gloved hands and threw it at him, catching Ewan instead. The snowball war became a mess with the three of them transforming the front yard in a battlefield. At last, they fell on the fluffy snow, laughing breathless before the nanny came to take Ewan for luncheon.

Old-whisky eyes turned to her as both continued stretched on the ground. “What have you been up to today?” The question came with his hand holding hers.

“Ewan and I did a drawing session before we came out for fresh air.” She replied. “You?”

“Livestock and planning for the spring sowing.” He stood up and pulled her with him.

Hand in hand, they started to the manor. “I am thinking of beginning Ewan’s education next autumn.”

“He is a smart lad.” A side-smile stretched his sensuous mouth.

“I will take it easy until he gets familiar with it.”

“If you need help, I can call in tutors.”

“A good idea. Soon there will be two in the schoolroom.” They had just entered the deserted hall. “Unless, of course, you go on working this hard on the…you know…ploughing.” She completed with a suggestive smile, meaning there might be more in the future.

Speechless, he took her shoulders and turned her to him. “Freya…” He murmured enraptured.

Large hands held her face as his brow touched hers. “You already made me the happiest man in the world, now I cannot begin to describe how fortunate I am.”

She covered his hands with hers. “I am the lucky one.” She murmured.

Steps echoed on the stairs, and they pulled away to see Baxter passing by.

 

March 1810

A brighter sunset shone on the remaining snow when Drostan came into their bedchamber to change for dinner.

Inside, Freya clad only her chemise as she would also put on a clean dress. Her four-month bump was visible through the fine cloth together with her plumper breasts. She had not been so queasy as the first time and being safe here increased her well-being. Sitting on the foot of the bed, she stopped in the act of putting her stocking.

Their eyes met in an electrical contact. She did not know if her hormones were playing games with her, but her desire for her husband had increased tenfold. Integrally reciprocated by him.

Long strides carried him to the basin as he took off his shirt and gave his back to her to wash. When he turned to her, his tartan tented over his erect manhood. A very erect manhood.

Hazel gaze darted to it then to him, her tongue moistening her full lips.

He neared her, raking his hand in his wavy chestnut hair in exasperation. “Freya, seeing you swell with my child is turning me on like crazy!”

Never taking her attention from him, she answered. “I am not complaining.” Much on the contrary. Her fingers bunched on his tartan to pull him closer. One of her hands snuck under his plaid to close around his impressive arousal.

“What are you up to, woman?” He rasped in a groan.

“Nothing.” She cupped his sac. “Yet.” And ducked her head under the wool.

He sucked in air sharply at the feel of her tongue licking the base of him. “You do not need to…” Her hot, moist muscle slid along him, silencing his protest.

“So hard!” She murmured delighted.

“Stop it before I—” Her lips closed eager around the engorged tip. “Hell!”

By now he was a goner. His large palm came to her wool-covered head. She savoured the salty tang over smooth skin stretching over steel. His free hand covered her breast.

Her mouth caressed him hungrily. “The…big size of you is rather…satisfying.” She murmured before taking him in again. His hand responded by teasing her breast further.

Head dropped back, his hand on her head coaxed her further at the same time his other one teased her swollen breast. “It is all yours.” At his hardest, he was on the verge of explosion.

As an answer, she took more of him.

“Freya.” He groaned. She registered him even harder now. “Let me go…I am going to…” She licked with more enthusiasm. “Buidy hell!” He exclaimed when he arched back and inundated her cavity.

Fortunately, they did not get late for dinner.

 

May 1810

Ewan and his mother sat on a blanket in the sun in the front lawn, the spring day warmer than usual. Her boy had collected a handful of the thousands of dandelions carpeting the meadows, and he wanted to make a flower crown for her. So she was teaching him.

Her bump began to show even under her clothes, but she did not have any discomforts so far. 

A few weeks ago, Ewan’s parents sat with him and explained that he would have a brother or sister. When they broke the news, the boy seemed to think it strange. Soon, he embarked on a string of questions his parents answered as truthfully as they could.

“Now, you take the other flower and pass it along the thread like this.” She oriented her son.

Wallace did not contain his satisfaction to learn he had another grandson or granddaughter on the way. Fingal and Lachlan were still getting used to a pregnant woman in the household though they took it in stride.

“Can we play together in the nursery when he is born?” Ewan wanted it to be a boy, naturally, to have a partner in mischievousness.

“We do not know if it will be a boy.” She reminded him. “But you can play with him or her when they get older.”

His attention lowered to her roundness. “I would like to touch it.”

“Of course, my love.” She took his tiny hand and placed it delicately on her belly.

Tentatively, he stroked it. “Was I this small, too?” He marvelled.

“Yes. And you were a very well-behaved babe.” She completed.

He smiled before his stance lit on something behind her. “Papa is here!” And ran to him.

