Days later, Freya cooked by the fire when she heard Ewan giving orders to his toys and started banging the wooden horse on the wooden troll. The boy had been at odds since they arrived and she did not know how to make it better.

“The horse will pass!” He ordered the troll.

Worried, she crouched by his side. “What is it, my love?”

He did not look at his mother. “The troll will not let the horse pass to the manor.”

“What is there in the manor?” She asked, guessing the answer.

“The horse’s father is there.” It came as no news for her he missed his father.

“Can the horse not wait a little to visit his father?” The suggestion caused his beautiful eyes to go to her.

“The horse wants to go, and the troll is horrible!” He banged the horse on the troll several more times.

“Come, my love, let us walk by the loch.” She tried to distract him.

“No, no, no!” He burst into crying and screaming.

This young he was not yet familiar with every scale of possible feelings, or how to deal with them. He climbed to her lap, she cradled him in her arms, and let him cry as much as he needed. Missing a father was such a cruel emotion. She added one more imaginary stab in her kin.

Since they came back, the days and nights dragged like eternity. They went on long walks around the loch, played, chatted. Ewan fished with the footman, learned to care for Loch, gathered the last berries. Or climbed trees as he so much liked. They baked shortbread, sang, read. Nothing seemed to have any taste, any enthusiasm.

With each hollow, frosty night, her longing increased tenfold. She did not decide if it was better to have spent those days with Drostan or if they made it worse. The notion she bore years of it nearly overwhelmed her. That he was at arm’s reach, yet so distant turned it bitterer.

But she forced herself to live through it. It could not be that impossible to overcome this. She had gone through tougher despair. And survived.

“Is anything wrong with the boy, my lady.” The newly arrived footman interrupted her musings from the entrance. A burly black-eyed, black-haired lad of about twenty.

“I do not think so, no. Thanks, John.” The servant bowed and walked back outside where he was cutting logs for the fire.

They stayed on the floor until Ewan calmed down.

“I baked a honeyed cake.” She said when his crying waned. “Would you like a piece?” The sweet taste might soothe him for a while.

“Yes, mama.” His cherubic face streaked with tears, his skin red and eyes puffed. It broke her heart to see him like this.

“Come then.” An encouraging smile forced its way into her lips.

 

A throat cleared in Drostan’s study while his attention fled outside the window, somewhere two miles away. Abruptly, he turned his head to find his steward, Mitchel, looking expectantly at him. “I asked if ye want me to send someone to mend old Dunn’s roof, my Laird.”

Dunn? His memory tried to retrieve whatever it had retained of their conversation. Yes, Dunn, the tenant, had a leaking roof. “Sure.” He agreed, not even remembering the cost. “Do it.”

But if someone asked him if he remembered a certain wife’s auburn hair shining by the fireplace, he would describe each unruly ringlet. If someone asked him why his son nicknamed the mare, he would descant about boys’ imaginative minds. And if someone asked him if he was happy spending his nights in an empty bed, he might call the cad out.

Damn it to hell!

“Tell Lachlan to go with you. He is good with handy work.” The Laird completed absently, and finished the meeting.

His nostrils expelled forceful air as he tried to keep his mind on his clan’s tasks. It had not been easy though. Almost a week had passed, and it was getting no better.

A rasp on the door announced Fingal. “Did you want to see me?”

“Come.” He invited.

“How are things?” His brother asked. “I have not had the chance to talk to you.”

“Shady.” The Laird answered. He had not gone into many details about his absence, but he would have to take this up with his brothers and father soon. “I will explain everything after dinner.”

“Alright.” He answered as he sat in front of the massive desk.

“A marriage proposal came from The McTavish.” He got straight to the point. “For you.”

“Thinking of leg shackling me, are you?” He crossed his arms over his considerable chest.

“Only if you do not oppose.” As the Laird, it was his duty to find advantageous matches for his siblings. Even though Aileen got herself abducted by the McDougal and ended up married to their old clan enemy.

“Let me hear it.” Fingal did not conceive it unrealistic to make an alliance by marriage.

And Drostan himself had married by arrangement. At the time, he found nothing to complain about. Both McPherson and McKendrick Lairds had signed a marriage contract long before the wedding itself. He and Freya became betrothed two years before the ceremony. They knew each other from the usual gatherings of clans in festivals, weddings or burials. After the betrothal, though, they saw each other on a more…intimate basis. For him, she had been the most beautiful lass in the whole Highlands with her curves, her hazel expressive eyes and her riot of auburn curls. Together with her eagerness for him, which enthralled the groom-to-be. Even though they had kissed and touched all too often, they kept the best for last, so to say. And his memories of their wedding night were fervent to say the least.

