Drostan climbed up the manor’s stairs after sharing a whisky with his brothers and father. Fingal sat on a corner too silent, something unusual for his blunt brother. He wondered if the reappearance of his wife got anything to do with it.

During their year together, Freya built a good rapport with his family. She used to be a cheerful, easy-going lass, content to share the manor’s management with Aileen, who undertook it since their mother passed. They reciprocated the empathy she showed them. With an unobtrusive personality, she seemed happy to walk the grounds or read a book when she had finished her work. Also, she helped with sowing and harvesting, or any other chores which needed all hands available.

And she was never too tired for him when they finished the day and reunited in their chamber. Then, the best part of the day, or should he say the night, started. His amazement at her warmth, ready smile and sensuality unending. Someone who shared such space in his life had been sorely missed when absent. He did not get over the emptiness she created. Ever. To think she left willingly splintered everything he knew about his wife. Together with what he felt for her.

His guts now tore with ambiguous reckonings. Anger for her abandonment. Wonder with her courage to face raising a child alone. Resentment at the fact she kept him ignorant of it. Desire that surged hotter than ever. It was as if four horses tried to split him to pieces.

Like now, as he entered his bedchamber to find her tempting curves wrapped in a warm nightgown and a shawl, sitting on their four-poster bed, arms crossed. The sight ignited a furnace in him, burning any of those ‘reckonings’ to cinders.

At his presence, she sprang up and turned a full contrariety to him.

“What is it?” He asked, appreciating her feminine frame in the firelight.

“You abducted Ewan and exposed him to danger.” Her blame came with no preamble.

“I did not abduct him.” He prowled to mere feet from her. “He asked to accompany me.”

“And if a four-year-old asks you to try whisky you will comply.” She maintained, tilting her delicate chin at him.

He was aware that a toddler held no maturity to decide more than the colour of the shirt he wanted to wear. “I am sorry.” He saw himself obliged to admit.

“You should have talked to me first.” A mother’s worry all over her.

A humourless side-smile sketched on his masculine lips. “The answer was clear without asking.”

“I am his mother and I decide what is best for him.”

At that, his fists rested on his tapered hips. “As his father, I have precedence over you.”

Indignation creased her delicate brows and narrowed her beautiful eyes. “More’s the pity.” Her tone transformed in obstinacy. “We are leaving tomorrow.”

His large hand raked his chestnut hair as he gave her his back. Did she think he would let her go when he had just found her? With his heir, moreover. “No, you are not!” He edited turning to her again.

She did not flinch at his incensed glare. “Want me to sneak out in the middle of the night for the second time?” Defiance washed her every move.

Bunched arms crossed over steel chest. “There will be people watching this time.” He devolved. “I learned from past mistakes, you know.” Disdain added to his stance.

“These things are always manageable.” Not a false reasoning, he recognised.

“Ewan stays.” The irreducible ultimatum hung in the air between them.

Those hazel eyes bulged with emotions hard to name. He saw worry. He saw fury. And terror. Depthless, naked terror. Did she imagine he would mistreat his own son? She and Drostan met years ago. In fairs and festivals. They counted a long betrothal, spent one year married. She should understand him by now.

As her feminine jaw dropped and her nervous head shook from one side to the other, he hardened on his decision. “He needs a proper upbringing. An education.” His diamond voice reiterated.

“I can give it.” Her soft voice came out gritted.

“With what books? I could hardly find a piece of paper and pencil in your stolen cottage.”

She tossed her long auburn tress back in a gesture he remembered as tense. “You will lend them, I expect.” The McKendrick library rivalled any of the highest British nobility.

“Ewan stays, I said.” When her dainty hand flew to her brow, it trembled. His eyes narrowed on it. “What is it, Freya?” The question husky.

Her stare snapped to him, and she took a long time to talk. “I mean to take Ewan from here.” Despite her clear tension, her tone spelt determination. And it did not provide a clear reply. She never did, come to that.

His nostrils expelled impatient air. “Look, let us find a compromise. If you want distance from me, alright.” The idea ate at him, a voracious rodent at his guts. “But I will find a better cottage and supply you and Ewan with a decent living.” He would make sure the cottage was easily accessible, including the possibility of checking on them regularly.

Hands clasped, they rested on her worried chin, face bent down in long deliberation. He waited. This was as far as he would go.

