Reasonable, indeed, Freya scoffed inwardly. But as she turned to her husband, speech got stuck somewhere in her throat. His tall figure dwarfed the room and everything in it. The white shirt under his tartan did not disguise his muscular chest or his powerful arms. Standing there, fists on his hips, feet apart, glaring her stonily, all domineering and hot-blooded male, the woman in her screamed to be heard. Worse, screamed to be satisfied. Screamed to go to him and savour him from shiny wavy hair to long masculine feet. It was as if a force inside her pulled her to him, and she must clench her muscles not to obey this force.

“I am waiting.” He uttered.

As if she needed reminding.

She crossed her arms under her breasts and they bunched under a dress gone thin with so much wearing. The movement drew his unwavering attention, long-lashed eyes latching on the mounds as his mouth used to do. Said mounds pebbled, and hot crimson colour washed over her skin.

Her dry throat forced staccato words out. “There is nothing to explain.” Her eyes darted back to his. She had to make this appear true. “I left, full stop.”

His humourless chuckle reverberated in the small room. “We knew you were a McPherson, but you seemed of a sound mind when we became betrothed.”

Her clan’s name discharged cold terror inside her. The root of the darkness in her life, the cause for the sacrifice she made and still must endure. If he suspected any of the true reasons for her actions, it would deflagrate a clan war she had been avoiding for four years. Together with the threat to his life. She would go mad if she had to live in a world absent of Drostan. It would be unbearable, like wandering in a barren desert for centuries on end. She must live without him if she did not want to live without him.

“Turns out I am a McPherson after all.” In more ways than he would ever fathom.

Something must have shown on Freya’s stance because his focus sharpened and he strode closer. The intensity he trained on her got her restless. Unable to sustain such scrutiny, she turned away, breath clogged in her lungs.

He would have none of it, would he? Strong fingers locked on her upper arm and swivelled her to him. “Look at me when I talk to you!” He rasped irreducible.

This close the heat of him slammed on her with the scent of horse, wind and man impossible to forget. His touch, even rash, met eager skin. A skin deprived of caress, tenderness, desire for so long.

Her head tilted back to meet his gaze since her height came barely to his shoulders. To plunge fully in his magnificent eyes was surely the hardest thing she had done in her twenty-six years. To do it and lie wrenched her insides.

“Why?” He demanded.

The expression on her face hardened, and she remembered she did it for him, for Ewan, their safety. When her cousins approached her, she gave her word to stay away from him, aiming to spare his life. No going back now. Or ever.

“I got bored.” Ludicrous, she was aware of it. The day Drostan bored her she would become a skeleton in a grave.

A glacial glint blanketed his glare, followed by undisguised loathing. If she had not lost him up to now, she had just accomplished the feat with her last words.

The realisation caused her heart to flood with a despair too overwhelming to describe. Bitterness tasted like the deadliest poison. A poison that would fester in her for the rest of her existence.

With it came a perniciously aching doubt. What if she poured the whole story out? What if she shared with him this veritable anvil lodged in her as an extra organ these years? This should be what couples did, should it not? Solve problems as a team, as a family. They formed a family now.

No. Oh dear, no! The risks were too great, too lethal. Their consequences would raze whatever valuable they built. Clan McKendrick included.

So, she squeezed her heart in a cement case and doubled her efforts at convincing him.

“And you robbed me of four years of my son’s life because you got bored.” Cold and sharp as a sabre, his tone tore at her as a final blow.

“I did not know I was with child when I left.” At least she could say the truth in this. She really did not.

For the better, she concluded. No one must sniff her son. No one suspected. She had used all the resources in her power to conceal him, as difficult as it proved to be. Hidden, the boy’s life would not be threatened.

“When you did?” He challenged, still towering over her.

Hell broke loose. And heaven showed its glowing face. Fears, joys, apprehensions, hopes. All wrapped in one big thrashing sac.

“There was no going back.” A vague answer for something so important.

Oh, how she had wished he could be with her, witness her increasing with his seed. See the endearing bundle when Ewan came to be, every tiny step in his development. His first tooth, his first word, first step, first drawing on the sand. She had dreamed of nothing else but her husband at her side to smile dumbly at their babe as if no other child in the world accomplished these deeds. And the pride which would shine on this big man. His heir, the next Chief.