Father and son neared her, large hand on the bairn’s shoulder. The view of her husband caught her focus. Chestnut hair gleamed in the sun and the light transformed his old-whisky eyes in a fiery shade. Stubble darkened his chiselled features as his loose tartan flowed in the breeze. “A nice flower crown you have there.” He commented, his avid stare fixed on his wife. With the intense spring work, he had been spending long hours in the fields with the other McKendrick men.

“I made it for mama.” Ewan informed with a proud smile.

“Your mother deserves all the flowers in the world.” He praised.

 

Late that night, Drostan and Freya lay in bed. He spooned her, a large hand splayed on her bare bump, caressing it.

His fiery desire did not subside. On the contrary, it increased together with his wife. They talked to a doctor and to the midwife about it. The doctor offered little reliable information about such activities at such a time. But the midwife gained input from women who preferred to confide in other women and said it was quite normal. So he did not refrain from seeking his woman and she responded with eagerness.

“I never thought I would be so turned on by my wife carrying my child.” He started.

“It is no problem for me, mo gradh.” She reassured him. “I must go it alone the first time. Your companionship is just a dream come true.”

He held her tighter and grazed his stubble over her shoulder. “Perhaps missing on Ewan’s early days did something to me.” His hoarse voice mused.

She turned to his features illuminated by the fireplace. “I did not believe men would feel like that.” Her gentle palm covered his square jaw.

“I cannot speak for others.” His hand kept on her middle, and he raised to kiss her navel. “I know I do. It is like a gap in my life and sometimes I get upset remembering it.”

She pulled him to lie on her swollen bosom. “It is the same for me.” Her fingers stroked his hair soothingly. “The loneliness was sharp.”

“For me, too.” He murmured. “Though I believe we should try to let go, and make room for the good things that are coming.”

“It will not be easy, but we can do it.”

“The chance to take part in our second child’s beginning is also a dream come true, mo morair chat.”

She smiled tenderly at him.

His head lifted to her all bad intentions. “Meanwhile, I will enjoy…say…ploughing my wife.” And proceeded doing just that when his mouth took her breast shamelessly.

Her peal of laughter made him even hotter.

 

August 1810

“I think we should call Mrs Boyd.” Drostan, and Freya lounged by the loch on a blanket after eating the delicious food cook prepared for their picnic. Ewan played at the water’s edge.

Around them, deep green woods hosted a multitude of birds engaged in a requiem vibrating in the warm air. The placid water reflected an azure sky disturbed only by the occasional fish.

Drostan lay on the blanket, one arm over his eyes. “Who is Mrs Boyd?” His question came lazy and relaxed.

Midsummer offered them a welcome break as the fields grew green with the spring sowing, and the livestock already roamed with their young in the pastures. The land nurtured life and prosperity.

“The midwife from the McDougal.” Her first symptoms that their child was coming had just made themselves noticed. Warm liquid ran down her thighs.

A broad upper body sprang up. “Bluidy hell!”

Her hand came to rest on his bunched arm. “No hurry, mo gradh.” She calmed him. “It will take some time.”

“Alright.” He raked his wavy hair with a tense hand. “Yes...” His eyes surveyed around restless. “Can you walk?”

“Yes, do not worry. It is only the first signs.” She smiled at his crumpled features.

Quickly tidying the picnic, he grabbed the wicker basket and reached to help her up. The loch lay about two hundred yards from the manor through a well-kept track.

“Come, I will carry you.” He gestured to pick her up.

“No need, Drostan. To tell the truth, walking eases the discomfort. It did wonders to me when I trekked to Mrs Boyd’s almost five years ago.” Ambling towards the manor, she held her advanced bump.

It had been a three-mile walk on a mild September day before Ewan came to the world. When the contractions popped up, she stopped by the road until they subsided, carrying on afterwards. Five years ago, she learned what to expect for she had heard many women’s stories of their childbirth experiences. Nonetheless, the fear and the strain had accompanied her in her loneliness and her dire situation.

As soon as they entered the front hall, Drostan began barking orders to whomever was around to hear them. “Lachlan!” He called his brother who had just finished luncheon. “Can you go to the McDougal fetch Mrs Boyd, the midwife?”

His brother’s eyes bulged on her. “Sure.” And rushed to the stables.

Drostan left Ewan with the nanny and followed her upstairs.

“Mrs Boyd was very kind and considerate with me when Ewan was born.” Freya remembered.

“She deserves high praise for that.” He assured his wife.

Two hours later, Mrs Boyd arrived and took over. Freya’s condition did not change.

Drostan refused to leave the room which made her happy. She wished very much for his company.

When the discomfort arose, she walked around the room or found a relieving position on the bed. Drostan had unbuttoned her dress earlier, and she changed into a loose nightgown. He had unpinned his tartan from his shoulder, clipping it on his waist, and rolled the shirt sleeves up.

When the contractions became stronger and oftener, Drostan kept by her side doing whatever he could to help.

“Mommy!” Ewan’s fretful voice came from outside the chamber. “I want to see my mama.” It had been several hours they came from the loch. The boy barged into the room, the nanny at his heels with an apologetic look.

“It is alright, Bess. He may hear what is going on.” Laboriously crouching to the carpet, she took Ewan’s hand.

