When they turned the last bend on the road, Freya caught her breath. The loveliest cottage stood encrusted in the woods, on the shore of a loch. Even the bare trees did not diminish the atmosphere of enchantment surrounding the area. In fact, they enhanced it.

As their horses approached the dwelling, the beauty became more stunning. Gauzy mist swirled over the loch’s placid water which mirrored the watery sun and whitish sky. The aroma of earth and fallen leaves accentuated the peacefulness that dominated the place. So much peace tears prickled her eyes with it.

The old stones used to build it matched the landscape, with gracious door and windows. Not being big, it was perfect for both mother and son, Freya realised as she entered. Two bedchambers, a large front room and a horse shed on the outside. Drostan’s servants had arranged everything they brought on its due place and even a fire burned low in the fireplace, adding to the homey aura inside.

“Look, mama, a loch!” Ewan’s excited voice echoed in the silence. The boy ran towards it to explore his new whereabouts.

The expression of wonderment on her face must have shown. “Do you like it?” Came her husband’s low voice behind her.

Eyes flashing on him, she answered. “If I like it? It’s beautiful!”

The satisfied glint on his stance dispensed with any reply.

But then her attention fell on his right shoulder, his shirt soaked in blood. “You are bleeding!” She worried her lower lip.

He did not even glance at it. “It is nothing.” He usually threw his tartan over his left shoulder, which made the contrast of red on white even more shocking on the other side.

“Sit there.” She motioned to the bench by the table. “I will dress it.” On the counter by the window, she found cloths and a pitcher full of fresh water. Her back to him, she poured water on a basin. “Take off your shirt.” She said. He must have done so because she heard clothes swishing.

As she turned, she saw he tragically had. And maybe she should not have asked him to. His tartan lowered and his torso all bare for her eyes to feast on it. The scalding heat that assailed her almost made her drop the basin. Bunched biceps, steel chest sprinkled with chestnut soft hair—soft, for she had caressed it a lifetime ago—flat stomach, tanned skin. He was the dream and perdition of any woman unlucky enough to set eyes on him.

Sucking in rarefied air, she sat by his side, plonking the basin on the wooden table with a clumsy noise. Her focus shifted to dipping the cloth as she forced herself to stare solely at the cut. It had not been deep and would not need stitching. But blood still dripped from it. She cleaned it, but avoided direct contact with warm, taut skin. Her nostrils could not avoid inhaling the manly scent she remembered so vividly though.

She was trying so hard not feel what she felt anyway that she did not notice his head had lowered to her. Hawkish nose an inch from touching her dishevelled hair. Hazel irises lifted to him and their gazes collided, hers unbalanced by the surprise. Without really touching her, his strong jaw followed her temple, down to her cheek, sauntering to her ear, into her auburn fallen mess, and breathed her in.

The heat of him burned her skin, threatening to set fire to the whole of her. Lashes pressed shut, a sigh fought to escape her lips. One hand involuntarily touched his muscled shoulder, the most delicious mistake of the last hour. For the mistake of the last century she had made earlier by kissing the man like her life depended on it.

“Why did you save my life?” The husky question caressed her ear as he advanced closer to her.

That made her snap her attention to him. And when she did, their lips came a breath from reconnecting for the second time that morning. Both stopped moving, hung in the moment. Their breaths on each other’s lips, her insides melting more by the second. Heart pumping, body going gooey, she tried to remember why this could not happen. Her foggy brain whispered broken sense into her. This would be disgraceful for her weak will where he was concerned.

In a last attempt at resistance, she sprang from the bench and returned to the counter for more unnecessary cloths. If he only knew she had been straining to save his life for four long years. With a knife-twisting sacrifice she never thought herself capable of. At which she disastrously faltered at this exact minute.

What was that he asked? The effort to clear her mind took several seconds to come by it. Oh, yes. “No human being deserves to die on a roadside.” The vague answer rang artificial even to her ears. Uttered as she looked out of the window at Ewan throwing pebbles in the loch.

“Berserkers would envy your noble heart.” He taunted.

Her body twisted to him at that. A mix of amusement and perplexity smothered his remarkable eyes. “Are you calling me a fierce warrior?”

“You surely fought like one.” He watched her pacing to the table. “Thank you.” He added.

She sat, putting a reasonable distance between them. “There is nothing to thank.”

“Of course not.” He mocked.