She lifted her head, eyes clear and decided. “Tomorrow.”

This would cut it close. And gave him no time to gain her over or change her mind…on everything.

Curtly, he nodded at last. “Tomorrow.” He paused. “I will accompany you.” And just like that she would slip away for the second time.

Another worried look passed by her eyes, but she said nothing as a faint smile pulled her full lips.

Even this almost non-smile beguiled him. He had not seen her in a light mood since…well…since he found her in that derelict place so below her rank.

It had the power to change the mood though. He kept his attention on her as much as she did on him. The fireplace roared with a cosy light flicking on her in the silent night. She drew her shawl closer as if a shiver ran through her.

The want of her he had been holding at bay for the length of their conversation emerged full force. He did not resist it. What was the point? She would leave in a question of hours.

A few long strides and he stood inches from his wife, inhaling quality soap and woman. He took her shoulders and pulled her to him.

She did not oppose resistance. On the contrary, her pupils dilated and her breath hitched.

His, in contrast, accelerated with the heatwave of arousal it preceded. “Spend the night with me.” He rasped hotly, unable to smother the near-desperation coursing through him with her imminent departure.

When had he ever begged a woman for anything? Yet here he stood doing exactly that to the one who uttered so many vows before a priest. And broke all of them.

Her body went lax and leaned on his. If this was not his wife wanting him too, he did not fathom what it was. His bunched biceps registered fingertips reaching them as if reluctant to give in to it. Satisfaction invaded him when her whole palms rested on his shirtsleeves, his muscles reacting to her touch. His head lowered to the point their breaths mingled in the warmed room.

Triumph and anticipation dominated him with her possible capitulation. All the signs displayed there with her puckered full breasts, separated lips, half-mast lashes. And a slight, almost imperceptible, moving of her middle to cradle his tented tartan and what lay, or rather stood, beneath it.

His scrutiny took in every tiny detail of her flawless face. The silky skin, the perfect eyebrows, the upturned little nose, the delicate jaw. To zero in on her cushioned rosy lips begging for his. Yes, begging, no doubt remained. His mouth aimed at them, going for the kill.

“You can find solace with your mistress.” The satiny attack came low, but sure.

Reflexively, he released her and stepped back to a distance she would not affect him. If that would ever be feasible.

 Not that a reasonable number of women did not offer to regale said solace to the poor, abandoned Laird, by the by. In many ways, in many places, in many subterfuges. He found, to his misfortune, they did not tempt him. Not even for a romp his body was so much in need of. One of those “candidates” called him a lonely wolf.

Wolves matted for life.

Frustrated and vexed with yet another rejection, he stuck his right hand up in the air, and held it there until her gaze found it, quizzical. “This is my mistress.” He barked, unconcerned to hide his response to her.

Deep, intense vermillion stormed into her face and spread over visible skin. Arousal, he would bet, more than embarrassment. There would be two sexually aroused people tonight. Why she insisted on distance was a mysterious question.

“You?” He dared her to admit to unfulfilled desires.

She seemed to awaken from a trance. “Me?” The breathy retort did little to cool him down. “I am sleeping in the lady’s bedchamber.” None too steady, she headed to the chamber she never used.

 

Freya sat side-saddle on her mare following the lazy pace Drostan set while he rode his bay stallion, Threuna, next to her. Their breaths fogged the crispy air, and the sky sported a watery mid-morning sun. The woods siding this empty back road presented bony trees bare of leaves. A little snow had announced the impending winter a little before Samhain, but it would return in earnest soon.

Her husband sat imposingly on his horse impeccably dressed in his fine green, black and white tartan, pristine shirt, sword and sporran on his waist; tall, muscular frame oozing masculinity. 

For an hour, Ewan rode with his father chatting non-stop about riding for the first time. As the boy showed signs of needing a nap, Freya took him to lay him more comfortably on her lap, in the folds of her cloak.

Not that she herself slept spectacularly at night. Amazing that she could drowse for a few hours though.

The talk with her husband took a significant chunk of her emotional energy. At first, she thought she would not be able to disentangle herself and Ewan from the manor. The Laird had been mostly obstinate and for a moment there seemed to be no way out other than slipping away undetected. The consternation of having to stay and transform her husband in a target had almost reduced her to hysteria.

