The Madam's Highlander

by Madeline Martin

  “Inside?” Ma asked in a sharp tone.

  “Outside, near the entrance.” Freya's stomach slid lower. She knew where this questioning was going - to a place she hadn't allowed herself to think of yet, to a conclusion she did not want to reach.

  “Were ye seen?” Ma asked.

  It played out in Freya's head as it had so many times through the long journey home. Only this time, she was forced to allow herself to remember all of it. Clemmons' rough voice, the pull of surprise, the way she'd... She winced at the memory. The way she'd turned and looked straight at him. And then the gun went off.

  Freya sighed.

  Ma nodded slowly. “And so ye canna go back.”

  Freya tried to swallow away the sick swirl roiling in her stomach. “Nay, I canna go back. No’ until all this is somehow resolved.”

  “Everything ye worked for at yer shop - gone for a note of goodwill.” Ma's lips pursed.

  Freya's exhaustion coupled with the brutality of her mother’s stark questioning left everything in her wilting. She knew exactly what her mother was thinking. She'd already thought such things to herself. More, even.

  To Freya, Molly's was not just a means to obtain coin to keep her mother and sister well and the servants paid. It was a ray of sunshine in a world gone dark with storms. She'd turned the business into a place women could be rescued from the fate of being a sixpenny whore on the streets, where they had the opportunity to be educated into something more – or at least be somewhere safe.

  Molly's was a place where she knew every penny, every customer, and every woman who worked on her back, tended the bar, or cleaned the floorboards. The establishment moved and operated by her hand, her will. Molly's was a success.

  And now she was back in Callander, a place where every act seemed to be met with bitter failure.

  “Ye can stay here at home. With us.” Marian beamed a delighted smile at Freya and caught her hands in her delicate slender fingers. “Ye dinna have to go away again. Ye'll be here for when my baby is born and ye can love him the way I do.”

  Freya forced herself to keep her gaze lifted from Marian's massive stomach. Love. The word coiled in her already-churning gut. “Aye.” It was all she could force herself to say. “I need to sleep.”

  “With yer husband?” Ma took a sip of her coffee with feigned nonchalance.

  Freya stilled. “Ye know he isna my husband. I think it's best for Lily's sake and that of the redcoat we pretend he is.”

  “But ye canna sleep together,” Marian gasped.

  “Because I might tarnish my reputation?” Freya couldn't help but smirk.

  Marian's face colored red and Freya immediately regretted the remark. Her family was not part of the coarse existence Freya had lived in the past two years. “Thank ye for thinking to look out for me.” Freya took her sister's hand and gently squeezed.

  “Lily is still frail.” Marian squeezed her hand back with quiet affection. “I think it might be best for her to think ye’re married.”

  Freya nodded. “And I dinna want Captain Crosby asking questions.”

  “Oh, but he's kind,” Marian said with a soft blush tinging her cheeks.

  Freya did not have the patience, or the energy, to discuss the kindness of Captain Crosby. Then again, she never had the patience or energy to discuss the kindness of any damned redcoat.

  “I'm off to bed.” Freya let the weariness wash into her voice.

  “Good night, sister.” Marian kissed Freya's hand, which she still held cradled in her own, the way she'd done ever since they were small children. “I know ye dinna like to be here, but it makes my heart fill with joy to have ye home.”

  “Good night, sweet Marian.” Freya kissed her sister's smooth brow. She nodded to Ma, who watched the exchange over the rim of her cup. The mug trembled slightly in her hands, signs her condition had not improved.

  Time to sleep, indeed. Freya turned from the small remains of her family and headed for the promise of a comfortable bed.

  One foot in front of the other carried her to the room she would share with Ewan. She hadn't lied about being tired. Her very soul seemed to drag behind her on the way up the tedious stairs. Yet as she neared the door, her pulse ticked up and a spurt of energy jolted through her.

  Ewan was sleeping in her bed.

  Where she too would sleep.

