The Lass Defended the Laird (Explosive Highlanders Book 2)

by Lisa Torquay

  “He cannot do anything to us without incurring in your father’s anger.” Contemplated Wallace.

  “As long as my father gets word of it.” She rubbed her temple, tension thrumming over her.

  “He will. We will ride through McPherson’s lands.” Lachlan informed.

  “Tomorrow.” Established Drostan.

  The McPherson’s lands bordered the McKendricks, which meant a short distance. A two-hour ride at most.

  Freya looked at her husband as he led the conversation. His attention met hers when silence reigned, but she lowered her lashes concealing her thoughts.

  For the rest of the dinner, they settled the details of their ‘visit’.

  Drostan kicked his bedchamber’s door shut as he came in later that evening. His wife stood by the window watching the blind night, her slim back to him. She did not react to the sound of him entering.

  The fire in the hearth cast her in warm shades, her auburn tress catching fire in the light. “We leave after breakfast.” He said, using it to start a conversation.

  Her frame twisted to him clad in her nightgown and wrap.

  When their eyes clashed, there was so much sorrow in hers it washed disquiet over him. “What is it, Freya?”

  Her hands tightened the wool around her in a defensive gesture. “Do not do this.” It came so low, almost a whisper.

  “You want me to play the coward?” In long strides, he neared her, dwarfing her with his height.

  Hazel gaze raised to him. “Ross is reckless.” The expression on her perfect features strained. “You cannot be sure what he will throw at you.”

  “Do you want to hide inside the manor forever?” Prowling closer, he stood inches from her.

  “You know I do not. And Ewan needs open spaces.” Her scent of soap and woman clouded his mind.

  He threw her wrap to the carpet. “Would you have a better solution, perhaps?” Strong fingers untied the tip of her tress to undo it.

  Her delicate ones held the tress midway. “Wait for my father to appoint an heir. It should not take long.”

  “And Ross leaves you and Ewan alone after that, you think.” He took her hand and placed it on his square stubble jaw.

  “He might.” Her tress came undone, spilling her hair over her shoulders.

  “He is a bully.” Bunched biceps lifted her. “Bullies never stop.” And prowled to the bed.

  “Let us wait and see. If he does not stop, we act.” Her husband placed her on the satiny sheets.

  “By then, it could be too late.” He stretched beside her after undressing. “I am taking no chances.” And rolled to her.

  “This does not bode well.” His stubble grazed along her neck and her sigh rewarded him.

  “I will not back down.” A large hand pulled her nightgown string.

  She held his broad shoulders and made him look at her. They were disagreeing, they were in bed, and he was touching her. Her confusion reflected in her gaze.

  “I know you do not want me to go.” He rasped on the curve of her neck and shoulder where he sowed goose-bumps. “I know you do not share in my decision.” Sensuous lips kissed her exposed shoulder. “I know you want to protect our family.” Her nightgown lowered further. “But would you allow me to take your kisses with me?” Her breasts came to the firelight. “Can I carry your scent with me?” His tongue licked one nipple, causing her to arch towards him. “Shall I stock your moans in my ears?”

  “Oh, Drostan.” She breathed as her hands dived in his wavy, smooth hair.

  It was all he needed to plunder her lips. And to be plundered by hers. They kissed long, deep, eager.

  He wanted this woman more than he should. More than before. More than he ever thought possible.

  This woman who came into his life with starry eyes and a willing body. This woman who left his life with a stealthy mystery and his seed in her womb. Who returned to his life with a fierce strength and a protective streak. Who sent him to a frosty hell with her absence and to a scalding heaven with her sensuality. His woman. His wife. His mate. His…everything. He preferred to die than to allow that villain to hurt her gain. Preferred exile than to see her leave again. Preferred the most painful torture than to watch her suffer again. And preferred her disapproval than to let anything happen to her.