“You thought it fair to raise him in poverty when he could have everything.” Accusation clear in it.

“He has love.” Her chin tilted up to defy him to contradict her and the certainty it would be the most important in a child’s life.

“The love of a father discardable, no doubt.” He taunted, dripping in disdain.

Clearly, he was right. Ewan received half of the affection he should have had. The notion bled her heart further. She wished she had covered for both. Fathers and mothers loved differently though. Drostan would have dotted on all of his children. The knowledge she would have merely this one hurt immensely.

“Mine will have to do.” She defended the indefensible. But her son had her unconditional love, and he remained safe under her protection. In anonymity.

Eyes clasped on one another, they duelled; each sure of their position.

At that minute, the door opened and Ewan barged in with a pile of dry sticks in his little arms.

The sun had just hidden beyond the distant hills, leaving behind the cool air and red light chased by dark-blue sky.

Drostan made no move to leave as she expected. This cottage sat on the borders of the McKendrick lands and it would take at least two hours to ride to the manor. Oblivious to her fretting, father and son crouched before the hearth and fed the sticks to the fire as if they did this every evening.

As Freya watched the homey scene, warmth and anguish assailed her. She had deemed it impossible to happen. Her son’s fate would be to grow up without his father. She would be able to present him as the McKendrick heir when he had grown enough to fight for himself; and fend off the threats. Both together here was much more than she had dreamed. Once again, tears glassed her eyes over and she blinked them away, thanking the fact that her husband and her boy had their backs to her.

 

“Are you not riding back?” Her question thrummed in him like a violin cord, playing in the tension of her presence.

Despite her absurd arguments earlier and his contempt to her reasons, aversion to her would forever be a far-fetched lie. This evening with her and Ewan would list as the first one he did not spend in bitter loneliness in years. Four to be precise.

His attention snapped to her and their gazes crossed in the intimate firelight. She stood in the middle of the room with her hands clutched at her midriff, and a frown above her delicate nose. The very same he rubbed with his own before kissing her senseless.

“Too late.” He replied, trying to dispel his response to her. That he was intruding in her self-proclaimed privacy did not shame him. If he prompted himself to confess anything, it would be the lingering exhilaration at finally finding her.

He watched as the implication he would spend the night downed on her. An intake of breath through lips ajar and her tongue darting out to moisten them. His blood rushed faster at the remembrance of what such mouth had already done to him, for him. With him. His blood ran even faster at the admission he still wanted it, her. The years had subdued none of it. He snatched his head away from her before his body snitched him right in front of his son.

“Then I hope you do not mind eating stew and bread.” She devolved.

If she thought the humble fare would chase him away, she would find herself wrong. He had spent many a night sleeping in the open and eating bony roasted rabbits back in the day.

“It is perfectly fine with me.” He assured her with a crooked smile.

On a worn bench by a table full of scratches, Drostan savoured the delicious dinner. Delicious yes, but the stew counted more potatoes than meat, and the bread contained too little flour to give sustenance. He wondered if Ewan ate enough for growing up.

“How do you support yourself?” He asked. She took nothing with her when she left, not even her clothes.

Her beautiful eyes lifted from her bowl and found his. “The river provides fish.” Her spoon downed to rest on the bowl. “And I grow potatoes and vegetables to sell in the market.” Her chin inched up daring him to object to her means.

He would not. She left a life of comfort behind to live a frugal one. It showed she did not avoid hard work or the burden of raising a child alone. To carry goods to the market and bring what she bought back could not be easy. On foot, he would guess as he did not see a donkey or any other transport around. She lived a strenuous life. Unnecessarily. Had she told him she wanted to part ways, he would have seen to her comfort and a decent place to live. The knowledge he had a son, and an heir would change this.

“I can fish, too.” Ewan chimed, beaming at him. “Once I fished one this big!” He stretched his arms to show the size.

Drostan smiled proudly at his son. “A good son always helps his mama.”