“Rest your elbow on the table for me to dress the wound.” She oriented, and pretended the task completely absorbed her, unwilling to answer more difficult questions.

She managed to complete said task without ogling his magnificent person overmuch. Though managing not to imagine the trip her hands and lips itched to make was one demand too much.

“I do not think your servants have packed a spare shirt.” She commented. The one he wore displayed a patch of stain over the upper arm.

“I did not instruct them on it for obvious reasons.” He retorted, implying he had no use for clothes change if they would not…

A violent blush surged on her face. Turning from him to hide it, she busied herself on the counter. “I will prepare luncheon. Surely Ewan would like it if you ate with him.”

“And you?” His low voice came right from behind her. She rotated to him abruptly and clashed with him wrapped on the upper part of his tartan which ill-concealed his very noticeable torso.

“I do not have an opinion on the matter.” She affirmed, forcing her eyes up to his.

She did not. If he left, she would be able to breath relieved with the removal of the source of her dire tension.   And who needed relief when his presence filled her life with so much meaning? The contradiction tore at her and robbed her of an ‘opinion on the matter’.

Ewan poked his head through the threshold. “Papa, you have to see how many fish I saw in the loch!” This was his son requiring his attention and care.

Drostan and Freya exchanged a knowing glance before he accompanied the boy to the shore.

 

The Laird McKendrick dismounted and gave his horse to the stable hand before heading to the manor. He left the mare with Freya, so she would be able to move around with more ease or ride to the manor should mother and son require something.

After the raid, he toyed with the possibility of Freya and Ewan returning here for protection. Worry nagged at him at the idea of them alone in it. But having seen the fight she had put to leave yesterday, he doubted she would accept to ride back. Even though he would be on tenterhooks with it. The cottage sat safely not far from others. He chose it because he was sure she would like it and Ewan would have plenty of places to play. Only keeping an eye on them would ensure everything ran smoothly. That was what he intended to do. Very, very often. Never mind it would be the perfect excuse to see them, her, frequently. Despite the fact she and her actions were tying him in tangled knots. Who cared? Not him, for sure. Four years’ separation proved to be quite enough. After that explosive kiss, excessive.

Harvest had ended weeks ago which meant less work for the months to come, with only the keeping of the livestock and little else. So the McKendrick men sat calmly in the study when Drostan came in.

He knew he must bathe and change, but he was in dire need of a whisky after the ‘hectic’ morning he had.

As soon as he stepped inside, Wallace frowned at him. “What happened?” Shirtless, the white bandage peeking from under the tartan enough for any father to ask.

Lachlan, with his favourite dog, sat on an armchair. Fingal, by the table, read a paper. Both lifted their heads to him, becoming worried.

“An attack on the road.” The eldest supplied as he poured a generous dose of whisky in a glass.

“You mean, on that road?” Lachlan’s voice pitched with the strangeness of it.

His nod came swift. “We were set upon by a trio of thugs.” He tossed the whisky and waited for its warm soothing effect.

A strange expression passed through Fingal’s eyes. “Bluidy Hell!”

“I went down and Freya fought the three of them.” The matter-of-fact tone did not fool anyone.

“Freya?” A surprised Wallace blurted.

“Stood up to three men.” Confirmed Lachlan, disbelieving.

“And won. They scurried away.” Completed Drostan.

“The lass saved your sorry hide.” Fingal as his blunt self.

“You could say that, yes.” The Laird responded as he put down his glass.

“Her parents certainly got it wrong when they named her after the Nordic goddess of love.” Fingal mocked.

Drostan did not share in this opinion, but under the circumstances a rebuttal did not fit in. And he would not tell them why he regarded her as the very goddess of love, exposing their intimacy in the process.

“Aye. Boudicca would be more like it.” Lachlan jested.

“Did Ewan get hurt?” Wallace did not plan to lose the grand-son and heir he had just met to mere bandits.

“Under his mother’s guidance, the wee bairn climbed a tree and stayed safe.” Provided the father of said boy.

“Like mother, like son.” Provoked Fingal.

Even if his brother implied a son should take after his father, Drostan was grateful for the care his wife took of Ewan and the boy’s consequent positive behaviour.

He excused himself, rushing to his bedchamber. His very empty bedchamber. 

 

After breakfast, Ewan ran outside to play by the loch while she tidied his bedchamber.

“Good morning.” Her husband’s deep tones caressed her ears behind her.

