The Lass Defended the Laird (Explosive Highlanders Book 2)

by Lisa Torquay

  She would not give up so easily though. During the journey, she would think about a strategy to overcome Ross. For the time being, she needed to keep Ewan and his father safe.

  By the crates of books, she took one with a yellow cover and one with a black one and placed them neatly on the table as a signal.

  When they were ready, or as ready as they would ever be, she sat by Ewan.

  “My love.” The boy had obviously seen the preparations around him. His sad old-whisky eyes lifted to her. “We have to leave to another place.”

  “Will we see papa again?” His mother helped him with his boots and coat.

  “I do not know, my love.” Pulling the hood over his head, she checked he was warm. “Let us hope yes.”

  The boy came limply to her as she lifted him in her arms. As if he lacked the energy to fight. It worried Freya to see him thus.

  John had saddled and loaded the horse as she came outside with Ewan. Her trembling hand closed the door, hoping someone found the sign she left.

  The servant and she helped Ewan up the horse and then she mounted, too. The footman pulled the mare by the reins as they headed to the road. No use to look back at her kin to see their attentive stares on her.

  Despite the devastation inside her, she refused to cry. Ewan required care, and for that, she would have to stay strong. And keep her physical and emotional health.

  Lachlan stormed into Drostan’s study without even knocking. “They are gone.”

  His oldest brother had asked him to check on them discretely two days later. “What do you mean gone?” Guts frozen at the news, he sprang up from his chair to round the desk.

  Impossible! They were safe there. No one gained information of their whereabouts. The McKendricks had taken care of it.

  “The supplies you sent are scattered around untidied.” His younger brother imparted. “But these lay neatly on the table.” He threw two books on his desk.

  “One black, one yellow. Ross.” His vexed fingers raked his hair. “But how…?” An ugly expletive escaped him. “Someone followed the servants who took the cart.”

  “This Ross is going to pay dearly for what he is doing.” Promised Lachlan.

  “Organise a search. Let us track my family down.” He instructed.

  “Leave it with me. You must stay here in case they seek help.” The younger man strode to the firearms cabinet and grabbed a few of them.

  Reluctant, Drostan agreed. Staying here without being able to do anything would kill him. “Take our best trackers.”

  With a nod, his brother left.

  Alone again, he pounded his fist to the sturdy desk, smashing it in hundreds of splinters. Papers, ink and pens flew to the carpet.

  Fury, red-hot and raw shook his guts. Like nothing ever had in his life. To imagine his son and wife trudging the countryside in precarious conditions and with unknown destination worsened the ire. Fists tight, jaw ticking, he fought to neutralise his boiling guts.

  Did Ross abduct them? Or did he only force them to leave? If so, where would his wife and child bolt? His eyes darted to the window where the first snow had just started. To think of her and Ewan braving this weather made rage threaten to erupt again, deadlier. If he followed his impetus, he would go to this bluidy McPherson and cut him in a thousand pieces.

  But it was not time to give in to impulses. He had to keep his mind focused, or he would not be able to take care of his family. At that moment, this listed as the only thing that mattered

  The first day of ride eastwards did not pose too much of a challenge. The weather came crisp, but without rain or snow. Freya detected the lackey tracking them through the woods as she had expected. The main road had seemed the best option since her kin knew where she would head. It also provided more comfort in the riding and the inns along it.

  John walked beside the horse she and Ewan rode in a sedate pace. They were not in a hurry after all. Ewan did not show his cheerful mood, but he ate and slept during the day.

  Freya struggled hard with her overflowing emotions. Hopelessness menaced her insides like a huge lead cloud trying to invade and numb her. For an instant there, giving up on everything seemed all too tantalising. Why continue after these years of hardship? Why not just surrender to what her kin wanted and be done with it?

  Of course, Nova Scotia would procure her the peace and anonymity necessary to bring Ewan up in a semblance of stability. If they survived the crossing and the challenges of the new land, what would prevent them from thriving?

  Yes, what?