The boy’s old-whisky eyes became worried. “Mama does not allow me to help a lot.” His little hand came to his face. “Today, she carried the water from the river alone.”

The Laird’s equally coloured eyes snapped to her; and she lowered hers with a flick of her long lashes. Did she get so bored that she preferred a back-breaking life to living with him?

After dinner, they tidied up, and Drostan headed out to tend to his horse.

 

A long sigh escaped Freya when her husband stepped outside, giving her a reprieve from his high-strung, disturbing presence. Her heart did not seem to get any slower though. The strain of making him believe her story. The gnawing the simple sight of him caused. And the wrenching effort of hiding this effect he had on her was like running ten miles with full pails under the rain.

Her lungs drew air for the hundredth time to no avail. Her head gave a shake to get a grip; she heard the door close behind Ewan as he followed his father. She would take the opportunity to wash the gruelling day off her and prepare Ewan’s bed.

Father came back carrying his son who blinked repeatedly to dispel his somnolence. Again, seeing how mindful her husband cared for their son moved her to the brink of tears. If no threat hung over her, she would have witnessed it from the very start.

Parents dressed a half-sleeping Ewan to bed. “Papa, will you be here tomorrow?” This being the reason he fought slumber this long, Freya realised.

Drostan and Freya exchanged a glance. She did not know what to answer the boy. Lying to him would be out of question. But then she looked down to the cot to an already sleeping Ewan. She caressed his mop of chestnut hair, covered him snugly and walked to her room, trying hard no to look at her husband.

 

The door opened then closed, and her eyes flew to it from where she sat on her bed, clad in a mended nightdress.

Drostan still had his large hand on the wood as his gaze darted to her in the candle light.

Freya sprang from the straw mattress, and faced him. “What are you doing here?” Her legs were not the only ones which sprang. Her heart, too, so loudly it might echo in the quiet night.

“I would think it quite clear.” The low silky answer came accompanied of him kicking his boots.

“You can sleep by the hearth.” Her issue produced no effect. Worse, the broad man did not even look at her as he took off his hoses.

“Under the table, you mean.” He unfolded to his full height, and she hardly drew air with his domineering presence.

Alright, so the front room did not have so much space to spare, but still… “You cannot sleep here.” Unfortunate that the pitch note of tension—carnal tension—seeped into the sentence.

With a leisure to last for the millennium, his long-lashed scrutiny sauntered over her with a steamy quality that made her doubt they had no fireplace here.

“Last I checked, man and wife can use the same bed.” His strong hand went up to unclip his tartan from his shoulder.

Irrefutable logic, of course. Except logic played no role in the scalding warmth which suffused her needy skin. “I will sleep in the front room, in that case.” She rebutted and moved to leave.

But he stood in the way and did not bulge. More than that, he directed a derisive grimace at her. “Running again for a variation.” His accusation speared her where it hurt most.

She did not run. She had removed herself from his life so as not to become a threat. The barb stayed her though. Without an uncompromising reply, she was obliged to watch him unbutton his pristine shirt. Each button revealed more inches of a muscle-ridged chest, peppered with satiny hair. Her fisted hands tingled to touch it. Her mouth to kiss it. And run her tongue along it. And…

She tossed her auburn braid back from her shoulder in a nervous gesture while breathing stuck in her lungs. Body swivelling, she gave her back to him with a tormented expression on her delicate face. Her ears could not un-hear the swishing of clothes though. Or her imagination could not un-imagine him undressing.

“Not running, then.” The sound of his grave low comment made her pivot to him involuntarily.

Just to be dished the view of his bared torso. Which encased the power to render her mute as her eyes took in the wide shoulders, the bunched biceps, the taut chest and the defined abs wrapped casually in an end of the soft tartan. All of it covered in a tan probably gained in summer.

Surely, she did not deserve the punishment of seeing him when she could do nothing else. To break the spell, she lowered her head. Only to realise she stood in front to the candle and that the light filtered through her threadbare nightdress to delineate her curves. Every one of them. Her head shot to darkened whisky glare setting fire to her already weakened will.

Anger erupted at these conflicting emotions clashing in her. “Sleep where you want. I do not care.” She breathed impatient, and hurried to lie down and cover herself with the worn blankets.