Her eyes snapped to his broad frame, taking in his windblown hair and his old-whisky eyes burning a hole in her insides. “Good morning.” She clipped out, heart jumping with loud beatings.

She started questioning her decision of accepting to stay in this too near, too accessible cottage. And his too near, too accessible presence. In the enclosed space of that hall, she could even hear his breathing. With him that close, to the cottage, to her, her own cravings would undermine an already crumbling will.

“The door was open.” He explained as his inspection did not miss the tight bun on her nape, the simple, practical dress and her attempt to breathe normally.

“Ewan must have forgotten to close it.” She blurted the clarification, hoping he did not detect the turmoil his proximity caused.

Pacing to the front room, she put a safe distance between them as he followed her. The air became rarefied while she stared at him and he stared back in a steamy silence. The memory of that ravaged mistake from yesterday invaded her mind with a thrill cording every nerve.

“How is your shoulder?” She asked in a struggle for something to say. Only to regret it at once as the other ravaged memory from yesterday threatened to melt her on the spot. The one where she touched his bare taut biceps.

“Lachlan helped me change the bandaging today.” His sensuous lips rasped. “Want to check?” His long-tanned fingers moved to his shirt’s top button.

This simple movement unleashed a hot rush of blood to the surface, tainting her skin with undeniable arousal. “No!” She answered too quickly. And too silkily. “Clean, it should be alright.”

The look he cut her was exceedingly lacking in innocence and exceedingly abounding in undisguised raunchiness.

Her gaze yanked from him with strenuous effort as she busied her hands clearing the breakfast table. “Ewan is outside playing, if you came to see him.” And turned to the back window where she saw him with the wooden toys his father had sent him.

His attention followed the same direction. “He needs the company of other children.”

As though she did not know that. “Usually, he met other children when I took him to the village.”

“Which village?” His stare snapped to her with all the onslaught that slapped on her insides.

She had the clearest idea what his question was about. The reason he never happened upon them during these years. “The nearest one in the McDougal.” This reply extracted a scowl of outrage from his manly features.

“McDougal?” Fierce fists lifted to his tapered hips. “When you had a much closer one in the McKendrick?”

If he only knew how many times she had fantasised going to the closer village, and risk stumbling on him. Better, risk at least having a glimpse of him. From behind a column, from inside a shop, from a busy stall. How many times had she awoken in a market day morning contemplating going to this village and not that? How many times had she wished to sneak to the McKendrick lands unseen on Beltane, or Samhain, or Christmas, or Easter—whichever—just to stand in the distance and drink in the sight of him? See him smiling, celebrating, cheering. Even if it was with someone else, a woman-someone else. This thought alone shattered her heart in millions of tiny unfixable pieces. If she could catch a two-second view of him, she would mind nothing else.

How many times had she resisted the temptation with so much effort it ripped out tears and her heart in the process?

“His playmates were there.” What a feeble excuse to give to her own husband.

“You were hiding him from me!” He accused, old-whisky eyes spewing anger at her.

He could not be more wrong if he tried. Everything she ever wished was for her son to grow with his father. But she had no chance of saying this to him. “I was not!” She countered as though this made enough of a sensible reason.

“Of course not.” Sarcasm being the last she wanted from him. “You even came to tell me I had a son!”

Poignant pain lanced her at this. The same pain she had to tamp down every single day she denied her son his father. His father their son. “You have full access to him here. I am not preventing you from it.”

“Four years too late!” He spat derisively. “And only because you had no choice.”

Choice was a word lacking in her life. It had been lacking for much more than four years. That he found her by chance did not mean she had one now. She did not, and what she would do about it nagged at her. “Make up for lost time.” She suggested, her cynicism a farce.

“Make up for the lost cry at his birth?” He questioned implacable. “Make up for his teething? For his first steps?” His whole body washed in condemnation. “His first words then? Not ‘papa’ for sure.”

Her throat clogged at this, making an answer impossible. These same thoughts had whirled in her mind a thousand times on sleepless nights. Hazel eyes widened on him when his stance morphed from derision to pure disgust.

“Or did he call someone papa?” Strong legs prowled closer. “You left because you had another man!” His fury a palpable element between them as a large hand closed around her upper arm and pulled her to him.

Her lungs burned for air, with her heart pounding when her gaze lifted to his and both engaged in a tacit battle. A wavy chestnut strand fell on his forehead with the movement which highlighted his out-of-control temper. “Answer me!”

