The Madam's Highlander

by Madeline Martin

  She'd saved him. He'd been completely unaware this entire time, and she had worked hard to ensure his safety.

  Soothing warmth spread through him and took the raging pulse of pain to a dull hum. His body relaxed into the seat with more ease. He gazed across the narrow distance where Freya sat forward in her seat, a hand gracefully poised on the curtain of the window. The sun sluiced in through the dirty glass and left her skin like cream beneath the rosy cluster of freckles.

  Ewan's mind was...soft, and staring at Freya, it was...nice. He smiled to himself, and even as he did it, the action felt thick and stupid.

  Her curls were bonny too, red as a flame of fire and glossy as silk. It made his fingers long to stroke the coil of hair. His fingers wanted to touch more than just her hair though. He wanted to stroke the pad of his thumb over her full bottom lip, so much fuller than the perfectly shaped top lip. The kind of mouth perfect for kissing, gently nipped around a sigh of pleasure.

  He pressed his lips together as if doing so might let him taste her on his mouth, though he'd never touched her at all. The carriage jostled over a particularly bumpy patch. Ewan's limp body rocked in time with each bounce and jolt, and Freya's firm breasts gave a little jiggle. There wasn’t as much visible with her high-necked gown, and it made him wish for the low-cut neckline she'd worn the other day, the soft fabric falling around the natural shape of her body.

  “Captain Fraser, ye're staring at me quite intently.” Freya spoke without removing her gaze from the window.

  “Aye,” Ewan agreed. The carriage dipped beneath them and her bosom gave a lovely bounce. “I like yer breasts.”

  She looked at him now, her eyes wide, and she gave a snort of laughter. “Oh, poor Captain Fraser, ye’re no’ yerself. Perhaps I shouldna have given ye so much of the tea.”

  “I like it.” He tried to give her a smile, but his mouth didn't feel as though it quite lifted the way he wanted it to. “I like ye.”

  “Because of my breasts?” she asked, clearly amused.

  “Aye.” He gave a lazy nod. “And the rest of ye - I like all of ye. So verra beautiful.”

  A flush colored her cheeks.

  “And I like yer heart,” he added.

  “My heart,” she repeated his words slowly.

  “Ye're a good person, admirable and beautiful.” Ewan's head lilted to the side, his neck no longer strong enough to keep it upright. “But I like all of ye verra, verra, verra, verra, verra much.”

  His eyes started to close.

  “That's kind of ye to say, Captain Fraser.” Her gentle voice slipped into his dreams like a warm, soft blanket.

  “Ewan,” he muttered. “Ye canna call a traitor ‘Captain.’”

  Something smooth and cool folded around his hand. “The people of Scotland willna see ye as a traitor.” She paused and Ewan faded into sleep.

  “And I like ye too, Ewan.” Her voice pulled at him for a moment.

  He tried to lift his head, but it was heavy, mired with a fog that covered all his memories. Things he needed to remember but didn't want to.

  “Rest well, but quick,” Freya said. “For we are near my home, and the countryside is red with the English.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Another redcoat. That made over twenty Freya had seen in the last hour.

  Her foot jostled on the flat bottom of the carriage, bouncing her leg up and down with coils of unspent energy. She had an injured deserter who she'd apparently made drunk by giving him too much of the herbs she'd concocted from what was available in her bag. But then the herbs she carried were meant for her mother, who had needed more and more with time.

  Freya had thought Captain Fraser's large frame would require more. She had been wrong.

  Ewan.

  She reminded herself of his name and a smile whispered over her lips. He'd looked foolish sitting there with that lopsided grin, watching her breasts with half-lidded eyes. Foolish and endearing, like a puppy made so innocently happy with the simplest of things.

  Several horses strode past with officers astride them. One looked in the carriage and nodded to her in greeting. The smile on her mouth twisted into a bitter scowl and she yanked the curtain back into place. Watching all those bloody Englishmen wouldn't do a lick of good.