After he sat down on the sturdy bed, she blew the candle and darkness involved the chamber. Maybe it would hide the urgent need dominating her to roll to him and catch up with four years of craving.

Exhaustion must have taken its toll because she fell asleep at once.

Middle of the night, her lashes flashed open apprehensive. Something was different, she mused as she rummaged her memory to detect what. A regular breathing in the room reminded her. Drostan.

The bed’s dimensions did not accommodate her tall husband at a distance from her. Their bodies touched, especially because he used to sleep sprawled on his back with his arm over his eyes. The heat of him transferred to her. She lay there listening to his slumber as if it was the most precious moment in her life.  Years of longing, missing him like crazy, and tonight he lay right beside her. Sleep became superfluous. She wanted to be awake and delight in his proximity.

Next moment, his muscular frame shifted. To her. Unconsciously, a bunched arm banded her waist, a hand cupped her round beaded breast and a stubble mouth glued to her nape. Her entire body vibrated as their length touched. He still had his tartan around his waist which did nothing to disguise the bulge of him cradling against her. He used to hold her thusly after he took her to that sensual paradise she found only with him

The temptation to cover his hand with hers, to lean on him, to move so as his masculine lips grazed more soft skin assailed her like a rapid river rushing over her. Helpless and inevitable in its swirls and twirls, drowning her, carrying her to its depths.

Her breath caught in the struggle to stay immovable and hope he would switch to the other side soon. But he did not. Not while she was able to resist. Long minutes passed, her whole being clenched in arduous restraint. Her muscles started aching with the effort. Moving to untangle from him must have awoken him. His steel arm remained stubbornly tight around her waist.

“Freya.” He murmured in her ear before his mouth went wandering over the curve of her neck, pulling the fabric of her nightdress and advancing towards her shoulder. Goosebumps sprinkled over her together with ripples of sensations so familiar, so missed, so starving.

If she gave in to her impulses, he would know. He would know nothing had changed. Know her feelings for him still survived. No, increased. Deepened. Despaired. He would not let her go. She would not go. Not willingly. She would not have the strength. Not this time. Not ever again. Which would turn out to be a suicidal decision. Made even more serious because there was Ewan to consider now. His safety. His life.

So, in a brusque jerk, she jumped out of bed trembling like kingdom come and paced to the other end of the cramped chamber. One dainty hand clamped her mouth to stave her breathless, ragged state.

“What the blazes are you doing?” Her heated utterance came furious, channelling the cauldron of how he made her feel.

In the pitch dark without the candle, she did not see him. Jagged breaths came from the bed though. Restless movements. Hands grazing on stubble. The wooden frame creaked, feet touched the floorboard.

“You know what I was doing. We did it countless times.” The rumble of his tone neared. “Ewan is here to prove it.”

“And you think I am available whenever you are?” They had been apart for four years for pity’s sake! And time vanished when he touched her as if he had done it just this morning.

“You used to be.” His chuckle reverberated in the air. “Eagerly.”

Eager? No. Famished! Up to this very minute.

“Not anymore.” And she wondered when she would stop lying. It became tiresome after a while.

“Really? Your body sent a whole different message.” The remark came dripping in smugness.

“You read me wrong.” She contradicted. Another lie.

“Did I?” The question came rhetorical as his tone implied he had the answer.

Her face received his large hand, callused, firm, warm. The desire to move her head and kiss it nearly undid her. Her breath hitched, her eyes bulged unseeing. A blunt thumb found her lower lip and caressed it. Her lashes weighed down; the need to suck that thumb in her mouth ached. And ached some more.

Tartan touched nightdress as he came closer. He was going to kiss her. One of those delicious kisses—his calamitous specialty.

She mustered the rest of her feeble strength, drew in air and steeled her voice. “Stay away from me.” It came out sure and definite. Cold.

The large hand fell away. She sighed relieved. No, not relieved. There would never be relief. The ache still throbbed in her. Endless. At least, she succeeded in putting distance between them.

So much distance that the chamber door opened and closed. He left her alone. And lonely.

A lonely as brutal as it would eternally be.