CHAPTER EIGHT
Nothing paired with a morning tea like uncomfortable silence. Freya sat stiffly beside Ewan in the stark quiet of the room where they received guests. Not only was it large enough to accommodate several chairs, but also the windows faced the sun, which meant it was typically warmer than the other rooms.
The only interruption to the silence was the steady, vibrating tick of her mother's cup rattling against the saucer where she held it in her trembling hands.
Freya held her dainty tea cup and stared into the amber liquid to the leaves at the bottom. It was better than having to look at the redcoat taking her home, or noticing how Lily sat as far from the man as possible, her blue eyes wide with barely restrained fear.
She looked a far cry better than when Freya had last seen her, but then anyone would after donning a fresh gown and having some time to heal.
“Marian,” Ma said. “Will ye please plate the pastries?”
Freya shot her mother an incredulous glare. “I can do it.”
But Marian was already up, hands upon her swollen belly. She shook her head at Freya. “Dinna worry, sister. I'm fine to do this.”
“She is,” Lily agreed with a terse nod. “She's been doing it this whole time.” She flicked a nervous glance at Captain Crosby, like a mouse eyeing a hawk.
“Even though some of us would rather do it in her stead,” the Englishman said crisply and offered an understanding smile to Freya.
She stared at him for a long moment before taking a swallow of her tea to avoid having to reply.
Marian pulled the linen off a wide plate on the table to reveal six small rounds of dough brushed with glossy honey and a pat of bright red jam at its center. One had tipped somehow, lying on its side, damaged. Half of the flaky dough had crumbled and the jam was a sticky, smeared mess.
The redcoat's gaze fell first on the pastries, then on Ewan where it hovered. The man's sharp brown eyes saw more than the Englishman said. It was disconcerting. Freya set her cup on the table and took Ewan's hand in hers. Let the pretending begin.
If Ewan was surprised by the gesture, he did not show it. Instead he regarded Freya with a shy, quiet look, and it was her who went still.
He didn't look at her like a man feigning being married to the saucy owner of a bawdyhouse. He looked at her like he respected her, like he adored her. Like he loved her.
He looked at her in a way she'd never realized until that very moment she'd yearned for.
His mouth lifted in a besotted smile, and her world slowed. He caressed her cheek with a touch as gentle as a soft breeze. And her world stopped.
Her breath fled over her lips and didn't bother to return.
“Freya, will ye hand Captain Crosby his pastry?” Marian's voice floated into the still life capturing Freya's attention, shattering it.
Freya pulled her stare from Ewan to find Marian holding out a plate with a pastry atop it.
“For Captain Crosby, sister.” Marian looked to Ewan and back to Freya. It was then Freya noticed the flush staining her younger sister's fair skin.
Freya took the plate with a wary gaze toward her sister. “What has ye so—”
“I can get my own, thank you.” Captain Crosby leapt forward in a flash of red and snatched up a plate from where it sat directly in front of Marian.
Freya blinked and stared incredulously at the rude English officer. Then she noticed the pastry on his plate was the one which had fallen over and no longer had the smear of tangy, sweet jam.
Marian started. “Oh, but that was not the one ye should—”
He bent over the plate and bit into the mutilated pastry. Marian would be forced to not give herself the ruined one as she'd intended, but have a prettily perfect one in its stead.
It was then Freya found herself liking Captain Crosby a little more. It was also then she realized she needed to warn him away from her sister. Marian, after all, had been through enough when it came to the damned English.
She had the opportunity not long after tea when Ma left with Lily and Marian had followed the servant into the kitchen. Ewan still sat by her side, a comfort she appreciated more than she'd thought she might.
Freya shifted slightly in her seat to face Captain Crosby and gave him a tight smile. “How long do you anticipate your stay to be, Captain Crosby?”
“Why do you ask?” He wriggled his blunt nose and took a delicate sip of tea.
“Well, it is our home.” Freya spoke quietly, knowing she was being rude, knowing her mother would be horrified by the conversation. But then it wasn't her mother who protected the family. It was Freya who saw them all safe.
And that was what she intended to do.
“I understand,” Captain Crosby nodded. “It should only be a few more days, I believe.”
Marian came out from the kitchen to gather Ma's shawl, gave an apologetic smile at her intrusion, and slipped away once more. Freya followed her sister's movements, graceful still despite the bulk of her stomach. So too did Captain Crosby.
“Will Miss Marian's husband be home soon?” He turned back to Freya with concern pulling at his dark brows. “She appears quite close to her time.”
“She has no husband,” Freya stated bluntly.
Captain Crosby's dark brows rose. “Forgive me, I—”
“But ye may know him.” She couldn't keep the bitterness out of her tone.
“Might I?” he asked with obvious hesitation.
At least the man knew when he was heading straight into a trap.