  Rather, it churned her mind into knots. There was too much to fear with so much red about. Hadn't she learned that lesson before? Hadn't she seen all too recently the destruction they could wreak?

  Edward whistled a soft tune from outside the carriage, which meant they were only half a mile away.

  Freya straightened in her seat. “Ewan,” she called. “Ye must wake now.”

  He lifted his brows, but his lids did not follow.

  “Ewan, we are almost to the house. Yer mother is waiting for ye.”

  “Mum?” Ewan murmured.

  “Aye, she's waiting for ye,” Freya said. “Ye must wake to greet her properly.”

  A single knock struck the side of the carriage and Freya's heart went cold in her chest.

  One knock. A warning.

  Was her own home razed? Her sister and mother dead along with Ewan's mother? Fear and hate and anticipation blasted through her. Hadn't they all paid enough of a price in this damn war?

  “Ewan, wake up.” She spoke harshly this time, her words powered with the buildup of emotion.

  Ewan's eyes flew open, wide and bloodshot. His hand jerked to his waist where he still held his pistol.

  “We're almost there,” Freya said. “We need to be careful. There are many, many redcoats about.”

  Ewan's expression darkened.

  Freya reached over and pulled the pistol from Ewan's belt. It slipped from his fingers and was in her hands before he could protest. At least the heavy effects of the tea would work to her benefit.

  It was never a good idea to have an angry soldier armed around those who had wronged him. Especially with family nearby.

  “This is for the best.” Freya tucked the weapon into her velvet travel bag. “I'll explain to ye later.”

  The carriage drifted to a slow stop and her heartbeat raced. She pulled back the curtain to the window with trembling fingers and glanced out, unsure what she would find.

  Her home was still standing.

  She did not see any redcoats in the low cast light of early evening, but then they could be beyond her sight. “Lean on me when we get out. We'll pretend ye're drunk if anyone asks questions.”

  Ewan's eyes had started to drift closed again but snapped open when she spoke.

  She exited the carriage first, then helped guide him through the small door. Her muscles strained beneath the heft of him. God, but the man was heavy. He tossed a massive arm over her shoulder and practically dragged her to the ground with this weight.

  Freya gritted her teeth and threw her strength into her back until she managed to heave them both upright. Her stomach swam with nerves as she approached the home she'd entered so many times before, too few of them recent. The door flew open before she could even touch the knob.

  A red coat blazed before her eyes, gilt buttons glinting with a ridiculous shine in the waning sunlight. She lifted her gaze to find a tall man staring down at her from a short snub of a nose.

  “May I help you?” His voice was the drawl of well-mannered English - the kind which would make any London parent proud.

  “I might ask ye the same,” Freya said. “Being as ye're in my house.”

  “Ach, she's fine to come in.” Her mother's familiar voice sounded in the background and she appeared beside the soldier.

  But Freya didn't move. She might be smothering beneath Ewan's bulk, but that did not stop her from glaring up at the Englishman. “What the hell are ye doing in my home?”

  “Freya!” Her mother's hand fluttered over her breast with uneasy shock.

  “Forgive me.” The Englishman presented her with a stiff bow. “I'm Captain ThomasCrosby. I'll be billeting here for several days.”

  “The hell ye will,” Fr
eya scoffed.

  Her mother shoved herself between Freya and the officer. “Freya Marie Campbell! Ye will apologize at once. And then ye'll tell me who that man is ye're propping up.” Her mother eyed Ewan warily. “He's no' dead, is he?”

  “Sorry,” Freya muttered without looking over her mother's shoulder to where the unwanted stranger stood patiently. “And he's alive, he's...”

  She scrambled through a million thoughts in the flash of a second. He couldn't be her brother, the officer would know there had never been a son. Nor could he be a cousin - why would a cousin be staying with them randomly and without notice? He couldn't be a friend, for why would she not be bringing him to his own home instead, especially with such an intimate closeness between them.

  An intimate closeness...

  Of course!