  To her or to the fruit of their union. The fruit of their marriage. The fruit of their…

  He laced her by her waist and made all of her glue to all of him as though it had been years since the last time he touched her. Caressed her as though it would be centuries until he did it anew. Drank in her as though it would be a lifetime until he came back to her. Savoured her as if the stars would have to extinguish until he did it next time.

  A bottomless well of sensations and emotions ran between them as she followed him wherever he took her. With her arms, with her thighs. Her moans. Her warmth. And he followed her thighs, her moans. The centre of her heat.

  He trailed down her frame, vowing to keep his wife always close to him. His wife, who came to him willing body and all. The wife who he would not allow to leave him. The wife who had so courageously protected their son. With her nurturing. Her endurance. Her fortitude. Overflowing, candent passion took him by assault as they spun in desire, sensation and all the nameless things layering between them.

  And when he claimed her, she received him in her body with the same eagerness of their wedding night. Added to a ton more passion, a ton more sensuality. Light-years more intensity. A universe more surrender. And he got lost in her heat, her undulations. Her pleasure.

  His own climax came with her cries, her culmination, her name. Her.

  Only her.

  Lost in this woman, he could not even remember his own name, his whereabouts. Simply because she was his compass, his north.

  His world.

  They fell asleep entangled in each other, without words. Their bodies had done all the talking that mattered.

  Lead clouds greeted dawn as Drostan made a giant effort to disentangle from his snuggly wife to get up and dress.

  Freya turned on her back, and her eyelids rose slowly. He continued dressing when their gazes locked. “Are you coming back in one piece?” Her sleepy voice did not disguise her worry.

  “I will do my best.” Was the reply he could give.

  “Do your worst, too. Just in case.” She uttered serious.

  With a smirk, he nodded. “Try not to worry, mo morair chat.” His hand found to the door-knob.

  “Easier said.” She retorted before he left.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Drostan rode Threuna along the road to the McPherson, his brothers by his side. The strong wind threatened rain, and he looped the tartan wool around his shoulders.

  Still reeling from the night, he made a useless effort not to remember it. But images of them crept to his mind. It wrenched him dry. In more ways than one. He did not wish to list the other ways aside the one. It confused him. Shook him. Scared him. To want a woman this raggedly could only mean trouble. Everything felt a thousand times deeper than when they married. They had been younger and inexperienced in a life together. With the years, their marriage—or should he say their non-marriage?—offered a new perspective. The separation caused anger, disillusionment, and bitterness in him. To find her again bridged that gap as the reason for her leaving surfaced. After last night, he was more confounded than he had ever been. Everything in him swirled and churned undefined. But sharper, with more saturated colours spinning like a prism. Discerning this mixture proved to be a challenge.

  “I am not sure of the exact place where this worm lives.” Lachlan interrupted his muddled musings.

  “We shall inquire.” Suggested Drostan distractedly.

  “The man must be well disliked in his clan, I would bet.” Added Fingal. “Everyone will know where not to go.”

  The people they met on the way showed his words true. Ross owned lands to the south of the McPherson.

  Their horses approached a stone bui
lding surrounded by a tall wall. The construction was not so big as Freya’s father’s and it looked run down, neglected. These lands proved not barren, what did the man do with its produce?

  Traditionally, chieftains held enough land to have tenants and obtain a handsome income. Devoid of their original war functions by English law, they found new ones. In the McKendrick’s and McDougal’s, chieftains became men of varied skills and business. A few supplied fire-wood, others timber, or diverse building materials. Those were who dealt in agricultural implements, and even financial services. By no means destitute, chieftains counted an array of options.

  The brothers entered the open gate and stopped their horses at the front door. Lachlan dismounted and banged the knocker. The sound brought a willowy man out, whose cold blue eyes bulged on them. Drostan supposed it might be James as of Freya’s description.

  “We came to see Ross.” He said firmly.

  “He is—” James started.