When he insisted Ewan stay in the manor, she saw the sense in it. She agreed her son would need an education and orientation towards matters of the clan he would lead in years to come. And she intensely wished she could leave him in the McKendricks’ care as she faded in the shadows. But that would not do, would it? Father and son together would become an easier target. One shot, two lives. At the possibility, her heart nearly stopped. Hence her insistence in taking her son with her. Good thing Drostan had been amenable to their installing in another cottage.

Which led her to remember what came next. His bone-melting invitation to spend the night with him. The images the simple request bombarded her mind with had been enough to weaken a bronze statue. And she was not a bronze statue, not even close. His pulling her to his taut, missed body drove it to a hairbreadth from undoing her. All she wanted to do was melt into him and forget about everything else. One night. One single, simple night. What harm would it do? Her blood rushed feverish, heat accumulating everywhere and his rock-hard promise between them. She would never understand how she did not disintegrate on the spot. It took a cycloptic strength to refuse him one more time.

Just for everything to crumble to ashes when he raised his right hand and evoked forbidden images of him pleasuring himself. That alone made her ready for him in less than five seconds. The scalding flush which had speared her almost succeeded in shutting down her brain before she grabbed him, the rest be damned.

What saved her was the thought of mistresses, despite his very eloquent denial. Having not allowed herself to even bring the word to her mind, her taunting had astounded her. The nefarious jealousy that bubbled her insides would have suffocated her, had she not blatantly run to the lady’s chamber. In effect, she deserted her marriage without a word. Years ago. A man with her husband’s stamina certainly needed to assuage his high-level energy. Work did not do all the job. She knew it for a fact. If he had taken a paramour, who was she to object? She did nothing but condemn him to loneliness. Physical loneliness. That he had not resorted to that—and she believed him when he said as much—attested to his commitment to a broken marriage.  And that alone would have been enough for her continued love for him.

Of course she also got needs. Especially after experiencing intimacy with her Laird. Her right hand had something to say about it. She blushed at the thought. Drostan had been nothing short of addictive. Exceedingly so. And the way she had missed him in the first months away bore witness to it.

Therein lay the crux of the question. If she accepted just one night with him, it would be her downfall. Complete and irreversible. Which sentenced her to this endless, unfulfilled desert spreading in her body.

“The wagons with supplies started to your new cottage before dawn.” Drostan dragged her from her musings.

Her eyes blinked several times before she managed an answer. “I hope you did not overdo it.”

“I will not see my heir lacking anything.” He stated adamant.

Meaning he overdid it, the overprotective father. “Books will be very welcome.” She admitted.

He turned to her with a side-smile that mesmerised her. “I wonder how you managed without them.”

“Sometimes I succeeded in getting one or two in the fair and exchanged them back afterwards.”

“Resourceful of you.” He conceded.

“Ewan listened avidly to the stories I read for him.” She completed. “We did not spend all this time in a total feral state.”

“Good to know.”

As both returned their attention to the road, cold fear washed over her. Three men stood blocking it a dozen yards ahead. They wore no tartan, but Freya did not doubt for a second they were in her cousins’ crew. Drawing near, she observed knives tucked in their ragged trousers.

The McKendrick’s expression became focused and hard. “Go to the woods.” He instructed

“No, I—” The notion of leaving him to fend off these thugs on his own shattered her.

“Do as I say for once.” His frigid tone did not admit contradiction.

With the aim of putting Ewan in safety, she steered her mare to her left where the woods were thicker. Delicately, she woke Ewan up.

Even shaking all over as cold sweat trickled down her spine, she found a calm voice. “My love, rush and climb a tree.” She instructed knowing her son proved to be good at it.

“Yes, mommy.” He replied rubbing his eyes as they dismounted.

“And do not come down until I tell you to.” She eyed him straight. “Do you understand?”

“I do.” She put him down and let him run.

Around them the bare trees offered little as a hiding place, but the thick branches might help.

Quickly, she tied the mare deeper into the shadowy place and, bent torso, sneaked to where the men stood. They saw her and Ewan on the road for sure as she suspected they came after Drostan.

Shielded by a tree, she waited.

“Take whatever you want and leave.” The Laird commanded.

“Aye, blunt be gid, me Laird.”

Peering around the thick trunk, Freya saw the men unsheathe their knives. Closely followed by her husband. He had his traditional sword at his waist. Good thing he kept this custom.