It took long seconds for her to find her voice. Breathy voice. “You asked no question.” She rebutted.

Those magnificent old-whisky eyes darkened as his breathing competed with hers, meshed with hers, caressed yearning lips. “Did you leave me for another?” He deigned to ask in a tone that conveyed this was no concession.

Such an idea sounded so hideous that she managed to scoff. “As though I would have time for it with a child to bring up and a living to make.”

The mere hint that another man might touch her caused a nauseating wave to surge from the deepest of her being. He had transformed her in a glutton for him—solely him—since the first time their skins came an inch from each other. Before that even. The slight view of him vanished any other man from the face of Earth. From the time she turned sixteen, teen-ish as it may seem.

Drostan’s ogle bore into her until she feared she would explode with the heat of it. Abruptly, he let go of her arm and gave her his back, his fingers raking his smooth hair.

His large frame swivelled to her anew. “Which brings us to the question of why you forsook our marriage.” A question he had asked her as soon as he came to the derelict cottage; whose answer he gave the impression of not believing if the repeating of it was any indication.

Tension burst in the depths of her like a mushroom. This lying and deceiving consumed too much energy. Guilty energy. And it gave off.

She mustered every drop of frustration of the last years. Every drop of rage against those who would not relent in keeping her from her husband. Every drop of resentment for the distance she must keep from him. And threw it at him. Threw it at him knowing it was wrong, knowing she should turn to him for support. Knowing the truth would always be the best solution. Even so, she threw it at him. To shove him away from her and her son. To keep the both people she loved most in this world from harm.

 

“Did I not tell you I became bored?” Her voice at a pitch that could only be described as desperate. “Can you not accept this once and for all?” Her torso tilted forward while her eyes darted what she hoped was determination.

 

The payback came swift enough. Muscled arms crossed over wide chest. His gaze perused her from frowned eyebrow to her hard-planted boots dripping in so much contempt they might spread draught in a lesser heart. “So you say, but your glare carries twenty times more hunger for me than before.”

 

At that, she turned from him. Hunger did not begin to describe her craving. A starvation bordering on the voracious. One that her body had to brave in the dead of the night. That her heart had to drag through slow passing days. That her memory of him had difficulty to eradicate. He had not the slimmest notion!

“As hungry as the kiss of yesterday.” His drawl delivered as a final blow. On her. On her lies. On her composure.

Colour scalded her cheeks when she faced him again. The reminder filled her with an ache so depthless she would need to kiss him like that for centuries to sate.

For what felt like the hundredth time this morning, their eyes locked in a duel of wills, of desire, of resistance. And stayed thus for so long, she lost track of time.

“I will talk to Ewan.” He said at last, striding to the entrance and leaving her to cope with the burden of his presence. Or his imminent absence. And everything it entailed.

 

“Ewan, finish up your luncheon or it will get stale.” Freya said as the wee one seemed distracted with the clay tiger they found for him among the things in the cottage.

“Yes, mama.” He answered, and went back to it.

Despite the tensions of the previous morning, both enjoyed a very cosy evening after Drostan departed. Ewan chatted non-stop during luncheon and helped disperse the tight atmosphere between his parents. As the boy moaned his discontent at his papa’s leaving, her husband promised to be back soon.

Which discharged a hot current of expectation in her. Naturally, the man would be around with disquieting frequency. She did not know how she would be able to deal with seeing him day in day out. Or else, if she would be strong enough to resist him. Or if she wanted to resist him after all. Want being the wrong word. She wanted him, to be frank. But she should resist him, no doubt. At the notion, she wished she were made of stone, unmovable stone.

One thing she could not deny though. This place proved to be much safer than the isolated spot by the river she had lived in for years. This helped her relax like she had not done for a long time. Before tucking Ewan in bed, she read a story for him from a book among those stacked in a crate. When the boy fell asleep, she took another book and sat by the fireplace with a tea.

With a sigh, she looked through the window to the tranquil loch. A light breeze rippled the surface with tiny waves playing with the sunlight. Few birds remained for the winter and a soothing silence reigned with a faint aroma of rain.

Deciding to go check the horse, though they took care of it yesterday, she opened the front door. And the scraps of peace and safety she garnered so far vanished like mist in the wind.

“Ewan, would you please go feed our horse oats?” She said without diverting her look from outside.

