by Lisa Torquay
“Actually, papa helped me a lot.” Admitted the beaming boy.
She feared her son would grow up without his father. Seeing them bonding so fast clogged her throat with unshed tears. For a moment, she could merely nod.
An admirable fact that Drostan showed so much affinity with children. It surprised her as much as it melted her insides. But he was the eldest of four siblings. He must have gotten familiar with small ones as he grew up with much younger brothers and a sister.
“Come, mo balach, we need to skin and gut the hare before we roast it for dinner.” His deep voice soaked in patience and care.
“Yes, papa.” And the wee one loped out again.
“Did you have a fine morning?” He asked.
With a faint grin, she answered. “There was no lack of chores. You?”
“Busy.” His sensuous lips lifted on one side playfully.
“I can imagine.” She smiled back. An active child running free in the woods offered no carefree moment, she knew it for a fact.
With a last look at her, he followed their son.
“You should turn the hare from time to time so it roasts evenly.” Drostan oriented Ewan as both crouched before the hearth, the game stretched on a skewer near the fire.
Outside, the grey weather waned into evening as the wind shook the bonny twigs of the trees. Inside, the warmth from the fireplace tinted the front room in warm colours.
“Like this?” The boy tried.
“That is right.” He praised.
While father and son cooked dinner, Freya prepared bannocks to go with the dish, listening to their chat. Drostan displayed a natural fatherly instinct, never criticising the boy, but showing the right way of doing things. He also treated the wee one with a careful tenderness that moved her heart. If she did not love him already, she would fall in love with him at this precise moment.
He came to sit by her side on the table where she worked the bannocks. “The hare would need to hang for a few days.” He started, and she glanced at his old-whisky eyes shining with the lit fireplace. “But Ewan would be disappointed if he did not eat what he hunted today.”
Cleaning her hand on her apron, she put a strand of hair behind her ear. “Next time, you can show it to him.” She commented.
He took that strand of hair back and rolled it around his forefinger, observing how it shone in the reddish light. “Yes, I will show you later.” His intent gaze full of promises lit a furnace in her core, and she wondered if she did not put too many logs in the fire.
Sudden lightning and the immediate rain dispelled the raw atmosphere, prompting Drostan to go back to checking the roast.
Before dinner, they washed and changed Ewan who gave signs of weariness. He fell asleep soon after eating and his parents put him to bed.
“Forget the damned nightgown, Freya.” Drostan fairly ordered as he sat calmly on the bed, boots and socks gone before he washed outside. “It will not last, anyway.” He stretched his long muscular legs on the mattress.
In the candlelight, he had been watching his wife undress for the night and it produced quite a heated effect on him. His tartan denounced him rather clearly.
Startled, she pivoted to him in her excruciating nakedness. The one he waited an entirely too long day to witness again. While he circuited the woods with his son, images of them the previous night had insisted in trickling in his head nearly driving him crazy with want.
“Come here, woman.” He issued, his eyes feasting on her appetising curves.
Unhurried, hazel eyes perused his white shirt, his tartan wrapped over his large frame, detaining on the tenting wool in the vicinity of his hips. And darted back to him. The tenting got worse.
Her bare feet paced to the bed, full breasts bouncing, shapely hips swaying killing him with the waiting. Long auburn hair fell around her shoulders almost to her navel. Feminine knees flexed on the bedsheets; his strong hands pulled her to him. She still knelt when he raised his hungry mouth to latch on her inviting nipple. And suckled. Her hand propped on the wall behind the bed; her lips produced a moan. Warm hands skimmed her thighs, hips, grabbing her tiny waist. One palm reached the other breast, making her legs sag as she sat on his knees.
She gave as good as she got. Her dainty hands slid under the plaid, grazing upwards, to find what tented the fabric. No small clothes for a true highlander, no. When her cool fingers closed around him, he dropped her breast and his head fell back with a groan. Her free fingers uncovered his considerable manhood, bunching the wool around his tapered hips. And continued her quest relentless.