The three goons surrounded his horse and Freya feared she would pass out. With long intakes of air, she tried to keep her head cool.

“Here, take it.” He detached his sporran from his waist and extended it to the one who talked.

“We will ‘ave yer blunt after we ‘ave finished wif ye.” And attacked Drostan.

The Laird was prepared and defended himself dextrously. The other two came at him and thrust the knives, trying to get at him, but his sword diverted them. Mounted, he had more chances, Freya observed.

Drostan continued fighting with his well-trained skill, but one against three revealed to be a hard skirmish.

Freya looked around for something to use as a weapon and help him. A thud on the ground and she turned to the road to see the foes pulled The Mckendrick off the horse. He lay on the dust, sword still in hand, flaying it to avoid the attacks. The criminals got scratched here and there; unfortunately, it did not stop them.

One of them poked him on the right shoulder; the surprise and pain made him drop the sword. Rushing to retrieve it, one of the three kicked it out of his reach. The second took his boot to the Laird’s ribs, extracting a grunt from him. The third lifted his foot right over her husband’s neck, about to strike.

That was when Freya knew she had to do something. Acting on instinct, she grabbed a fallen branch and launched into the deserted road with a warrior’s roar.  The thugs eyed her stunned. She stood by Drostan on the ground and ferociously pivoted the naked branch around her, banging one odious head, a spine and a leg. The banged-head fell, and the others swayed.

Not satisfied, she brandished the four-feet, club-like weapon and swung it again on her way back, blind to anything else. Her roars echoed through the bare vegetation, much scarier. Even if they dodged, she meted considerable damage.

“Stop, ye hag from hell!” One shouted.

“Only when I have turned you all to a pulp, you damned bullies!” She yelled in complete fury.

Her yelling must have woken the thug hit on the head. “Let us run from here, ye devils!”

The others eyed him and did not need the order repeated. The three of them scurried to the woods on the other side of the road.

But Freya was in a rage and started racing after them like a lunatic. A strong hand grabbed her ankle, and she fell on the gravelled dust, branch flying forward. “What do you think you are doing, woman?” Drostan’s low masculine voice gave her pause.

She rolled on her back launching him a vexed look. He came over her and pinned her body with his hot wall of muscles.

Her breath sawed, her skin sweated, her teeth gritted. Hair falling around her face, eyes shooting fire, she was the image of a warrior-queen.

His large, dusty hand caressed her flushed face. “Shh, easy now.” His voice soothing. “It is over.” He reiterated the mantra several times before it produced any effect.

Only then did her eyes focus on him. With a lengthy sigh, her head rested on the ground. Their stares clashed and the relief of seeing him unharmed almost turned her into a mellow puddle.

His old-whisky irises perused her face with a strange expression on them. Like a vice, it imprisoned hers with zero possibility of detaching from it.

“I am more useful to you dead than alive.” He murmured, his glare never leaving her.

As if love had anything to do with useful. As if she would not give everything she owned and did not own to go on living in a world inhabited by him.

Somehow, she found her voice which did not yell. On the contrary, it came soft and breathy. “I will remember it next time.” Trying at a jest, she did not want this horrible attack to happen ever again.

And his mouth dived on hers. Quick, precise. Hungry.

Call it adrenalin. Call it relief for his safety. Call it longing. Call it whatever the darn you want. But for the life of her, she had no chance of resisting. In between moans, she opened for him. And the world disappeared. Simply disappeared in his tongue tangling with hers.

Forget the middle of nowhere. Forget the thugs. Forget the dusty ground. Her arms circled his thick neck, her melted body moulded to his taut one. The scent of him in her nostrils, the bunched muscles holding her, the stubble prickling her lips. She wanted more. And more.

The gravel dug on her back. Her hair plastered on her sweat. The frosty November wind swirled around them. She felt none of it.

His fingers merged in her scalp. His sensuous mouth moved for more access. His hardness pressed on her middle. And she felt each atom of it.

He kissed her as if there was no tomorrow. As if there were no other women. As if the heat they produced would save the country. The planet. The universe.

Not nearly enough!

But she tried. Oh, that she did. She turned the kiss around and invaded his mouth with her famished, shameless tongue. And he let her. He caught it with his teeth, caressed it with his own tongue, closed his lips around it and sucked as he would her breast.

Dear me!