The newlyweds settled so comfortably into married life Drostan believed that to be the rule. Only to be proven wrong in less than a year. But until then, it had been pure bliss. He never gave much attention to his feelings for her. Never labelled what they had, never examined them too closely. When she disappeared, his emotions became so ragged and muddy, he stopped considering them altogether. And buried them deep into his lonely nights.

The discovery of her whereabouts, with his son in tow, unearthed those muddy emotions he could no longer recognise. The years of estrangement, though justifiable, had done a good job of making him sceptical about the whole affair. Where he stood right now? If he only knew. It added to his unwillingness to contemplate the matter.

“He wants to match you with his second daughter, Anna.” Drostan held out the letter to the younger man.

Letter in hand, he said. “McTavish is going to marry his second daughter before the first?” Fingal eyed his brother quizzically before skimming the letter.

“He’s keeping the elder, Catriona, for an heir I believe.” Which was not entirely uncommon.

“Right.” That did not come too enthusiastic. To be given the spare because he was also the spare seemed a bit too…well…square.

“No need to answer now.” He compromised. “The chit is in a finishing school in London. Their mother is English as you may remember.”

“A half-Sassenach?” That was the same as saying the lass lacked a tooth.

“Yes. Culloden is long gone, if memory serves.” He raised his brows in challenge. “Anyway, she will not be out of school for a year yet.”

“I got time to think this through.” A certain relief spread over his features.

“You do.” But at thirty, his second brother was passing the age of marriage.

“Good.” Fingal gave the letter back.

“Whenever you marry, you will live in the former manor near the stables.” 

Before they built this one, the McKendricks lived in a smaller dwelling which would need repairs. “Ask Lachlan if this is alright with him.” Fingal devolved. The siblings avoided possible resentments between them.

“Lachlan will be assigned his in due time.” The Laird would leave no one out. They all shared in the chores. Therefore, they would own proper residences.

“I will let you know my decision.” In large strides, he reached the door. “Oh, I did not have the chance to tell you.” He started with his hand on the door-knob.

“What?” Drostan had already gone back to a forgotten ledger on the desk. One he had no idea of what it contained.

“When you brought Ewan home, the stable lad found a thorn under the saddle.”

The older brother snapped his eyes at him, anger surfacing on his features. “I had saddled my horse.”

“I see.” Fingal paused. “But you said you stopped for breakfast.”

Drostan swore ugly under his breath. “Thank you for telling me.” A tense hand raked chestnut strands.

Fingal nodded and left.

Pure fury spread in his guts at the information. The accursed McPherson must have had something to do with it. That he risked Drostan’s life was one thing. To do it with a child made him mad beyond control. This required decisive action. And he would take it no matter what.

 

Next morning, Drostan gathered his father and brothers in the study. The evening before, he explained Freya’s situation in detail, extracting angry responses from them. It proved his wife right to fear aggressive behaviour. Even his father, who used to rely on diplomacy, gave belligerent suggestions. Hot-headed Lachlan himself had been about to march to the McPhersons on his own that same hour.

Not five minutes passed when Baxter announced the visitor. The other three pairs of eyes in varying shades of brown looked expectant at the door.

Freya’s father entered the room in his yellow and black tartan. Not very tall, in his sixties, and with balding grey hair, Irvine McPherson still boasted an imposing presence.

“McPherson.” Drostan came to greet his father-in-law. He predicted Freya would not be happy if she heard he had summoned her father here during her absence. But they had no time to waste, and Drostan wished to neutralise the threat post-haste. Lairds must decide on clan matters in any case; though he deemed it unfortunate not to be able to do this with her by his side.

“Drostan.” He greeted back.

Freya’s disappearance had awed him as much the McKendricks. He had sent men to aid the search for her, promising to share any information he might learn.

Everybody sat as a footman served whisky.

“I confess I was quite worried when I received your letter.” The McPherson started before tasting the whisky.

The Laird sent it to Freya’s father the same evening he arrived from the McDougal’s cottage. This discussion was four years overdue, in his point of view.

“We found Freya.” The information caused her father to stand to attention.

“And we found out why she left.” Wallace said.

“You are a grandfather, by the way. The bairn’s name is Ewan.” Fingal put in.

“The McKendrick heir is four years old and a miniature copy of Drostan.” Lachlan boasted the prevalence of McKendrick blood.

Pride smothered The McPherson features. “This is mighty good news!”

“Yes and no.” Contemplated Drostan. “You have no heir and your clan is getting restless about it.”

“I am aware of it.” The man admitted. “And have been pondering ways of granting the next generation’s leader.”

“You must do it at once because Ross is plotting to snatch power after you are gone.” Wallace intervened.