“Hell, wife!” Came his desperate rumble. “Do you want to unman me before we have fun?”
With a smiling huff, she abandoned this task and inclined towards his upper body, going onto him to unbutton his shirt. Long hair tumbled on him with silky, soapy scent. Her full lips landed on his warm skin, tongue darting out, opening the way to his manly nipples; he closed his eyes, hoping to make it to the end. His large hands sneaked to her folds, leafing through them to delve in hot, wet core. It did not help his extreme arousal. After eliciting approval from her, smart fingers circled her engorged button. It was too much for him.
Strong biceps banded her waist, and he pinned her to the bed. The head of him at her entrance, he pushed into her dripping channel as she bent her legs to cradle him. In one movement, he sat in her to the hilt, one arm stretched, the other elbow propped beside her head.
Her legs laced him while her teeth sank on her cushioned lower lip in a display of pure pleasure. He could not hold it any longer. He lunged in and out of her as she moved her hips in search of him. She pulled him down and they touched everywhere while they became more famished, more irrational, more passionate. His hips thrust quicker, her moans came louder, he dived deeper at the same time her hot channel gripped him. She opened her mouth in a tortured silent scream. He lost control, plunging twice more before he poured everything he had far into her.
He went on moving, watching closely when her tremors subsidised and envisioned himself filling her with his second child, dreaming of her swelling with his seed. His palm stroked her inviting stomach. Every night would he take her and register her increasing until she gave birth; and he could do it all over again. The thought propelled an instant and fulminating arousal. Her stare widened the moment her channel felt him hardening anew. He held her breasts trying to visualise the infant feeding on them, making them even fuller, riper. This made him fear he would explode without even moving.
His thrusts restarted, the possibility bringing him to breaking point. The possibility of seeing everything he had not been able to when Ewan was born. Everything he missed, lost because of a silly clan squabble. He ploughed fast, single-minded. A masculine big thumb reached between them to tantalize her to a level where she clenched around him and contributed to his renewed downfall. Now he pushed hard. Blind. Mindless. Not caring if he grunted, or made any noise. He was beyond reasoning. As he emptied inside her, he muffled his near hoar on her neck as his whole body shook with his ragged release.
Drostan’s broad frame collapsed on her completely spent. Then, and only then, did he find respite.
Freya rested her head on her husband’s large chest, playing with the silky hair which peppered it. Their tempestuous love-making had left her so sated that laxity dominated her. The first time she climaxed, it came intense and smouldering. But the second had quite simply disintegrated her with such an overwhelming sensation, doubly as scorching as the first. It nearly tore her in two.
It confirmed what she had already realised. Her Laird disclosed unfathomable depths. This had not been barely coupling. Something in him simmered below the surface causing his outburst-like drive.
The masculine big frame turned to her, tangling muscled legs with hers. A large hand moulded her slim waist. “We might have more children coming.” He started as that large hand caressed her side.
Her eyes lifted to him. “It is not like we are doing anything to thwart nature.�
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“Do you wish for more?” He nibbled her ear, spreading goose-bumps on her skin.
His old-whisky glare locked with hers, and somehow, she sensed this was important for him. “Yes.” She nodded. “For as many as will come.” Of course she did. They would be the result of her love for him.
“Good we can practice, then.” His palm sauntered to her middle, splaying over it.
A shameless giggle escaped her. Short-lived, though, for she sobered. “Even though right now the situation is a tad dire.” To run with one child had been difficult enough. If she saw herself with a second one, she would be effusively happy, but it would become doubly risky.
“It will be over.” He drawled on her shoulder. “We will find a way.” He reassured her.
“I hope so.” Burrowing further into him, she sought his warmth.
When she looked at him again in the candlelight, he had fallen asleep. No wonder, she smiled. He must rebuild his energy.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Next morning, Ewan frolicked outside after eating while Drostan and Freya finished their breakfast in the front room.