“Ach, aye,” Freya said. “He wore a red coat just like yers when he dragged her from our home and shoved her into the dirt so he could rape her for all to see.”
The teacup fell from Captain Crosby's hand and landed on the thick carpet mutely. A dark stain appeared on the lush carpet.
“So, you must know him,” Freya said conversationally. “A man of the king's army, willing to rape an innocent woman not strong enough to fend him off herself. He had a traveling companion just like him who held me back from helping her.” She sipped her tea. “But then there are so many of you willing to rape these days. I can imagine it would be hard to discern.”
A sharp gasp sounded from across the room. Freya looked up and her heart punched into her stomach.
Marian stood in the doorway, her skin white, her face stricken. “I...I think Captain Crosby...needs another cup of tea.” She backed away slowly. “Excuse me.”
She spun around and fled.
Freya cursed under her breath and rose to go to her sister. She glanced at Ewan to see if he intended to follow her and noticed how very pale he'd gone. Indecision warred for only a brief moment. Freya could not allow herself to have Ewan sacrifice his safety for her social failures.
Marian would be dealt with later. A clench of guilt squeezed Freya's heart. Damn it. She hadn't intended for her sister to hear. But the captain, who acted as though his hands were clean as snow and his right supreme, needed to know - to face the horrors of what his brethren had done.
“Ewan, ye dinna look well,” she said. For surely he did not.
“I'm fine,” he gritted out. He hauled himself to his feet, albeit a little slower than usual.
“Let me tuck ye into bed, husband.” She put a hand under his elbow to ensure he stayed upright. Although once in place, she realized he did not need her assistance. He was steady as a stone and his arm just as solid beneath her touch.
“Excuse us, Captain Crosby.”
But the captain said nothing. He merely stared down at the table where the empty pot of tea remained. Freya aided Ewan up the stairs, but her heart remained on the main floor, lodged beside Marian's pain.
Freya had meant to hurt the captain, at least prod and see what he felt. She had not intended to hurt sweet Marian, who was nothing but compassionate and genuinely kindhearted.
Perhaps she could easily leave Ewan to sleep and see to Marian. It was then Ewan staggered and began to slip from Freya's grasp.
***
Pain. Hot and brilliant as the sun. Indeed it even left dots of white dancing in Ewan's vision, as though he'd looked at the sky and stared into it.
He maintained his footing but allowed himself to be led to the room he shared with Freya.
He gritted his teeth. He needed to be strong. For her. For his mother. For all of them.
He was stronger than his pain.
“Ye should have said something.” Freya opened the door to their shared room and led him inside.
“I knew ye were speaking to the captain with purpose.” Ewan allowed himself to be guided onto the bed. The skin pulled around his wound and he hissed out a breath. “Had I known what ye intended to say, I would have said something.”
Freya pulled upright as if he'd struck her. “I dinna know she was right there.” She swallowed and furrowed her brow. “Let me look at yer bandage.” The gruffness of her voice did not mask the catch.
For all the fortitude and toughness she exuded, Freya - the famed viper of Edinburgh - was near tears.
She eased his leine over his head, and her gaze fell on his bandaged side. Her shoulders relaxed somewhat. “I dinna see any blood, so ye've no' reopened it, but I need to see how it's looking.”
She began to unwind the bandage with gentle hands, and he watched her face as she worked. Her focus fixed on her task and her chin set stubbornly, making the line of her jaw even sharper. Even more tempting to stroke again.
She'd been so silky soft under his touch. He hadn't been able to help himself while they were at tea. And it'd been so easy to do under the auspices of their feigned marriage.
“What happened?” he asked. “With Marian.”
She drew her attention to him, and she hesitated before finally answering. “Ye werena the only one whose family was hurt by the English.”
“Tell me. Ye saw what became of my home, but I dinna know what ye’ve endured at the hands of the English.”
Freya unwound it from his waist and rolled the bandage in her hands as she went. “There's no' much to tell. They knocked on the door and forced their way past our servants. They demanded all our jewels, which they were given. They said they'd leave, but they dinna.”
She pulled off the bandage from his waist, and the cold air of the room bathed the warmth of his skin.
“They killed our servants too.” Freya spoke in a flat voice, one he'd heard soldiers use the day after a grisly battle. “After the servants were dead, an officer pulled Marian outside and...” Her jaw tensed. “Ye know the rest of it.”
Her fingers gingerly patted the wound, her touch cool against the blazing heat of his skin there. He ground his teeth against the pain.
“It's becoming infected.” She turned away and rummaged through the small velvet travel bag she'd brought in their carriage.
A memory flickered through his mind. Hadn't she put his pistol in that very bag?
“Fortunately I have some poultices for that too.” She set several stacks of herbs bound in linen beside his bed.
“Ye were there too,” he said quietly.
He was going back to the story about their attack by the English, and by the dulling of her eyes, she understood exactly what he meant.
