by Lisa Torquay
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Drostan would not be able to tell how long he sat on the chair by the bed, by his wife. The late, cold night lasting forever. He did not know who fed the fire on the fireplace, who came or went, who talked to him. His thoughts and attention focused on only one point. His wife.
He held a vague recollection of bringing her here and going to see about his son. Wallace said he would keep an eye on the boy though the nanny had been present. Alternating between his bedchamber and the nursery, he barely remembered if he ate. He certainly did not sleep. Would not have succeeded to even if he tried.
Freya and Ewan lay unconscious, unresponsive. The doctor had been in and informed that, besides a bleeding, there was little left to do. The Laird would not allow anyone to suck his wife’s or son’s blood. So he had gnarled for the doctor to stuff his treatment…well…there. After which, he expelled the villain with threats of slow, torturous death.
Torturous as this waiting.
The healer had presented more resources, making them drink a mysterious concoction and spreading a foul-smelling ointment which seemed to have brought some relief to them. Even if the remedies did not bring any real improvement.
Thus, he sat there for hours, or weeks, he could not tell.
Tartan in disarray, wrinkled, unbuttoned shirt, unshaved, mussed hair, sore muscles, head bent on his palms. He did not allow anyone to take turns with him. A maid, his father, Fingal, who had already shown up.
He wanted to call Aileen, but deemed it unfair to make her travel in this weather. More than that, Taran might kill him if he took her away from the McDougal again. A possessive bastard, his brother-in-law.
At a rasp on the door, he called in. Wallace’s grey head appeared. “Ewan is asking for you.”
Drostan sprang from the chair. “Is he awake?” He hurried out.
“I believe he is delirious.” His father, also in a deplorable state, answered.
“You should get rest.” He told the older man.
“I might say the same.” He rubbed his face. “Fingal is taking over. I will go get something to eat.”
Drostan nodded and entered the nursery. The sight of his son lying feebly on his bed speared his heart.
“Papa.” He grumbled, his little head bouncing from one side to the other.
Fingal and the nanny, a woman in her sixties, stood to one side.
The day before, Lachlan arrived with John and Loch. He and John explained how Freya had eluded their follower. The three brothers and their father were dumbfounded at her sharpness and resilience. A brave woman, this wife of his proved to be.
“Mo balach.” He answered, and the sound of his deep voice made the boy less restless.
He took the boy, limp and feverish in his arms. “I am here, Ewan.” His little arms circled instantly his father’s neck, eyes closed. He remained silent for a while.
“Where is mama?” The boy wailed. “Mama! I want mama.”
He and Fingal exchanged a glance. Freya was still unconscious.
“Better to take him to her.” His brother ventured. “Just for him to see she is around.”
Agreeing, Drostan wrapped his son in a thick wool coverlet and carried him to his chamber. All the way, Ewan mumbled for his mother.
Inside, Freya lay as helpless as ever.
“Mama.” Ewan wailed lauder.
“Ewan?” She murmured weakly, her brow sweat and ashen. “My love, I am here.” She said in her sleep, instinctively recognising her son’s voice.
His father took him to his mother and lay him gently on her. The physical contact might show to the boy she was here.
Drostan lifted her, and she hugged her son, murmuring tender words to him in her slumber. It calmed Ewan instantly while he gave the impression that he fell asleep.
The three of them stayed there for long moments until Drostan thought it better to take the boy back before he got cold.
“Are you not taking a break?” Fingal asked after his nephew lay back in bed. “You have not had a wink in three days.”
“I cannot.” He answered.
“Well, see that you do not fall ill, too.” His brother admonished.
Little food and little sleep was wont to do that to anyone, he acknowledged. But for the life of him, he could not.
Hours later, sitting on the chair by his bed, old-whisky eyes watched the first light of dawn break in the sky.
“Drostan.” Her faint voice sounded from the bed. “Ewan!” And she sprang up, lowering the covers to reveal her chemise. He had undressed her down to it before putting her to rest.
His head snapped to her. “Freya.” He launched to the bed. “No. Keep lying down.” His large hand held her shoulder.
She lay back with a tired sigh. “Ewan? How is he?” Her tone strained. A hand swiped her plastered hair from her forehead.
“The fever broke a few hours ago.” He had been to the nursery to check on him and the nanny gave him the good news.
The relief on her features dispensed with words. “I was so terrified I was not going to make it!”
He took her hand in his. “You did, Morair Chat.”
Her answer came in a frail smile. “How long was I ill?”
“Fingal says three days, but I cannot be sure. Lost count.” He sat by her side on the mattress.
She did not show surprise with the information. “Can I have some water?”
With a cup in his hand, he filled it from the jug on the nightstand, and came back to her side to help her drink it. Her complexion was sallow, and she lost weight despite his efforts to make her ingest broth these last days. She would have to stay in bed for a while longer.
“You must rest.” Her voice still feeble.
“Do not worry about me.” His thumb caressed her bony fingers. “You are the one who has just vanquished a fever.”
Hazel eyes took in his bedraggled state and paid his words no heed. Her other hand touched the place by her side. “Come to bed.”