“Since the rain has stopped I will exercise the horses with Ewan.” He informed her before he drank his coffee.
He still reeled from the wrenching thoughts from last night. And wrenching release. Releases. Damn it! His taking of his wife bared him to the bones. He hoped the ride would clear his mind because it whirled round and round with the situation they faced.
In the front yard, he taught Ewan about saddling horses. “Let us mount Threuna, Ewan.” He coaxed his boy. “We will pull Loch by the reins.” The wee bairn called the mare so enthusiastically by its nickname that Drostan did not insist on Reul, the one Fingal had given her.
They rode along the track downhill, and would find a place where the trot offered challenge for the horses. He had placed Ewan in front of him on the saddle. His son rode happily talking at the mare.
Two issues became crystal clear to him, he listed, as the crisp air mussed his wavy strands. One was about Ewan. Awareness that not having been with the babe since he grew in his wife’s womb created a gap in his life. The knowledge this happened because an imbecile chieftain had more ambition than common sense enraged Drostan. The loss it caused his wife, his son and him mounted to unbearable these days. Bonding with his heir revealed how much he missed on his upbringing. It led him to wish for many more children to bridge such gap.
But this did not seem so healthy, did it. How many infants would it take to bridge it? Would they fulfil the feat? Each child was different; and he feared what he lost would never be restored. The consequence being he would chase after something elusive. He did not want to fall in this trap and generate unhappiness to his family. Freya had gone through enough as it was. And more would come until they stanched it.
Which brought him to the second issue. They must stand up to the clan squabble as soon as possible. But he would bide his time on this. The risks for Freya and Ewan were serious, and he preferred to meet the devil than put them in danger. Naturally, they could not stay here forever; though he would not complain if they did. With his son and wife around him, he felt more powerful than ever before; as if he sowed and harvested for the future. Their future. By his wife’s side again was…well…was satisfying. Overflowingly satisfying. In many ways, especially that one. Fulfilling, to tell the truth. He did not wish to give up on that. On her. On them. On the three of them. Ever. These had been the happiest days in years. He would not give it all up so easily. He would fight for her. For his family.
The horses found an open field for free rein, and they rode for one hour before returning. Close to the cottage, Drostan saw two horses tethered in front of it. With the worst in mind, he dismounted, tied the horses, and told Ewan to go to the shed. He barged through the entrance ready for a fight.
Merely to come upon Aileen and The McDougal sitting at the table calmly drinking whatever they had in their cups. He exhaled relieved.
Taran McDougal stood up and neared him. Both Lairds, as tall as warriors, shook hands. “McKendrick.” The other man greeted. They met last shortly after Samhain when Taran fisted a McKendrick kin in a fit of jealousy. Which obliged the McKendrick brothers to come and either fix the rift or fix their kin’s nose. They ended up reaching an agreement with their giant brother-in-law.
“McDougal.” Drostan answered in kind. As two powerful Lairds allied by marriage, they represented more than half of the Highland’s power.
“I brought a bottle of the best whisky in the Highlands.” Taran taunted.
“To the north of the Highlands, you mean.” Drostan devolved, implying his was the best to the south. This had become their opening jest since they met; and their clans stopped being enemies to become allies.
“Is there any good whisky to the south?” Taran provoked.
“Yes, the best in the Highlands, of course.” Aileen’s brother boasted.
Both men breathed a smug, but brotherly smirk, a signal of their growing friendship.
“I will fill you a cup, Drostan.” Taran offered.
Before sitting, he went to the shed to bring Ewan. “Here are your uncle and aunt.”
The boy greeted both and ran outside to play.
Drostan sat by Aileen who kissed him on the cheek. “Hello, bràthair, brother.”
“Piuthar, sister.”
“We have just arrived.” Aileen declared. “We came to check on Freya and Ewan.”