“I will call her Loch, mama.” He informed as he used the back door to reach the shed. No time to explain to him that Uncle Fingal must have a name for her and she did not ask Drostan for the information.

When she heard the back entrance closed, her stance hardened, as she stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind her.

Ross, her third cousin, stood at the track leading to the cottage, his horse grazing nearby. They would never give her a reprieve, would they? The more she struggled to comply with their demands, the more they pushed her.

Short, bald and with a round belly denouncing too much whisky and meat, his fifty-something long-nosed face did not show his ugly character. Neither did his measured movements as he walked to her.

“I heard of a ‘Hag from Hell’ yesterday.” The mention of the bad witch depicted in the Scottish folk tales in his nauseating high-pitched voice gave her the certainty of his involvement in the raid.

Freya crossed her arm and looked him directly in the eye. She was tired of cowering. She was tired of living in fear. So tired of these lonely years. “And I heard of too many of your crimes.” She devolved.

What use had there been in doing what they blackmailed her to do? What use did she have for isolation and sacrifice if it came to yesterday’s attack? What use did she have for the never-ending terror burning a hole in her insides?

Her reply elicited a vexed glare from his disgusting blue-eyes. “Grew a pair of claws, I see.”

“Say what you came to say and leave.” Despite the dread that threatened to make her sick, she held her ground.

“You broke the promise of staying away and now the McKedricks know of their heir.” His yellow and black plaid did not confer him the same dignity it did her father.

It did not surprise her they knew of Ewan, even if she had hoped they did not. “They found me. I had no choice.” She stated solidly what he must already know.

“Yes, well.” He looked down at his boots and back to her as if he was talking to an underling. “You will have to regroup.”

A shot of cold wave flashed through her body. “What do you mean?”

“Either you make yourself scarce again, or your precious husband will have to go.” He made a show of adjusting his kilt, having become adept of the latest Scottish fashion. He pleated his brow as if a fresh idea came to him. “Thinking on it, I might do it anyway and marry you to a McPherson kin.

“Never.” She blurted stonily.

“That would neutralise your son’s chances at succession.” He reiterated. Married to a kin of hers, there would be no alliance uniting McKendricks and McPhersons.

She had hoped it would not come to that. But she would have to play the card she hid in her sleeve. “These past years, I have kept letters with my solicitor exposing both your and James’s blackmail and crimes.” The revelation brought a rabid look on her cousin’s beady eyes. “Should anything happen to my husband, my son or even me, the letters will be sent to my father and the other chieftains.” She paused for effect. “And the McKendricks. And the McDougals. The magistrate.”

No more, she shouted innerly. No more cowering, no more conniving with a man who would drag her clan to the mud. No more of this!

He scoffed an ugly smirk. “Who would have thought you harboured such spirit? So meek and accommodating, always.” He gave one step towards her and she concealed the flinch it provoked, but did not move back.

That was the problem, was it not? The more accommodating she became, the more they cornered her. These years’ deprivations had strengthened her. The time came to stand up for what she wanted. “And look where it got me.” She retorted.

He shook his head seeming to muster patience to talk to a child. “The thing is, my dear lass, that after the deed is done, it will be dreadfully difficult to prove I did it.”

Clearly. He did not dirty his hands, he left that to his thugs.

“The seeds of suspicion will sow everywhere.” The letters she had written would get people intrigued at the very least.

“But will not prevent me from being called The McPherson.”

This would be the worst. And she would have inadvertently helped him with it.

He continued silent, her mind in a storm as to how she could revert it.

“So I suggest you go into hiding again before your husband,” he looked at the shed, “or your son suffer the consequences of your rebellion.”

All the blood in her body drained, and she blanched to a ghostly hue. Her legs nearly faltered as she strived not to pass out. Gulping a lot of cool air, she kept her stance neutral. Not for the life of her would she let him see he had hit her harder than with a fist.

Calmly, he turned to his horse. “Think about it.” And rode as he would if returning from Sunday service.

Her composure held until he disappeared round the bend on the road. Then she collapsed on the grass in front of the cottage, face washed in tears. There could be no doubt which action to take. She was not about to lose her adored son, much less the husband for whom she would die a thousand deaths.

What saddened her even further was the thought that this constant running did not afford Ewan a stable life. Her boy deserved to be happy above all. Her chin fell forward and her hands covered her bathed face, sobs echoing in earnest in the damp air.