  “What is it, James?” Behind the willowy McPherson, appeared a short, round man with flinty eyes.

  At the sight of green, white, and black tartans, he stopped short. Drostan did not repress the satisfaction of seeing the man go rather grey.

  Even so, he eyed Drostan directly. “McKendrick.” That the man knew whom to address, not having met the Laird formally, said something about him and his machinations. “To what do I owe your…unexpected visit?” He had the cheek to ask.

  “I am here for my wife and son.” He stated in a brusque tone. It would be better to infer that he did not hear of their whereabouts, inducing Ross to estimate his plan met with success.

  “How the blazes will I know?” The worm’s brow furrowed as if he did not have the slightest idea.

  “You are the one bullying them.” He accused with no qualms. “For years.”

  Lachlan, who had not mounted his horse yet, prowled to him. Drostan and Fingal held no doubt their brother would pummel the man at the slightest provocation.

  The flinty stare became smug. “Prove it and I shall offer my formal apologies.” The villain proposed.

  Apologies? For years wasted away? Anger erupted in Drostan at the man’s cynicism. “My proof is that they are missing.” His voice came low and menacing.

  “Well, you should control your woman better.” Pure rage invaded him at that.

  Lachlan’s hands flew to the man’s collar before Drostan could even breathe. “You disgusting villain!” His youngest brother hissed.

  Terror smothered the chieftain’s stance. James watched the tableau with squinted eyes.

  “Lachlan.” Drostan called evenly despite the turmoil his anger produced in him. “Let him go, please.” Though his blood boiled with fury, he did not wish to give these men an excuse to retaliate.

  His brother took long seconds eyeing Ross with contempt before he let go with a jerk. Ross nearly fell with the roughness of it.

  “The thing is,” Fingal spoke for the first time in an icy tone. “If you continue to threaten my sister-in-law and nephew, we will have no choice but take this with The McPherson.”

  “You cannot prove anything.” James interposed. “She is not the first McPherson to abandon her husband. No one would give credit to your accusations.”

  Drostan should have asked Taran to join them here. These men deserved a monstruous thrashing.

  “It is not the first time you and Ross show your bad blood.” Drostan stated. “Do you imagine The McPherson would believe you over The McKendrick?”

  At this, James displayed a healthy dose of apprehension.

  “So, Ross,” Fingal returned even icier. “Stop your threats or you might lose your chieftainship and lands.”

  Both McPherson brothers looked at him with no small complacency. They certainly trusted that, with Freya and Ewan out of the way, their plans would come out on top. Mother and son were witnesses to their plotting. With them missing, the brothers were almost untouchable.

  “We are not losing anything because we are guilty of nothing.” Ross threw.

  “Of course not.” Lachlan ironized.

  “I will find my family.” Drostan added. “By then we will see.”

  “Be my guest.” Ross bowed mockingly.

  “I do not think this went too well.” Lachlan started an hour into their ride back.

  The three of them trotted their horses in grim silence. Face to face with the men who caused so much distress to Freya and Ewan had been an exercise in self-control. For the three McKendricks!

  “It did.” Came Drostan’s confident retort.

  “How would that be? They did not look intimidated at all.” The youngest answered with disdain.

  “For one, they will sit back smug that their plan is working like a charm.” The Laird listed. “Which I made sure to emphasise by asking for my wife.”

  “And they know we know.” Fingal complemented.

  “Exactly.” Drostan said.

  “So they will not overestimate their luck.” Concluded Lachlan.

  The eldest nodded. “They will thread carefully from now on.”

  “They did get intimidated without even realising it.” Celebrated the third McKendrick.

  “I would say so.” Fingal had a side smile on him.

  “Let us hope it will buy us time until we hear from Irvine.” The McKendrick replied.

  Freya could not sit still for the life of her. And she tried. Hard. Worried sick, she haunted the manor’s every room looking for something that would take her mind from her husband’s safety. She even requested a bath, speculating that the warm water might calm her nerves. To no avail.