  What else would better explain her having Lily there as well as Ewan?

  “He’s Lily’s son, Ewan.” Freya straightened. “My husband.”

  ***

  Married? The fog surrounding Ewan's brain had started to lift. Still, what Freya had said made no sense.

  They were married?

  He didn't remember getting married. He remembered... His side ached. He remembered getting shot. Running.

  His mother.

  A woman's face peered into his, her skin crinkled with age. Not his mother.

  “Yer husband?” the woman said. She frowned and the wrinkles around her mouth puckered. “What's wrong with him?”

  There was a moment of hesitation, enough for Ewan to shift his gaze to Freya. She cast him an apologetic look.

  “He had a bit too much whisky earlier,” she said slowly.

  It was his turn to frown. He hated whisky, and rum, and all other strong spirits. He didn't like his senses dulled and his wits scattered. His balance teetered and he swayed.

  This.

  He didn't like this.

  Freya moved underneath him, shifting his weight to put him back in a steadier position.

  The older woman tsked.

  “My mother has a recipe for helping when someone is too far gone with drink.” An English voice spoke, his accent sharp with authority. Ewan looked up at the man whose body was slight beneath the heavy uniform and whose look condemned him at first glance.

  Hate filled Ewan, the burn of it cutting through the fog in his mind and straight into his heart.

  The Englishman regarded him with just as much contempt. “Though I'd caution you against a drunkard for a husband.”

  “My son isna a drunkard.” A familiar feminine voice spoke. One he'd heard for a lifetime and kept in his heart through nights slept in mud and through battles with men dying around him.

  His mother.

  “Ma?”

  “My son.” Then she was there. Her white hair pulled back in a soft bun, her sweet honeysuckle scent surrounding him. Tears shone in her blue eyes and she threw her arms around him, almost knocking all three of them to the ground.

  Freya grunted at his side. “Help me get him,” she ground out. “He's no' exactly a wee man.”

  “Of course,” his mother said. Her arm came around him and dug hard into his injury. He clenched his teeth but could not manage to bite back the groan of pain. His mother removed her arm immediately, and he almost fell forward were it not for Freya's body braced against his.

  She was a good wife. Even if he didn’t remember marrying her. Which made him a bad husband.

  His mother stared at him, her face incredulous. “Lad, what have ye done to yerself?”

  “Let me do this.” A firm arm came around Ewan's shoulders and hooked his weight under his armpit.

  The English officer was helping him.

  “Which room is he in?” the redcoat asked in his prim tone.

  “This way,” Freya's mother said. “It's the only room left with a bed large enough for two. Now that they're married.” She said the last word slowly and gave a worried glance back at him.

  Ewan forced his feet to work, putting one foot in front of the other - a slow, gradual progression up a set of impossibly long stairs and down a hall which seemed to go on for an hour before finally a door opened to a room. With a bed. How he longed for the cradle of a soft mattress beneath him.

  His face was damp with perspiration and his side ached terribly.

  The man helped him to the bed where Freya eagerly pulled back the blanket. Bed. Ewan's eyes were closing with the very idea of letting his body rest against the pillowed softness, the cool sheets against his hot skin. With Freya's small hand guiding him, he sank onto the mattress.

  “His cloak is still on,” the Englishman said.

  “It's fine - he'll be the one wrapped in it in the morning and it'll be his own fault,” Freya said with reproach. “Go on, I'll handle the rest.”

  Clipped steps rang out on the hard floor and Ewan knew the officer was leaving. The door closed with a click and his mother was immediately at his side.

  “Ewan, what is the meaning of this?” She shook her head. Disappointment showed in the crinkle of her brow, and it sliced into him.

  “It isna drink at all,” Freya whispered. “I needed a distraction. He's been shot. The medicine I gave him was too strong. He's no' drunk, he's drugged.”

  “Shot?” his mother's voice was so small, as if she were frightened.

  He wanted to reassure her he was fine. He'd been worse off before. But all that emerged from his lips was a gravelly moan.