“What happened, mama? Are you ill?” His beautiful eyes almost crying. Those past years must have marked him with the sense of insecurity of not having his mother around.

“No, my love.” Her calm tone seemed to soothe him. “The babe is coming. I will need you to stay with nanny for a while. Can you do that?” She stroked his chestnut hair.

He nodded and Freya looked up to her husband who coaxed the boy to go with Bess.

She did not even finish standing up when a sharp contraction made her double on her waist.

“Freya!” Drostan rushed to her and held her in his arms.

See-sawing breath, she managed to utter. “It is getting stronger. Not long now.” After it faded, she straightened, and he hugged her from behind unsure of what to do. Her frame leaned on him, and he instinctively rubbed her bump. “Oh, that is delicious.” She murmured, her head falling on his chest.

He increased his stroking. “Tell me where it aches. I will massage you.” He said on her ear.

Mrs Boyd watched the couple very closely with a quizzical expression. Naturally, men kept away from a childbirth tableau deeming it women’s affair.

“My back is quite painful.” She said, skin swimming in sweat at this point.

He made her lie on her side on the bed and strong hands kneaded her painful areas.

A new wave of contraction arose even stronger. She sat on the mattress, leaning on him as his arm circled her.

“Mrs Boyd, the babe is coming.” The midwife sprang into action.

With Drostan giving her support, she pushed in earnest. In his free hand, he held a cloth with which he mopped her sweat.

Sorcha came into the world with enviable lungs and a mop of auburn hair. After Mrs Boyd had cleaned and wrapped her, she placed the tiny bundle on her parents’ besotted arms.

“Lucky little girl.” The woman spoke cleaning her hands. “With parents who love each other this much, she will want for nothing.”

Drostan and Freya exchanged an even more besotted look. “Thank you, Mrs Boyd.” Freya expressed for both.

“Please, Mrs Boyd, wait outside.” Drostan addressed her. “I will be with you shortly.”

His long fingers caressed the babe’s hair enchanted. “I have no words to say how grateful I am to you.” He said, still sitting behind her and holding her.

With a radiant if a somewhat tired smile, she turned to him. “As far as I remember, we made her together.” She jested.

“That was the fun part.” He smiled back. “But you did all the hard work.”

“I am thankful, too. You were there every step of the way.”

“I love you, mo morair chat!”

“And I you, mo gardh.”

 

September 1810

The McKendricks, Taran and a heavily pregnant Aileen sat at the top terrace of the McKendrick manor sharing a whisky after dinner. The women chose tea instead. They gathered to celebrate Ewan’s fifth birthday and the birth of Sorcha. They all spent the day together as nature turned to shades of red and brown around them.

Ewan sat between his mother and father. He had been taken with Sorcha from the first day and considered himself responsible for her. Right now, Drostan was teaching him how to hold her safely.

“The gathering in spring for you to apologise for punching Alistair went not so bad.” Fingal needled Taran.

In a fit of jealousy, Taran had punched the McKendrick kin in the middle of Samhain in front of countless witnesses. To smooth things out, The McDougal had promised to gather both clans and offer a formal apology so as not to perpetuate the rift between them. The McKendricks had not met the McDougals since as the land demanded much work at that time of year.

“You mean it went vastly well.” Countered Taran.

The clans had gathered at Beltane festival where the mood had been hopeful. After Taran’s short speech, people ate and drank merrily.

“Almost.” Came Lachlan. “If it was not for Aileen fulminating us with her glare.” Their sister made it clear to be against said speech for she deemed it unnecessary given the circumstances.

“Oh, you know your sister.” Taran and Aileen exchanged a loving glance. “She has got the McKendrick’s hard-head.”

“I can attest to that.” Wallace contributed.

“It is not hard-head.” Aileen defended herself. “You men are always so bellicose.”

“I cannot disagree with it.” Freya supported her sister-in-law.

“Yes. She spent years avoiding clan dissention after all.” Drostan added with admiration for his wife in his eyes.

“We have a lot to look forward to now.” Wallace said hopeful with Ewan’s future.

“Yes. And we are all going to work towards a peaceful future.” Freya reassured.

The men mumbled agreement.

The nanny came to take the children to bed.

“She is such a lovely little thing.” Aileen commented before the nanny left.

“You should hear her wailing.” Lachlan jested. “The little lass could be a chieftain!”

Everybody laughed at that. “She just might.” Her father answered proud.

When everybody retired, Drostan and Freya stayed in the terrace watching the moon tinge the landscape in a mystic light.

“Come give us a kiss.” Drostan laced her by her waist.

“Only one?” Freya asked with a mocking pout.

“As many as you want.” He conceded with a smile.

“A million then.” She negotiated just before he started the first.

His thumbs adored her satiny skin. “I love you, wife.”

She smiled up at him. “I love you, husband.”

 

The End

 

 

 

Continue reading on a sneak peek of The Lass Beguiled the Laird, in Explosive Highland Series book 3.

Coming soon!