by Lisa Torquay
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 hars
h 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 dust
y 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.
CHAPTER SIX
The rain did not relent for the rest of the day. Freya sat on the mare protecting her son with the blankets and holding him under her cloak,
She was numb. Not with the freezing raindrops though they did not make it any better. Everything inside her went numb. The bitter untrue words she cast at her husband dissolved her. If she had died the night she left her him, now her heart turned to cinders.
Desperation had done that. The moment she had seen him in the woods, she faltered; and had to use every drop of inner strength not to run to him overflowing with emotions. His fortitude and support in dire need. She had wished she could tell him about every single reason she left. Stay with him forever. And more.
The knowledge she did not have this option made her try something to shun him away. Because if he kept coming to her like that, taking care of her like that. Looking at her like that, she would not resist, persist. Survive.
But she was dead anyway. There would be no hope for them. Not after Ross found her in the McKendrick’s cottage and threatened the lives of the two people she had no chance of living without. Not if she wanted to keep any sanity.