He should not disturb her, he understood it. Should let her recover. But he was damned tired. And she offered him a warm place by her side. Who was he to refuse? How was he to refuse? He came under the coverlet as her head rested on his shoulder. He held her protectively, and they fell asleep.
Hours later, Freya snapped her eyelids open to full morning. The need to check on her son led her to ignore her dizziness while she tried to disengage from Drostan and stand.
The movement must have alerted him. “Freya.” He rasped. “You are not well enough to get up.”
In between staggering steps, she tried to reach the chair where a wrap lay. “I would like to check on Ewan.” Barely sustaining her weight, she almost fell over the chair.
Her husband was up and by her side in a second. “The nanny is with him.”
“Yes, but he may need something.” She insisted, fumbling with the fabric.
He understood she would not give up, so he helped her into the garment before he lifted her in his arms. “I will take you in that case.” And carried her as though she was a feather.
In the nursery, the nanny sat by the boy’s bed and stood when they came. “I managed to give him some broth, my lady.” She informed.
“Thank you, Bess.” She answered. Aided by Drostan, she put her feet on the carpet, and bent over the bed to look at him, the man’s arms around her for support.
Still flushed, he slept peacefully, covered in wool. His parents looked down at his wan cherubic features. A sharp pain shredded her heart to see him in this state.
Slowly, so slowly, he stirred in the bed and his eyes struggled to open. “Mama.” He said almost inaudibly. “Papa.” His chubby hands rubbed his eyes. “I feel funny.”
“I know, my love.” A faint smile designed on her dry lips. “You will be well soon.”
The boy nodded sedate. “You must rest, mo balach.” Drostan recommended. “To regain your strength faster.”
“Is Loch here?” His parents exchanged a glance.
> “Yes, son, do not worry about her.” His father answered.
The toddler seemed satisfied with the answer, and fell back asleep.
“Come, Morair Chat.” Drostan interrupted her contemplation of her son. “You should not be out of bed either.” He held her in his arms and left the nursery.
Later that day, Freya progressed to a much better state. A warm bath and solid food contributed to it. Not long ago, she padded to the nursery to check on Ewan and relief filled her as she found the boy up and playing with the nanny. They chatted, and he wanted to show her the toys he had there.
After eating dinner which came on a tray, she sat on the bed reading a book in her nightgown and woollen wrap. The snow stopped, but the grey weather continued to paint the landscape in gloomy shades.
The recent events still caused a shrill to go through her. She avoided thinking about how close she and her son edged to the worst. But it loomed in her mind, anyway. And there had been many ‘worst’ scenarios. The possibility of embarking on that ship, for one. Intense pain convulsed in her at the thought of leaving the country she loved and the husband she would never forget. She would have evaded this destiny if she had put her mind to it. She might have taken the ship and gone down in Glasgow where it headed before gaining open sea. She could have come back to Aberdeen and made a home for her and Ewan there, or even in Glasgow itself. If living in the derelict cottage had been hell, for it lay on the borders of the McKendricks, Aberdeen or Glasgow would have been infinite anguish. On this side or on the other of the ocean, away from Drostan would become exile in equal measure. The mere hint of it dripped despair in her insides.
And then falling sick right on the road back. If something had happened to Ewan, she would never be able to forgive herself or whoever caused it. She feared she would have committed murder with her own bare hands. To imagine life without her son, who had been so close to her in these last years, the only solace, the only sunshine, the only positive outcome of this whole mess. She would have gone out of her mind.
The worst did not transpire. Which was why she sat on her former bed. Or present one, she could not tell. Preferred not to, frankly. Because it would lead her to question her future. Right now, there was no predicting it with the danger hanging over her yet.
Earlier, she had asked John to come talk to her. He reported he took Mrs Wilson to Aberdeen, saying the snow had favoured them. With a hazy horizon, the lackey who kept on their hills could not see them so accurately, especially under the layers of clothing they wore. At the port, he bought her the first-class passage, helped them in the ship and bid goodbye. Freya made a mental note to ask Drostan to reward the footman. Without him, she would have accomplished none of it. The lad expressed his admiration for her acumen in dealing with the predicament they had at hand. And wished her fast recovery before going back to his chores.
A movement at the threshold made her turn to it as Drostan entered the bedchamber. Night had fallen, and the fireplace blazed, casting an intimate light around it.
Their eyes met and held while he closed them inside. “How are you feeling?” He asked and prowled to the foot of the bed. Tall, his dishevelled appearance indicated he had worked about the estate in his daily tasks.
“Almost myself, I should say.” She answered, closing her book and placing it on the nightstand.
A nod came from him as he unwrapped his tartan from his broad shoulders, to fit it to his waist. “I have just gone to the nursery.” Long fingers started unbuttoning his wrinkled white shirt, not missing her fixed attention on him. The reddish light from the hearth licked every inch of skin on show. As he pulled the garment up his head, his magnificence took her breath away.
“Ewan is still a bit out of sorts.” She volunteered.
He sat on the bed to pull out his boots and hoses, dishing her with the view of rippling back muscles, strong nape, and tapered hips. As he stood up, he turned to her. “Yes. But is keen on playing outside.” The information came while he approached the chest of drawers with a wash basin on it.