  Everything. Her combative self retorted quick. She would have left without fighting to the last chance. Would have deprived Ewan from his heritage. Deprived Drostan from his heir. Deprived herself from her beloved country.

  It was not the time to weaken. It was time to strengthen, harden. Fight. With all her might. Everything she could muster. She had promised herself she would not cry anymore. And she did not though a well of tears lodged in her throat.

  Now she promised herself not to give up until she exhausted the last resource. Only if she failed, would she change plans. The energy for that lay just under the surface. The frustration, the strain, the anger at her situation provided more than enough for her to turn it to fuel a comeback. Resistance. Outbraving. She had little else to lose after all.

  Therefore, she refused to let this daunt her. To plough through. That would be her motto.

  By sunset, they found a coaching inn where they would spend the night as Aberdeen lay another day away. Ewan would need hearty feeding and rest as would she and John.

  They entered the busy tapper room to find the inn keeper and request a room for the night. The only room they had proved small and cramped, but it would have to do. A bath and change of clothes were in order before they went down for supper. John would eat and sleep in the stables.

  Ewan and Freya came down and sat in the only vacant table at a corner of the noisy place. Her son’s mood had not improved during the trip. He continued too silent and seemingly uncaring to what happened around him. This began to worry his mother. The boy usually had a sunny disposition and let little bother him for too long. She feared the events of the last few weeks were taking its toll on him. She only hoped it did not signalise worse developments.

  Her hazel eyes surveyed her surroundings. Not far from their table, sat a group of six, three men, an elderly lady, and a mother and a child of about five. Apparently, they took the same mail coach to Aberdeen, and talked cheerfully about the day’s trip.

  “I hope Mrs Wilson will have the time to write to us about her adventure over the Atlantic.” The elderly lady was saying. “Travelling accounts are so en vogue these days.”

  The speaker had a cut-glass English accent, though she must be petit-noblesse if she did not afford her own carriage for the trip. But this was not what made Freya sharpen her ears. The fact mother and girl headed to Aberdeen for a ship over the Atlantic did.

  “Aye, me lady.” Answered Mrs Wilson. “Though ye will need to be patient for me to find the time to write.” She drank from her ale. “My Sandy here needs care, ye know.”

  The loud group moved on to another topic, but Freya’s mind whirled. A plan designed in her head though it sounded crazy even to her.

  A mother and a child—a girl—en route to take a ship to the other side of the Atlantic. What if Freya used them as a decoy for the lackey on their heels to follow instead? She had not seen the accomplice as they arrived here, but surely, he hid in the vicinity ready to track them tomorrow.

  It took longer for Ewan to accept to eat properly. By the time they finished, the tapper room had become nearly empty. Upstairs, she put Ewan to sleep, and returned down to talk to John. To ask him to discover about Mrs Wilson’s room. He would come up to watch over Ewan after that.

  If she convinced mother and child to travel with John, she had the money to tempt her into it. This would free her to follow her own way. She would think about how she would do it after she talked to Mrs Wi
lson.

  With soft steps on the creaking floorboards of the upper floor, she reached the room John had indicated to her, and rasped carefully.

  The chamber opened to a Mrs Wilson in nightdress. Behind her, on the bed, a girl slept.

  “Good evening, my name is Abby.” She lied. “May I talk to you?”

  The plump, short woman looked suspicious at her. “What would that be?”

  “I would like to make you an offer.” Freya stated, noticing the woman’s attire did not show her to be with comfortable means. Money would play a part here.

  “What kind of offer?” She asked, looking Freya up and down.

  “Might I come in?” The woman’s eyes narrowed as long minutes passed before she gave way to Freya.

  A small table and two narrow chairs sat in the corner. Both women took their places by it.

  “Mrs Wilson.” She started. “I heard they call you that at supper.”

  “Aye.” She said simply.

  “And you are taking the ship to cross to America? Is this right?”

  “Aye, me husband left three years ago, and I am to follow now that he managed to buy a plot of land in Nova Scotia.”