“That bluidy snake!” At least his father-in-law had a good notion of who were his kin.

“This is the reason I summoned you here.” Drostan downed his whisky. “Ross is threatening Freya and Ewan for fear my son will be elected the next Laird.”

His father-in-law expelled an ugly word.

“We recommend you appoint an heir at once.” Lachlan gave stated. “Or we will need to take the matter in our hands.”

“Ewan is too young to pose a competition.” Irvine said.

“Sure. But you are in good health and may still have many years ahead.” Wallace contributed.

“I do hope so.” He sighed. “If Ross has these ambitions, he might start getting ideas.” Like murdering the Laird.

“Precisely.” Fingal agreed. “Another reason for you to tie things up quickly.”

“Where is Freya?” Her father asked.

“Hidden.” Drostan would say no more. He could not be sure who was on Ross’s side in the McPherson, and such news travelled far.

The older man nodded, understanding.

“Do we have your promise you will work on it as soon as you go back?” Lachlan demanded.

“Absolutely.” He rushed to answer. And stood up to leave in a show he would take the proposed course of action.

 

Freya sat by the fireplace late that night. Ewan had eaten and seemed to have forgotten his afternoon tantrum, having dropped in bed with a light mood. John made his bed in the small hay loft over the shed, refusing to sleep in the cottage.

And she? She did not find her sleep.

Too many things on her mind. Plus, the darned longing.

Out in the crisp night, galloping horse hooves sounded just before they stanched right in front of the door. Boots thudded on the grass, and fists rasped on the door.

No, not fear. She knew these sounds. Her feet paced to the threshold and opened it. In the moonlight, her husband stood tall, broad with windblown hair. A scalding storm took over her body at the sight of him. Improbable that someone followed him in the middle of a chilly night.

Their eyes met in the silvery light as her heart burst to racing speed.

“I did not—”

She did not let him finish. Her hand shot out, bunched on his tartan and pulled him inside as he came willingly enough. Her wits skidded to past sensible. The hunger for him taking her by assault. They fell against the door, shutting it.

“Hell, woman!” He drawled, eyes darkening.

Muscled arms banded her by the waist, lifting her from the floor as his mouth marauded hers; her fingers merged in his chestnut waves. They devoured each other like their life depended on it. Her nightgown and his tartan bunched when her legs laced his hips, and cradled his rock-hard manhood, her ringlets falling from her bun.

He took her to her chamber. “I could not stay away.” He groaned on her lips when she let go. “Just could not.” Their lips fused again.

As if she could!

Her eagerness for him came from everywhere. From the days she spent here so close and yet so far from him. From the forced separation of four interminable years. The sorrow, the pain, the sacrifice. The excruciating desire he was with her when she nurtured their child in her womb. When she gave birth, and saw the bundle grow into a mirror of the husband she missed every minute. The wish to stay close to him despite the danger. Because of the danger. In danger. The love for a man that would never subside, never fade, never weaken. Everything coalesced in her craving for him, in this ebullition without control. In this greed to absorb every single second they were together. Because it felt like the last second, the last kiss, the last whisper. The last happy moment.

So she held nothing back. Everything he wanted. Everything she wanted. This. Here. She would yield. Forfeit. Surrender. In complete abandon.

They lay on the bed, his stubble grazing down her neck, to the junction with her shoulder. Impatient hands tore at her nightgown to find her breast, followed by thirsty lips. Smart fingers reached her core, ready for him.

“Freya.” He rasped. “I cannot wait.” Desperation in his tone.

Her spine arched into him. “Then do not.”

He required no other incentive. Not even having to use his hand to guide himself, they joined. Deep. Hungry. Urgent. 

She was so ready, her skin so sensitive, she registered every single inch of him diving in her which drove her to insane moans. She held him like a vice and they became so glued, so intimate, so…welded there was no way of telling one from the other.

They moved in the moonlight seeping through the curtains, in between moans, gasps, broken words.

“Drostan.” She pleaded. And she did not know if she pleaded to go slower or faster. Or whatever. His heated texture. His scent of horse, night and man. His sounds, grunts, need, passion. It all pushed her farther.

And she pushed him. Urged him. Taunted him. Breathless, on the edge.

She moved her hips to get more of him. Contorted to feel all of him. Tightened her limbs to keep all of him. And fell into a dark precipice of sensation so wrenchingly intense she dissolved in the fragments of her own pleasure.

He thrust blind, erratic, coarse; only to follow her to the abysm, giving her everything he had. His taut frame collapsed, panting. He stayed there for long moments, his see-sawing breath the only sound in the night. Rolling them, he lay under her, pulling one end of the tartan over their sated bodies. A long time passed before they could even move. They lay on the bed just listening to their own breath, revelling in the warmth they produced.