A small hand touched her shoulder. “Mama?”

She lifted her gaze to him unconcerned if he saw her state. Hands holding his cherubic cheeks, she caressed them with tender thumbs. “My love, I am afraid we have to leave.”

Confusion entered his old-whisky eyes. “I do not want to leave.” His faint voice denounced his disappointment.

“I know.” She replied pitifully. “I wanted you to grow up here, close to your father. But we cannot, my love. It is too dangerous.” Her tears dripped from her chin to her bodice. “Do you think you can help me with that?”

He nodded, putting on a brave stance. “I think so. I will protect you, mama.”

She shook her head, managing a faint smile. “No need, my darling. Mama will take care of you.” In slow, hopeless movements, she stood up, took his hand in hers and paced to the cottage to gather their things.

 

Drostan rode Threuna along the empty road in a rather eager mood this afternoon. Even with the rain that is. It started not five minutes ago, but he did not mind it. Only a half mile left to ride.

Despite the harsh words he and his wife exchanged the previous morning, he did not find enough strong-will to stay away. From her, that is. His son would always have his attention and care, nonetheless.

To see her, and her colouring of what could only mean arousal at his proximity, threw him in a want that boiled his blood. But those harsh words played in his mind the whole night. The possibility she strove to hide Ewan from him eviscerated burning rage from his guts. No sensible explanation came from her as for the reason since she did not seem to mind his visiting the boy.

What kept him awake with something like acid burning through him was the suspicion she might have someone else. Freya had never given sign of being a woman too fond of men’s attention. As they became betrothed, he sensed she had eyes only for him, as he for her. It made no sense that she would leave him for another. He must ask though. And stand up to whichever truth she cast at him. Albeit she looked him firmly in the eye and denied it. He had no choice but believe her. He did, hoping he was not making a mistake.

And so here he rode back to her, his son. He did not fathom what else he was riding to.

As soon as he dismounted, he realised something out of the ordinary. Doors and windows closed, no movement. No sign of life. His son would have rushed to greet him, for sure. Their absence became a fact when he saw the shed empty.

In a rush of anger, he barged into the cottage only to see everything meticulously in order. As if no one ever lived there. Apart from washed plates and pots drying on the counter by the window. They had spent the last night, at least.

His hand pulled the entrance door so abruptly it banged at his back. Damned woman! What the hell did she get into that crazy head of hers to leave after promising to stay here? And in this weather!

He practically jumped on his horse, checking around for signs to track them down. The rain turned into a downpour which would make it more difficult to find vestiges of their route. But he used to be practised in it, having spent a lifetime in nature.

As the road left the loch behind, he found a horse hoof print leading to the woods. Cold rain spattered on his head and shoulders. Mud splashed on his bare knees and boots. The wool tartan weighed on his soaked shirt. He cared nothing for it, his blood boiled with fury.

The ability to still find sign of them meant they set out not long ago. His impatient hand raked his dripping hair. He wondered why he insisted in going after them when it was clear she wished to evade him. Even if she had to risk Ewan’s health by doing so.

His son and heir did not deserve this nomadic life. Stability, education, heritage were his due. He hoped to be strong enough not to twist her delectable neck when he found her. Threuna got free rein and galloped through the naked woods.

An hour passed when he detected a slight movement far ahead. In a faster gallop, he discerned a horse and the rider in a—stubborn woman!—faded green worn cloak.

The gallops reached her at the same moment she turned to him. “What is this all about, you betraying little liar?” He hissed, launching himself down on sloshing ground.

Hazel eyes wide open, water trickling from her long lashes, her lips parted. “Drostan.” She breathed.

He dropped his eyes to see a bundle sleeping in her arms wrapped in several blankets. “What kind of mother subjects her child to this weather for no sensible reason?”

His strong wet arms stretched and took the bairn from her. “No.” Her tone came low and ragged with despair.

She came down from her mount and followed him. “Drostan, please.”

Her words cut at him, but he steeled himself against their appeal. “My son will enjoy the life I can offer him, instead of roaming in woods like a nomad!”

A shivering dainty hand made a bee line to her temple to remove the auburn plastered strands, and her hood fell down her shoulders.  Her face streaked with raindrops came to the grey afternoon light. It gave him pause. Ashen cheeks, trembling lips, tense jaw, pleated brows. And her eyes, bluidy hell, her eyes! Swollen with dark smudges under them and such an unfathomable haunted expression in their hazel depths he owned this urge to take her in his arms and offer solace.