  The information supplied even better probabilities, Freya thought optimistically. “It so happens I was headed there, too.” She would keep as close as possible to the truth. “But I changed my mind, you see. It is so daunting, this long trip.”

  “True enough.” The woman agreed. She looked young, too young for such an uprooting. “Me husband were a tenant in the north, but our Laird decided to graze sheep.” Her blue eyes became sad. “The factories in England are greedy fer wool.”

  Freya understood it. Though the McKendricks and the McDougals resisted bravely the trend, she suspected Ross intended to do exactly this. Evict the tenants and use the land for sheep, forcing people to uproot from their birthplace of generations. “It is unfortunate, indeed.”

  “I got a position as a maid, but he got nothing.” Her eyes moistened. “So he scrapped all we had, bought a passage and left this country.”

  “I will lend you my horse and footman to travel to Aberdeen, Mrs Wilson.” She put in a direct way.

  “Why would ye do that? Ye would need them to go back.” The smart woman questioned.

  “I will take the mail coach.” She lied. “I can give you money enough to travel first class.”

  At the quip, Mrs Wilson’s eyes widened. “Are ye running from someone?” She shot close-range.

  “As a matter of fact, I am. But I should say no more.” Her eyes did not bulge from the woman’s.

  “All I have to do is travel with yer horse and footman.” She confirmed.

  “And with my clothes.” Freya completed. She would give her Ewan’s coat which would hide her daughter’s dress.

  “Ye running from the law or something?” Her gaze narrowed again.

  “No. You can be certain of that.” She assured the younger woman. “I just need it to look like I am going to board a ship.”

  Mrs Wilson lowered her eyes to her hands on the table and remained thus for so long Freya started to lose hope.

  “Alright.” She finally agreed. And they settled the details for next morning.

  “You must promise me to buy a first-class passage.” Freya required. “The cabins are more aired, and the food is healthier.” Those would give the other woman and Sandy more chances of surviving the crossing disease-free. Valuable advantages for those who spent weeks at sea.

  “Aye.” She promised.

  “Thank you for your help, Mrs Wilson.”

  Heart lighter, Freya reached her chamber and instructed John on her plan. He carried on to exchange clothes with Mrs Wilson, so Freya would dress as the humble woman Mrs Wilson was.

  That morning, after a restless night, Freya stood at her window observing the movement in the front yard of the inn.

  The mail coach departed minus Mrs Wilson and Sandy. Mere minutes passed before she sighted John with Loch. The mare carried the younger woman in one of Freya’s dresses and cloaks, with the young girl wrapped in one of Ewan’s coats. A movement in the copse of trees beyond indicated Ross’s accomplice following them. It appeared her plan had a good start.

  Most of the money she carried, she gave to John for the ride and the passage. Ewan and she would need much less to go back.

  “Ewan, my love.” She awoke her son. “What say you we go back?”

  Sleepy old-whisky eyes opened and he smiled quietly. “Back, mama?” He yawned. “Forever?”

  “We will see, my love.”

  The coaching inn had only a donkey to hire which left her no choice but travel with it. It would be safer to use the back roads though the distance would increase. But Freya was taking no chances. Their belongings and Ewan rode the animal while she walked beside it, holding the reins.

  That was when the snow started to fall in slow, silent flakes. She wrapped Ewan in spare blankets as she tightened Mrs Wilson’s cloak about herself. The garment was not of superior quality, but it seemed new. She wore extra stockings for warmth though she shod her own new boots.

  The chat with her son did not go too lively even if she tried to distract him with stories and songs. The snow did not help, and cold wind made the trip uncomfortable. Many times, she checked with Ewan to ask if it was alright to continue, getting positive answers from him. Daylight lasted less because of the grey overcast sky. It forced her to look for an inn earlier to overnight, having no chance of reaching anywhere in one day through longer roads. At least, warm food and bed would be forthcoming.

  As she rested her head on a hard pillow and an uncomfortable bed, she counted herself thankful for an eventless day despite the snow. Her plan seemed to have produced the desired results. She only hoped John, Mrs Wilson and Sandy reached Aberdeen today without being discovered.