  A memory of him naked flashed in her head, hard muscles and smooth skin. She tried not to think about when she’d dressed his wound, how warm and soft his skin had been despite such incredible strength. But how could she not? Granted, her focus had been on the task at hand. But neither was she blind. It had been impossible to not appreciate how the light caught the carved lines of his body no matter how swiftly she’d put his leine on him.

  No. She would definitely not think of him naked.

  She paused at the door, her hand resting on the cool metal of the knob. What was she doing? She'd never been shy about anything before, she'd never been one to back down from such a thing as social discomfort. It's why she was such a good madam.

  Only she wasn't a madam anymore, or at least she wouldn't be for a while. She couldn't return to Edinburgh until she received word from Alli to do so. And God only knew how long that might be.

  She pulled open the door and strode toward the bed, completely clothed in her travel attire. The room was quiet save the steady draw of Ewan's breath and was lit by the wavering glow of a fire in the hearth. A spice lingered in the air, a scent she hadn't ever smelled in her room before.

  Ewan's scent.

  All at once, the spiciness was on her skin, in her nose, his presence ubiquitous and very, very intimate. The softness of his breathing, in and out, in and out. His scent, the shared bed. Freya's head spun and she eased herself carefully onto the mattress beside Ewan. Her left arm tingled with the awareness of his body heat, the compression of him indenting the soft bedding beside her.

  Freya lay stiff and still beside the man she would pretend was her husband and closed her eyes, trying desperately not to picture him naked.

  ***

  A rustling of fabric nearby pulled Ewan from a deep dream. The bed beneath him was soft, the blanket over him thick and warm where he lay nested beneath. He shifted slightly and a stab of pain lanced through his side.

  His eyes flew open in surprise and widened farther still at what stood before him. A woman naked with a shapely body, skin porcelain white and lovely. Shimmering red hair fell to her waist and brushed the top of a perfectly curved bottom.

  He should close his eyes.

  She lifted a long leg and gracefully stepped from a pile of discarded clothing.

  His heart seized in his chest. The angle she stood displayed a line of flat stomach and the swell of her firm breasts. She pushed her hair over her shoulder and her gaze fell directly on him. He was too far to see the color of her stare, but he knew it to be the same warm blue as a cloudless summer sky.

  He quickly shut his eyes.

  “I know ye're awake,” she said. “And I know ye saw.”

  Nothing in her casual tone indicated she was upset at having been found in the nude. Ewan kept his eyes clamped shut. Not that it mattered. He could still see every long, creamy inch of her beautiful body in his mind. Soft and shapely with curves so smooth, he wanted to skim his fingertips over her silky skin.

  He clenched his hands beneath the covers, but his body still responded to the sight of her, the thought of her. The want of her. Warmth spread through him and left his heartbeat pounding where everything was growing hard and hot.

  “It's impolite to stare at a woman while she dresses.” There was a note of teasing to Freya's tone, a further draw on the lure of attraction in which he'd already fallen prey.

  “It's impolite to dress in a room with a man no' your husband,” he countered.

  “But ye are my husband.”

  He opened his eyes and found her still nude, facing him now. Her long red hair draped behind her shoulders, putting her entire shap
ely form on display for him – round, full breasts with pink nipples drawn tight against the chill in the room. The generosity of her breasts made her tiny waist appear that much smaller, an appealing contrast to the flare of her rounded hips. Lower still was the downy curling red hair…

  He needed to close his eyes, but his lids no longer worked. “What do ye mean?”

  Freya smirked at him and stretched out a long arm to draw an article from a wardrobe. White fabric. A shift.

  She drew it over her head, and it fell over her lush body like a shapeless blanket. Ewan blinked. “We're no' married.” Even as he said it, his body responded in hope to what his mind knew was a lie.

  Married.

  His.

  He could have her – smooth, beautiful, tempting. His.

  She approached the bed, her body moving beneath the voluminous fabric. Had he seen her in only her shift, he would never have imagined what lay beneath, but now that he knew, he could not keep his imagination from playing over the fabric.