He came up for air and their ragged, laud breaths mingled vaporising the cold air. She lifted her head and caught him back, caught him unaware. It was his turn to moan. They kissed more open-mouthed. Deeper. More boundless. The caress so erotic it owed nothing to actual lovemaking.

“Mommy.” Came the frightened call from the shadows in the woods.

Immediately, Drostan halted. Still breathless, he ogled her as if trying to ascertain this was really his wife. That the torrid kiss effectively happened. “I am coming, son.” He emitted, attention still clung to her. In agile movements, he stood up and strode in the direction of the child’s voice.

The distancing of him gave her the chance to recompose. Up on her feet, she dusted her clothes in restless slaps. Her heart did not cease thundering as she tilted her head to the sky attempting to gobble fresh air and put her breathing to rights.

How did she get so carried away by his touch that her mind blanked out from her own son, for pity’s sake? That she had been fighting three brutes did not excuse it. She should have been more alert. This never occurred in four years of caring for her son. The whole distress was putting her out of her mind, but she must get a grip. No use flogging herself over it, she decided. It would not repeat in the future, she would make sure of it.

Drostan re-emerged with Ewan on one arm and pulling her mare with his free hand. They exchanged a glance heavy with meaning.

At the sight of her, Ewan jumped to the ground and came to her. She crouched down to take him in her arms. “Are you alright, my love?”

His head fell on her shoulder when he nodded. “I did not hear anything, and I thought you gone.”

“Never, my love.” She hugged him tighter.

“Your mother saved the day, mo bhalach.” Drostan interposed, conveying with his stance that her little lapse meant nothing in the whole picture.

The boy eyed her smiling. “You did, mama?”

She did not know how she drew a grin to her son and nodded, the whole episode still weighing down on her.

“Better you do not misbehave or she will morph into a brave Morair Chat, a Highland Tigress.”

“Your father is exaggerating.” She murmured almost shy with the praise while she straightened.

Drostan positioned the mare on the road and came to her to help her mount. His large hands bracketed her slim waist firmly and lifted her effortless to the side-saddle. The gesture provoked a shiver to run over her. Hazel eyes lowered to old-whisky ones in bottomless undercurrents. Leisurely, his hands slipped from her leaving a trail of eagerness in their wake.

“Come, wee one. You ride with me this time.” He said to Ewan.

Miraculously, Threuna did not stray far, lingering a few feet behind. Properly mounted, they proceeded to the new cottage.

 

Drostan rode beside his wife his mind whirling with what had just happened. Down on the road, he had watched Freya fight like a berserker. It petrified him. Filled him with fear for her. Filled him with fierce pride for her. When he was about to stand up and join in the fight, she had already scattered the cowards, who ran with their tales between their legs.

He scoffed. One tiny woman against three. Surely, the men did not heed a woman and a child, deeming they would present no threat to them. Stupid mistake. She had lived on her own for four years. It certainly had posed practical challenges which must have strengthened her physical skills. Had not Ewan said she had carried pails of water to the cottage for his bath? Not to mention the mile-long walks to markets and fairs carrying heavy sacs. She had not backed down at these tasks, had she? Here he saw his warrior-queen primed for anything that came her way.

But what stunned him to distraction was that she came readily to his defence. Why would she risk her life—and Ewan’s if she had perished—for a husband she left without a second thought?

She saved his life, bluidy hell!

So many of her actions made so little sense.

That mind-blowing kiss made even less sense. Though she had kissed him senseless, pun intended. The sight of her lying there all fury and resilience shut him down. Her body and his glued as they had not been for an eternity proved too much for his self-control. He had nearly burst out of his skin with her kissing him back. And with such fiery response it blew him away. And kept his body rattling for more.

No wonder both regretfully forgot about Ewan, poor boy. But his son had been safe in the woods and the criminals fled. No harm done. His heir seemed good at climbing trees, he saw. A life lived almost in the wild would do that. Smart boy.

There was something that did not quite ring right in this, he contemplated. His family rode a secondary route in his lands. Road raiders did not attack on these nearly empty country lanes. The men wanted his money, or so they said. But even Drostan could see highwaymen would not be able to make a living on secondary roads. Who were they? Did they aim specifically at him? Or at Ewan? He saw no apparent reason for it though a better explanation he could not find.

He diverted his thoughts to other things before he became paranoid.