But he could not melt into her feminine allure. Would not. A pivot on his hills, he strode to his horse, Ewan pressed against his chest.

“Drostan, do not do this.” She murmured so softly the sound of the rain almost covered it.

The surrounding commotion must have awoken Ewan. “Papa.” He called between drowsy and happy. “Are you coming with us?”

Freya’s and Drostan’s gazes locked for long moments in a communication neither could understand properly.

“No.” He lowered his attention to the boy. “We are going home, mo bhalach.”

At that, the wee bairn sat on his arms. “We cannot.” He rubbed his eyes with the blanket. “Mama was crying. She asked me if I accepted to go away with her.”

When Drostan sought her anew, she had turned her back to him. “Why was she crying, son?” She did not put an act with her bedraggled state, he guessed.

“I do not know. She fell on the grass when I fed Loch.”

“Loch?” He asked quizzical.

“Ewan’s nickname for the mare.” Informed Freya.

“What is going on, Freya?” He forced the question.

Her stance crumpled even more as she shook her head in quick, nervous movements. “I must take Ewan and leave.”

Drostan let air forcefully through his nostrils. There was something amiss here on which he could not put his finger. He installed them with all comfort in a place where he would not impose on her. Accepted her terms on separate living. Did not demand his husband’s and father’s rights. What else would he compromise? But he got no answers. She fulfilled no promises. And kept running as if the devil was on her heels. Maybe it was. He did not know its name.

“Is there someone threatening you?” He threw, staring at her fixedly through the downpour.

Lashes drooped, shielding her gaze as her head turned to the side. “Of course not.”

“Tell me!” He insisted impatient.

Her glare returned to his. “No.” The low voice aired not too convincing.

“Then what?” His hard voice pushed.

Her ashen skin paled further, her lips gone greyish. Hazel focus darted to Ewan and back to him, seeming not to want to say it in front of the child. He went to sit the boy on the mare a few yards ahead and walked to where she stood.

Their glower meshed for several seconds when she gulped in wet air. “Can you not accept I do not want you?” She tilted her chin up, but her lips trembled more than before. “I do not care about you. Never did.” Now her complexion acquired a greenish hue. “Go away.” She added merciless.

Her words hit him like a million arrows, tearing at him, burning at him, bleeding at him. They destroyed one last shaft of light inside. As if something shrivelled, died, blackened. Vanished.

Rain ran down her cheeks making it seem like tears. Only she continued that hard gaze on him, everything in her clenched and locked.

Long fingers raked his soaked hair, and he nodded with an exhale. “I see.”

“Good.” She answered with a gritty tone.

The view of her likened to a sword cutting him in two, so he swivelled and neared Ewan. “I am going now, mo balach. Take care.” He rested his large hand on his blanket-covered back and headed to his horse.

Mounted, he rode away without glancing back. If he had, he would have seen her face fallen on her hands muffling shaking sobs.

 

Much later that night, Drostan sprawled on an armchair in front of the fireplace, a half-finished whisky bottle in his hand. In his chamber. In his very empty chamber. In his very empty and glacial chamber. Not that the fire extinguished or something. On the contrary. It roared.

No. The glacial part came from his heartless wife. He drank deeply from the bottle. He glanced at the best beverage of the Highlands with unfocused attention. At least, this did not let him down. More amber liquid slipped down his throat. Constricted throat.

Heartless wife, indeed. How come someone like her gave him that scorching wedding-night? And the nights that followed. How come a woman who claimed not to care about him almost gobbled him with her eyes when he took off his shirt? How, just explain how, the insensitive woman kissed him like doomsday on a dusty roadside?

A woman who saved his life.

And killed him with a few choice words.

And then resuscitated him with a few choice memories.

Which devastated him anyway.

Explain that!

No, better not to explain.

He was going crazy. Scratch that. He was already raving mad.

It must be the only explanation.

This time, when the bottle connected with his sensuous lips, he swallowed almost everything.

To hell with it!

The bottle, which had nothing to do with his confusion, exploded against the fireplace, its little content stirring the fire.

Staggering, the Laird tried to walk to his very empty and very glacial bed. But failed. And fell on the very empty and very glacial carpet somewhere between the hearth and the four-poster.