Her hair fell on his shoulder; his fingers combed through it. “I summoned your father to the manor.” His hoarse tone started at last.

In a swift jerk, she lifted her head. “With what purpose?” She had not seen him and her mother in years and missed them. She would have preferred to be present at the conversation.

“To inform him of the situation and demand he take action.” His other hand grazed her arm leisurely.

“What is he going to do?” She fell to his side to look at him more clearly.

“We suggested he appoint an heir, and he agreed.” He picked a strand of her hair and brought to his nose, inhaling deep in the perfume.

She nodded as her fingers revelled in his peppered chest through his shirt. “Let us hope it puts an end in the whole affair.”

“It should.” The promise of return to a semblance of normalcy cheered her.

“I have left letters with my solicitor when this started.” Her turn to volunteer information.

His head rolled to her. “You did?”

“Yes, informing everyone of Ross’s machinations.” She inhaled deeply. “To you, my father and the magistrate. He had instructions to send them in case something happened to me or Ewan.”

“Does Ross know of them?” His hand skimmed her narrow waist.

“I told him when he came to threaten me here.”

“Smart lass.” He approved.

“He is aware he cannot force his ambitions too far.” Her head rested on his taut shoulder.

“Your father and I got knowledge of it now.”

“Better if Ross thinks not.” He might thwart Laird McPherson’s actions to secure  the succession.

“No doubt.”

They fell silent for more minutes.

“I will be glad to go back to my old chores.” She admitted at the possibility of resuming her life at the manor.

“And me to mine.” He kissed her. “My husband’s chores, well understood.”

She breathed a laugh as he carried on demonstrating which chores he meant. He performed them with utter skill. Torturously slow, to her complete perdition.

Hours later, they regained their speech ability.

“Ewan misses you.” She informed him sleepy.

“And I him.” He answered as he stood up to dress.

“He will not mind if you go say hello.” She wrapped herself in a blanket and followed him.

Drostan opened the other chamber and sat on the small bed. “Mo balach.” He called in low tones.

The boy lifted his eyelids instantly. “Papa!” And jumped to hug the big man.

They chatted for a while as the father made to leave. “Stay with us.” His son insisted.

“I would like to, Ewan.” He took the boy by his shoulders. “Listen now.” Two pairs of identical eyes glared serious at each other. “We will reunite soon. But we need to wait. Do you understand?”

His son seemed to realise the seriousness in his father’s stance. “Yes, papa.” Sadness on him.

Father held son for long minutes, and put him back to bed.

Freya followed him to the entrance and opened the door. Their eyes meshed again with greed and uncertainty. It would be tremendously reckless to do this more times. He knew it. She knew it. Their strength must hold despite the temptations.

The awareness of it produced anger and rebellion in her. To be forced to this sneaking in the night as though they became the criminals. As though they were being punished for a wrong they incurred.

And then an anguish surged, mingling with the excitement at his presence. Like they became some sort of star-crossed lovers in an illicit tryst. Unlawful, illegal when they were married, for pity's sake. Yet here they stood, in the moonlight, scraping for crumbs of togetherness insufficient and ephemeral. Of all the things to happen in a marriage, this must be one of the worst. Neither together, nor separated. But something in between that seemed never to end. Never to resolve itself. There was little she would not give for a normal life, daily chores. To see her husband mount Threuna to go to the fields. To see him coming back tired or annoyed with this difficulty or another. To be able to soothe it. Be able to find comfort in him if she needed. Watch him eat his dinner and talk about nothings and everythings. Watch him preparing for bed as he undressed his magnificent figure and tucked under the covers with her. Make love, or make conversation, or make peace from the daily disagreements. Whatever. Anything, but this unbearable grey zone she lived in. Endless and incongruent.

At last breaking eye contact, and without a word, he turned and left in the darkest hour before dawn.

 

Freya and Ewan observed as the servants from the McKendrick carried supplies into the cottage the following morning. They surely did not need that much, she thought as they stacked clothes, toys and food in the front room. John would have a hard time putting it away.

A footman approached her and put a small box in her hand. Pacing to her bedchamber, she opened it to find a pouch of coins. With these many things catered to her, she did not need money. But the single-minded man would not listen even if she pointed out the fact to him. She bent to put it with the other one in the small chest at the foot of the bed. She would have to give it back to him next time they met. Whenever that might be. Her mind cut the saddening thought swiftly and busied herself with the supplies. Ewan sat cheerfully ruffling through his new toys.

With a curtsy, they left.

She went on to shut the door. The chilly air would render the fire on the hearth useless.

And the chill became polar cap when she saw Ross and James standing on the front yard.