  She sat on the bed, and her powdery sweet scent caressed him as surely as her soft shift against his thigh where the kilt had ridden up in his sleep.

  “We're no' married,” she confirmed his suspicions with a whisper. “How much do you remember of last night?”

  Last night?

  He slid a glance around the unfamiliar room. Light from the rising sun slanted into the large space. A fine blue silk carpet covered the entire floor, and a massive wardrobe stood in the corner, the one from which Freya had drawn her shift. He didn't remember having ever seen such a room before, let alone the prior night. And certainly he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings when he woke to the allure of a bonny naked woman.

  Then, the whisper of a memory. Trying to wake, his eyelids heavy as lead, and Freya’s warning of being near home. Of redcoats.

  Fear edged him into consciousness. “Where am I? What's happened?”

  “My house.” Freya put a cool hand on his. “There's an officer billeting here, a Captain Crosby.” She paused, and he realized she was waiting for him to offer recognition.

  He shook his head.

  “I'd hoped ye wouldna know him.” Her shoulders visibly relaxed. “I gave ye a bit too much medicine in the carriage and it left ye...addled.”

  “Addled?” He frowned. Addled was never a good thing.

  “People needed to know what was wrong with ye.” Freya was speaking with surprising patience and gentleness.

  Ewan eyed her warily.

  “I came up with the first thing I could think of,” she said. “That ye were drunk.”

  He stiffened and was rewarded with a hot stab in the side where the bullet had torn into him. “I dinna drink - no' like that. Never.”

  She curled her hand around his now. “I know,” she said. “I also needed an explanation of why ye were traveling with me in addition to why yer ma is staying with us. I said we were married.”

  “Married.” He repeated the word slowly, the frown returning.

  She let go of his hand and pushed at the shoulder on his good side in mock chastisement. “Dinna say it like it's the worst thing imaginable.”

  So now he was a drunkard and a shite of a husband. “Anything else ye'd like to tell me?” he ground out.

  “Aye, ye're no longer Ewan Fraser, but Ewan MacDonald.” She said it as if it were a small thing, as if it didn't matter that he no longer had his own name. Perhaps she saw the horror on his face, for she quickly continued. “Yer mother was cautious of the redcoat when he arrived and gave him a fake name. Fortunate for her quick thinking, as it has saved yer arse from being known to a redcoat as a man wanted for desertion.”

  Desertion.

  The word hit him in the gut. The same as every other time he’d heard it, the effect no less painful.

  Freya leaned toward him. Her hair swept forward in a red curtain and framed her face. “Are ye all right?” she asked carefully.

  Ewan scoffed. He couldn't help it any more than he could keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice. “I'm a deserter who's lost his home, his servants, his wealth, and now his name and good moral character.” He swallowed around something hard in the back of his throat. “After everything I've worked so hard for my entire life, I've no' anything left.”

  Freya's brow puckered, and he immediately regretted having spoken aloud what resonated with such soul-sucking pain in his heart.

  He shook his head. “I shouldna have said that.”

  “Ye have yer ma here, who is so overjoyed to have ye with her and safe. And...” She paused. “Ye have me.” She gave a tentative smile. “Yer wife.”

  Ewan couldn't help the small chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all.

  “I canna promise to mind my tongue,” Freya said. “And I canna promise to no' cause problems, because by the saints, it seems to follow me, but I promise to help ye in any way I can.”

  He nodded. “Thank ye, and I promise to be as helpful here as I can and stay out of yer way.”

  Freya smirked. “These are starting to sound like real vows. Come, let's get yer medicine and get downstairs. Apparently my mother has coordinated a morning tea in light of the redcoat bastard's presence.”

  Ewan shook his head. “Nay - I dinna want any medicine. No' again.”

  “I won't give ye as much this time.”

  He shook his head resolutely. He'd not have his wits lost in this scheme. Besides, last time he was out of sorts, he woke to find his name changed on account of him living in the same house as his enemy who sought his death, and ended up married.