“Aye,” she said after a long while. “There were only two of them. One was able to restrain me while the other took Marian.” Her stare settled distantly across the room.
“Were ye - did they—” Ewan cut off his own question, belatedly realizing the awfulness of even saying it aloud.
“Nay, I wasna raped.” She scoffed. “No' that they dinna try, the bastards. But in the end, they agreed I wasna worth the fight since there were only two of them.”
Ewan was surprised the men even managed to walk away with their lives. Anger burned through him to imagine how brutal they must have been to have even restrained her at all.
Freya turned away again and dredged the poultice through the ewer. The excess water tinkled into the basin and she brought it back to him in a limp, damp bundle.
“We thought it was over, and then Marian became pregnant.” Freya leaned over Ewan and pressed the ice-cold compress to his side.
He flinched instinctively from the chill of it on his fevered skin, but then forced himself to remain in place while she began to wrap his waist once more.
“I brought her some pennyroyal tea,” Freya said, winding the linen. The chill of the compress started to warm with his skin and become more comfortable. “But Marian wouldna drink it. She swore the child deserved to be loved, even one begat in such a way.”
She stopped speaking and pursed her lips. She didn't gaze at him anymore, but stopped and looked at the loose end of linen in her hand. Ewan gently took it from her hand and tucked it into the stiff binding. Then he reached up and drew her hand in his.
“Every time I see her belly, I hear her screams.” Freya closed her eyes as if she meant to blot out the scene. “I see the way he dragged her outside by her hair, like she wasn't even real, but a doll casually tossed by a spoiled bairn. I hear the rending of fabric and the screaming, the screaming, the screaming - so full of fear and hurt. And all I could do was stand there, held in place by a second man while my heart splintered apart. It made me wish I hadn't fought so hard. Maybe they might have been sated with me and wouldna have needed to take her instead.”
Her eyes opened, bright with welling tears. “Finally there was silence, Marian's resignation to a fate she realized she could not fight - it drew on forever until he was done. When they left, it was me who went to her.” She shuddered and gripped his hand harder. “I covered her with a blanket and somehow I managed to carry her inside. She’s always been such a wee thing, my sister.”
A tear fell from her eye and spattered on the back of his hand where he clutched her icy fingers. He swept it away with the pad of his thumb. If only such hurt could be so easily brushed aside. He wished he were upright and could pull her into his arms, to ease the force of her pain.
“The child in her stomach is a source of hate.” Freya bit off the last word. “A reminder of horror. And yet my dear sister, who was too young, too pure, too kind to ever endure something so awful, bears her burden with love and forgiveness. I wish I could be as good.”
Ewan pulled Freya to him. “Lay beside me.” She blinked away her tears and stared at him as if he were mad.
He tugged on her hand once more. “Come, lay beside me on my good side.” When she still didn't move, he added, “If ye were really my wife, I'd order ye to do it.”
Her eyes flashed with the spirit he'd expected when he goaded her.
“If I were yer wife and ye thought ye could order me to do anything, I'd cuff ye.” Even as she spoke, she came around the bed and crawled onto the mattress.
She lay awkwardly next to him, but he drew an arm around her and pulled her closer, her body a warm and comfortable weight beside him on the soft mattress. A familiar, contented silence settled between them, as if they were truly a married couple.
“Ye dinna hate the babe like ye think ye do.” Ewan looked down at her and spoke slowly, searching for the right, careful words. “Ye hate the memory, and ye hate the reminder of that memory. Ye think ye let Marian down because ye couldna stop them.”
She sucked in a hard breath and drew her gaze from his. He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted her face upward. His heart clenched. Her eyes were red with tears once more.
He gazed at her in the short inches between them. “It's no' yer fault, Freya. I know ye would have stopped them if it was in yer power to do so. Marian knows that, and ye need to as well.”
She searched his eyes, as if seeking out the truth in his words. Her thick lashes were spiked with the remnants of her tears.
“The babe will be born out of the love in Marian's heart,” he went on. “And when the bairn is here, it willna be the attack ye'll see in the babe, but Marian's goodness.”
A tear ran from the corner of her eye and blotted into the pillow beneath her. Ewan swept his thumb over the line of moisture, and then despite the twinge in his side, he leaned over her and brushed his mouth to the silky warmth of her lips. It was a quick, chaste kiss. But it wasn’t enough.
Before he realized what he was doing, he opened his mouth over that full bottom lip of hers and gently sucked. Freya’s intake of breath whispered between their mouths, and suddenly she was kissing him back.
He swept his tongue against hers, tasting the sweetness of jam tarts and honeyed tea and temptation. It would be too easy to cradle her head and tilt her face back, to deepen their kiss, to grip her body against the blaze of his.
But he was an honorable man, and he could not have this woman who was not truly his wife.