A moistened cloth in hand, he set out to wash his shaved jaw. Her hands tingled to be doing his washing herself and relish on the bunches of taut flesh.
“He will have to postpone this for a few days.” Her satin voice gave off other messages.
Old-whisky eyes lifted to hers when the lucky cloth travelled down to his hair-peppered chest. “More than that, I reckon.” The happy cloth regaled one masculine nipple with cleaning. “I alerted the servants they are not to mention your presence here.” The other nipple received enviable attention.
She had got no chance of considering the particulars of her and Ewan’s permanence in the manor so far. And the hiding in what had been her own residence once. “Sensible.” She opined.
“We are to lie low for the time being.” The deep voice provided extra pleasure to the cloth tracking down six-packed abdomen to the navel where the tartan cruelly curtailed its progress.
“And then what?” That fortunate cloth dipped back in the basin to came out anew.
“We will see.” He dismissed, with the merry cloth sliding along a steel shoulder and biceps.
“Hm.” But her stare glued on him washing the other arm.
As the smug washing device plopped in the basin, hazel eyes strolled sedate back to his. Molten currents rushed between them. “If you insist on looking at me like that, I will forget you are recovering.” The hoarse admonishment was nothing short of a vow.
“Promise?” She taunted while valuing this piece of daily life with her husband.
“Merciless lass.” He devolved, meaning he could do nothing about it at that moment.
On the bed, he leaned on the headboard. Those biceps pulled her to sit on his lap. “What have you been reading?” He inquired while his fingers combed through her loose hair which had been drying after she washed it.
“Poems by Anne Hunter.” Came her reply before she rested her head on his shoulder.
“I did not remember to send this one to the cottage by the loch.” The comment came accompanied to his lips wandering along her temple. “I know you like her.”
“I did not have time to do much reading there, anyway.” A hand moulded to his neck as a thumb caressed his square jaw.
A tense strong hand rubbed his nape. “Damn Ross.” He muttered.
“Hard day’s work?” She changed the subject, unwilling to dampen the evening.
That strong hand found hers on her lap and entwined with it. “Not so much.” His other arm held her closer. “Mostly caring for the livestock.”
“I talked to John today.” She began. And repeated to him the conversation. “I believe he is deserving of a reward.” Her fingers played with his chestnut hair. “He proved to be essential to my plan.”
Her auburn strand rolled around his finger. “I agree.” After a short pause. “I will call him to my study tomorrow.” She burrowed closer to him.
A sigh escaped her full lips, and he snapped his gaze to her weighing eyelids. “Time for bed, Morair Chat.” He advised before tucking both in the sheets.
She fell asleep holding him close without knowing he kept awake watching her for hours.
“What do you suggest we do?” Lachlan cut down to it when Wallace brought it up.
Drostan sat at dinner next evening, his brothers and father with him. He spent most of the previous night awake as his mind whirled restless. They needed to find a solution for his family’s problem. It did not count that when winter set in, few people would be around and Freya and Ewan would be presumably safe. What about until then and after then? This situation required he deal with it upfront.
“This worm is not worth a war.” Fingal added.
The time came for his wife and son to find some peace. She had taken this heavy burden on her and he was proud of it. But he deemed himself excluded from her decisions the moment she left their marriage. Understandable, no doubt. She had had no way out. But now they needed to forge ahead and leave this behind.<
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“English law does not permit us to bear weapons, in any case.” Wallace reminded them. Having grown up in the aftermath of Culloden, he witnessed the transition Scottish culture ran through.
“We must use strategy.” Drostan highlighted.
“He thinks Ewan and Freya are in the ship.” Fingal said.
“Which means we have a card up our sleeves.” Lachlan boasted.
The McKendricks always acted on problems as a team and they decided together on them. That was the reason each one earned to be called Laird.
“Use this to our advantage.” Came Wallace.
“Let us go corner the devil.” Drostan proposed.
“No!” At the entrance of the dining room, dressed in traditional Scottish women’s attire, Freya stood exquisite. A white chemise, black corset over it and a woollen long skirt of the McKendrick plaid. Still pale from the fever, her complexion acquired a ghostly hue. “Please, do not do that.”
Drostan sprang from his chair to help her sit though she seemed completely recovered from the fever.
“We have the chance now while the roads are passable.” Lachlan defended.
“It is too dangerous. He cannot be trusted.” Freya had a strained tone to her
“One more reason for us to go ahead.” Fingal interposed.
“Precisely.” Drostan sat again beside his wife.
“We can approach him pretending to inquire about Freya’s and Ewan’s whereabouts.” Fingal drank his whisky.
“And ‘convince’ him to leave us alone.” Lachlan, the most hot-headed of the brothers, proposed.
“You mean coerce forcefully.” Freya ‘translated’.
“Semantics.” A side smile came to the youngest’s lips.
“Three of you against his thugs on his own territory.” She mocked. “How smart!”
“We are not resorting to violence.” Drostan decreed. “Just show him we are aware of his schemes and make him stop.”