  What would possibly happen a second time?

  Freya patted his arm playfully. “Up with ye then, sweeting. We have a tea to attend and a marriage to fake.”

  Ewan allowed himself to be pulled upright despite the pain in his side, ready to play the part of a dutiful husband.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Nothing paired with a morning tea like uncomfortable silence. Freya sat stiffly beside Ewan in the stark quiet of the room where they received guests. Not only was it large enough to accommodate several chairs, but also the windows faced the sun, which meant it was typically warmer than the other rooms.

  The only interruption to the silence was the steady, vibrating tick of her mother's cup rattling against the saucer where she held it in her trembling hands.

  Freya held her dainty tea cup and stared into the amber liquid to the leaves at the bottom. It was better than having to look at the redcoat taking her home, or noticing how Lily sat as far from the man as possible, her blue eyes wide with barely restrained fear.

  She looked a far cry better than when Freya had last seen her, but then anyone would after donning a fresh gown and having some time to heal.

  “Marian,” Ma said. “Will ye please plate the pastries?”

  Freya shot her mother an incredulous glare. “I can do it.”

  But Marian was already up, hands upon her swollen belly. She shook her head at Freya. “Dinna worry, sister. I'm fine to do this.”

  “She is,” Lily agreed with a terse nod. “She's been doing it this whole time.” She flicked a nervous glance at Captain Crosby, like a mouse eyeing a hawk.

  “Even though some of us would rather do it in her stead,” the Englishman said crisply and offered an understanding smile to Freya.

  She stared at him for a long moment before taking a swallow of her tea to avoid having to reply.

  Marian pulled the linen off a wide plate on the table to reveal six small rounds of dough brushed with glossy honey and a pat of bright red jam at its center. One had tipped somehow, lying on its side, damaged. Half of the flaky dough had crumbled and the jam was a sticky, smeared mess.

  The redcoat's gaze fell first on the pastries, then on Ewan where it hovered. The man's sharp brown eyes saw more than the Englishman said. It was disconcerting. Freya set her cup on the table and took Ewan's hand in hers. Let the pretending begin.

  If Ewan was surprised by the gesture, he did not show it. Inst
ead he regarded Freya with a shy, quiet look, and it was her who went still.

  He didn't look at her like a man feigning being married to the saucy owner of a bawdyhouse. He looked at her like he respected her, like he adored her. Like he loved her.

  He looked at her in a way she'd never realized until that very moment she'd yearned for.

  His mouth lifted in a besotted smile, and her world slowed. He caressed her cheek with a touch as gentle as a soft breeze. And her world stopped.

  Her breath fled over her lips and didn't bother to return.

  “Freya, will ye hand Captain Crosby his pastry?” Marian's voice floated into the still life capturing Freya's attention, shattering it.

  Freya pulled her stare from Ewan to find Marian holding out a plate with a pastry atop it.

  “For Captain Crosby, sister.” Marian looked to Ewan and back to Freya. It was then Freya noticed the flush staining her younger sister's fair skin.

  Freya took the plate with a wary gaze toward her sister. “What has ye so—”

  “I can get my own, thank you.” Captain Crosby leapt forward in a flash of red and snatched up a plate from where it sat directly in front of Marian.

  Freya blinked and stared incredulously at the rude English officer. Then she noticed the pastry on his plate was the one which had fallen over and no longer had the smear of tangy, sweet jam.

  Marian started. “Oh, but that was not the one ye should—”

  He bent over the plate and bit into the mutilated pastry. Marian would be forced to not give herself the ruined one as she'd intended, but have a prettily perfect one in its stead.

  It was then Freya found herself liking Captain Crosby a little more. It was also then she realized she needed to warn him away from her sister. Marian, after all, had been through enough when it came to the damned English.

  She had the opportunity not long after tea when Ma left with Lily and Marian had followed the servant into the kitchen. Ewan still sat by her side, a comfort she appreciated more than she'd thought she might.