  The McKendricks’ argumentation that the brothers would not get harmed seemed sensible, but did not put her at ease. Ross’s ambitions overruled him, and the wait for his turn to be the Laird did not help. She had dealt with him for a long time. She was aware of the limitations. More than that, her kin threatened to harm Drostan in clear words. The thought alone caused terror to quake over her.

  Logically, Ross had no reason to do anything to her husband if he made sure she was crossing the Atlantic. But who would guarantee her decoy had really foiled the villain? She hoped she did though she could not be certain. She must not question this, or she would go mad.

  To avoid going mad, she headed to the nursery and keep company to Ewan. The boy recovered completely and went back to being his sunny self.

  “Mama!” He ran to her at her entrance.

  Freya hugged him, looking closely to see if his health returned. “Hello, my love.”

  “Bess and I are building a castle.” He said cheerfully. That he had gone back to his sunny self spread relief in her.

  On the carpet, small wooden bricks were disposed half-way built. “That is exciting.” She commented, and he took her hand to go play with him.

  While she stayed with her son, Bess took a break.

  Not half an hour passed when he talked to her. “Mama.” He raised his beautiful eyes to his mother as if forgetting all about the castle. “Are we living here forever?”

  Her eyes held his unsure of what to answer. “Do you like it here?”

  Ewan beamed at her and nodded vigorously. “And I like to be with papa, too.”

  His mother caressed his tousled chestnut hair. “Let us hope we can be here for a long time.” It was not possible to promise more than that. She did not even know if her husband would come back today.

  The click at the entrance made her look at it expecting Bess. Instead, she nearly turned inside out with her husband standing by it, damp hair, fresh tartan, and a scent of soap invading her nostrils. Her heart came close to exploding with relief and exhilaration. A good thing she sat on the carpet with Ewan, for her knees might not have kept her upstanding.

  “Papa!” Ewan skipped to the man, giving her time to at least seem balanced on the surface.

  His father hoisted him in his arms and came to where the toys lay scattered. His tall frame lowered to the carpet as he settled Ewan on it before sitting by her
side. All the time, his old-whisky stare remained on her as hers on his, causing a scalding flush to surface on her skin.

  He broke the otherwise permanent spell to talk to the boy. “What have you been up to, mo balach?”

  “Just finished our castle.” He cheered. “I will live in it forever with you and mama. And nobody will send us away!”

  Freya and Drostan exchanged a meaningful glance. Like that, playing and building his make-believe, their son expressed the knowledge that someone stood behind their constant moving. Sorrowful tears needled her eyes as they became shiny, her husband witnessing it closely.

  His large callused hand lifted to her cheek, thumb shaping solace on the delicate skin. “You can live wherever you want, with whomever you like, mo balach.” The hoarse tone betrayed his own emotions, his attention never wavering from her.

  His answer came like a promise. Like a litany. Like hopeful spring.

  Feminine lips wobbled as they forced a faint smile at him when her hand covered his and her face turned to kiss his rough palm. A strong arm pulled his son close, and time stopped while the family lived this moment together.

  Bess’s entrance broke the moment, but never the family.

  Days later, the McKendrick men and Freya sat at breakfast when Baxter entered with a silver tray holding a letter which he placed on Droatan’s hand.

  Strong fingers opened the seal and read through, a grave expression coming to his chiselled features. “Irvine is inviting the clan leaders and their families to The McPherson Sunday next.” He informed the stunned table.

  Freya eyed him, mixed emotions playing on her delicate stance. Expectancy, apprehension, puzzlement.

  “He has decided, then.” Wallace placed his silverware on the table.

  “Let us hope this to be the case.” Fingal said before he served himself with porridge.

  “If not, why would he call such a gathering?” Lachlan questioned.

  “It is going to be big, by the looks of it.” Drostan commented. “It will provide dozens of witnesses.”