“I rode out as soon as I received your letter.” Her brother added, trying not to remember the horrible hangover he had that morning.
“I hoped you would.” Aileen followed clan traditions as much as her husband and always wore a spencer of her husband’s red, black and white plaid.
Drostan spoke, then. “Freya has explained me the situation.” The McKendrick couple exchanged a look.
“And?” Taran demanded, his ebony hair shining bluish in the fire in the hearth.
“A McPherson chieftain has been harassing her over the clan’s succession.” Drostan summarised and gave further details.
“This bluidy Ross must be the worst chieftain in all Scotland!” Taran exploded after Drostan’s revelations.
“Do you know him?” Drostan directed a surprised glare to his brother-in-law.
“Heard of.” He drank from his cup. “Hard not to when you have a half-McPherson son.” Which was precisely Drostan’s case. “He has been up to no good for a long time.”
Aileen’s pleated forehead showed her dislike. “This is outrageous!”
Since Fiona’s father had an heir in his brother, Freya’s father, there had been no succession issue concerning Sam, Taran’s son.
“I never expected Ross would go so far.” This was Taran’s way of apologising for his suspicions when he met Freya.
“What are you going to do?” His sister asked the other woman.
“I have no idea. But I cannot stay here forever.” Freya answered, her apprehension showing on her delicate features.
“We should go back to the McKendrick.” Drostan said. “It is not possible for me to be absent for long. Winter is on our heels.”
“I do not think Freya and Ewan will be safe in it.” Taran opined.
“No!” Nobody missed Freya’s worried tone. “They will find us, for sure.”
“She is right.” Aileen agreed.
“What do you suggest?” Drostan’s challenging question set the room in silence for long minutes.
The women sipped tea. The men drank the whisky. Everyone reflected on the question.
“Why not hide them in plain sight?” Aileen spoke at last.
“How so?” Freya questioned.
“Did this Ross find you in the cottage by the loch?”
“Yes.” Freya gave all the signs it was an ugly memory.
“So he is not prone to look for you there again.” Aileen reasoned.
“You are suggesting they go back to it?” Taran had a glint of admiration in his green ey
es when he turned to his wife.
“For the winter, at least.” Aileen completed.
“It is not a bad idea.” Drostan added and sought his wife’s gaze.
“I do not know.” She mused.
“It is only two miles from the manor.” Drostan pondered. “Which means I can be around.”
“Watch out, McKendrick.” Taran interposed. “They might follow you.”
“There is that, too.” Aileen said.
Drostan raked his chestnut waves, causing them to shine in the firelight. He must keep a distance from his wife and son if they decided on this plan. Their safety lay above everything.
The three of them stared enquiringly at Freya, her doubts spelt over her pleated brows and twisted hands. “It makes sense that Ross will not look for me there.” His wife started. “With the added advantage that few people travel in the snow for no important reason.”
“Exactly.” Taran said. “Though you can stay here as long as you want.”
A slight smile came to Freya’s full lips. “Thank you.”
“We should leave tomorrow, I suppose.” Concluded Drostan none too comfortable with the idea of staying away from his family.
As they finished sipping their tea and whisky, Ewan skipped inside. “Uncle Taran, we hunted a huuge hare yesterday.” His little arms stretched to show the size.
“Indeed, young man, my lands are good for hunting.” The McDougal jested. “Did you cook it?”
“Yes, papa taught me how to do it.” He sat by Aileen, rummaging his pockets, from which he took a deep red hydrangea—probably the last of the season. “This is for you, Aunt Aileen.”
The mahogany haired lass inhaled the flower and smiled at the boy. “Thank you so much, my dear.” And kissed him on the cheek.
Freya held a mellow gaze on the wee one while Drostan revelled in his wife’s softness.
The five of them ate luncheon together, and when finished, the McDougal couple took their leave.
“Send word if you need anything.” Offered Taran, mounting his horse.
“I will.” Drostan said.