  Next morning, she awoke a tad under the weather, but she put it down to the weary trip. Ewan was quieter than usual as he had been since they left the cottage by the loch. Therefore, not noteworthy. If they got lucky, they might reach the McKendrick manor today.

  By midmorning, she got worse than ‘a tad’ under the weather. Her body ached with twisting agony, her head seemed to weigh triple as much, and her feet were colder than they should be. Ewan sat on the donkey, head fallen on his chest. She stopped to wrap him with one more blanket, only to realise he burned with fever.

  Despair nearly robbed her of her wits. It would not be wise to stop now. They were possibly a half day from the manor where her son would be cared for. She did not mind herself much if he could get what he needed for his comfort. Trying to overcome her own indisposition, she pulled the donkey to a faster pace.

  Not long passed as her eyes darkened and she nearly fell on the icy, muddy road. With uneven breath, she lifted her cheeks and let snow fall on her skin on a last resort to keep awake. The fever skidded to trice as bad as this morning with the addition of a sore throat. Ewan’s flushed cheeks showed he was no better. She must not give up now. A few more miles and they would sight the manor, she tried to push herself. Her feet practically dragged through the snow as she strained to keep a fast stride. The desert road made it impossible to ask for help. And she did not believe she would, given the chance. It would be dangerous.

  Head bent forward, sweat trickling down her skin, she forged ahead. Her body battered as if a hundred horses had pounded on her. Shuffling feet tripped on passing stones causing her to fall helpless on the mud. Everything in her screamed to stay on it and sleep, rest, give in. With a herculean effort, she pushed herself up and forced her legs to move forward. She refused to leave her son without care. Now, her high temperature made her hot to the point of wanting to throw her cloak away, but she knew it to be foolish.

  In the last of her strength, her hands propped on her knees as she looked up. The manor lay barely yards ahead. Yards which seemed a hundred miles to cover. Still, she persisted.

  “My laird.” Baxter rasped on his study door.

  He sa
t with his father, both trying hard not to talk about the lack of news from Lachlan. He had sent more men for the search. This time, Fingal volunteered to take men to the opposite direction. No news from him either. Desperation was ready to take over.

  At the butler’s rather urgent tone, he called him to enter.

  “My Laird, Lady McKendrick—” He had not even finish talking when Drostan and Wallace rushed to the front yard. “Is approaching the manor.”

  Bleeding hell! How could it…? No one had been able to locate her, and she was here? He almost did not believe it until—

  He spotted her just passing the front gate, Ewan on a donkey and she… Goddammit!

  Muddy clothes, sweaty hair under the hood, flushed cheeks, bent shoulders. And her beautiful eyes swollen, doused. Almost lifeless. The sight of her hit him like a thousand bricks on the chest.

  Running like a mad man, he neared her. “Freya!” He shouted, mindless of who heard his anguished call.

  He caught her a second before she fell. “Ewan.” She murmured almost incomprehensibly. “F-fever… D-doctor…”

  Wallace was already at the donkey taking the faint boy in his arms.

  “Do not worry.” He lifted her in his arms. “I will take care of him.”

  Her eyelids blinked slowly, absently.

  “J-John… Loch… Ab-Aber-Aber...” Her voice died away.

  “Lachlan is…” But she passed out before he could finish.

  “She is burning with fever.” He growled to his father.

  Muscled arms carried her hurriedly inside, he barked orders for doctor, healer, bed, fireplace and whatever else the devil they needed.

  “Baxter.” He bellowed and did not wait for an answer. “No one is to know they are here!” He clattered up the stairs two steps at a time, and continued. “If anyone breaths a word, they will be evicted from my lands.”

  “Yes, my Laird.” Came the reply from far down. As the leader of the servants, he would have to pass on the orders.

  A glacial bony hand squeezed his guts at the sight of her and their son in this condition. They had been on the road for days on end. Without knowledge of when they became ill, there was no predicting when they might heal. If they— He cut out the blood-curdling thought before it materialised.