  A soothing shush came from overhead followed by the sweet powdery perfume. Freya. She pulled away the blanket with gentle hands and untwisted a cloth from around his hips. His cloak?

  She hissed out a curse. “The wound has opened again.”

  Something heavy fell to the floor, like a sack of grain dropped hard. Ewan lifted his head and squinted his eyes open to discover his mother had fainted dead away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Freya's head drooped over her tea. Only a rim of pulpy leaves remained at the bottom of the fine cup. Still, she could barely keep her eyes open against the pull of exhaustion.

  Most of the household was asleep, and she found herself wishing she could join them. Captain Crosby had retired to his room before she had emerged from her own. Ewan was resting comfortably with fresh bandages, the wound stanched. Lily had been easily roused within seconds of fainting and had been seen to her room with promises of an explanation later.

  Lily had inadvertently kept her son’s cover by declaring herself a MacDonald instead of a Fraser with ‘that man’ billeting with the Campbells. That man of course being Captain Crosby. And so now it was Lily and Ewan MacDonald.

  “Ewan is a soldier of the Black Watch.” Freya spoke in a quiet tone, nothing that could be heard over the crackle of the fireplace in the kitchen hearth. “After he found out what happened with Lily, he insisted I help him leave Edinburgh...and the Black Watch.”

  “He's a deserter,” Ma said, her tone aghast. “Does Lily know?”

  Freya looked up at the seat opposite her at the narrow wooden table. It was a servant's table, but it was the quietest room in the house, one that would afford them a more candid conversation than anywhere else.

  Freya's back stiffened. “He's a man who realized the people he fought for were the ones killing his people. And Lily doesna know. I wasna sure if Ewan wanted her to, so I dinna say.”

  Ma put her hands on the table, palms flat, fingers spread, as if she meant to reach for Freya but would not allow herself. Had she wanted to finally touch her daughter after all these years? A caress, a hug, a stroke on the cheek, something. But she pulled her hands away and clasped them to her chest. “They'll kill him if they catch him. They'll kill ye-”

  “I think it was good of ye to help him escape.” Marian waddled toward the table, the kettle extended to avoid brushing her massive belly.

  Freya glanced away, unable to allow herself to lay eyes on the swell of hate in her sister's stomach. “I couldna let him die,” she muttered.

  Marian held the
kettle aloft over Freya's cup, but Freya shook her head. “I canna have another. I need sleep. I need to think.”

  Marian set the kettle down and gave her a smile. It was tender despite the fatigue lining her sweet face. Guilt locked its teeth into Freya's heart. Why, of all of them, was it Marian who had to be dragged away by that soldier? Why hadn't Freya been able to break free to stop it?

  In her mind now, she saw so many possibilities which would have allowed her to get to Marian’s side. To help. To stop the rape. But then, at the time, she had been so damn powerless. Held in place, forced to bear witness to her greatest failure while Marian paid the price.

  Anger flashed heat into Freya’s cheeks.

  Why hadn't Marian taken the pennyroyal Freya had brought her to wash the child from her womb?

  And why couldn't Freya forgive Marian for wanting to keep the bastard begotten by such hate and violence?

  Freya's throat squeezed around the rush of emotion. An uncomfortable warmth prickled at her skin, making her as miserable outside as she felt inside. She should say something to Marian - the good sister, the gentle and kind sister with the purest heart, even after her ordeal.

  But Freya could not bring herself to speak around the tightness of her throat.

  She leaned forward and caught Marian in a careful embrace, keeping herself from touching that damned belly.

  “When was the captain shot?” Ma asked abruptly.

  Freya released her sister and stroked a hand down her silky blonde hair. Her sister, not only the good one, but also the beautiful one. And never had Freya begrudged her for it. Who could?

  “He was shot when we were leaving Moll—when we were leaving my shop in Edinburgh.” Freya tried to cover her words, but it was too late. Her mother scowled at the slip.