Ewan met her stare, his blue eyes warm with the same affection they'd held when he was inside her. “I would have been gentle.”
“I dinna want gentle.” She pulled her hand from his. “Truth be told, I'm glad to be done with it and no' have my virginity hanging over me like some burden.”
“Burden?”
“Aye, burden.” She pulled on her cloak and fastened it under her chin. “Do ye know how foolish it is for a bawdyhouse owner to be a maiden?”
“I dinna understand how...” Ewan's voice dropped off.
“How I'm a virgin?” She smirked.
“How ye even owned a bawdyhouse.”
She strode from the stable. The bitter winter cold had begun to settle into her bones. She wanted to go into the house where a fire would be burning and there might be a kettle of warmed water for tea. She wanted to be away from this conversation and the hurt puppy expression on Ewan's face.
“We had a running hay farm. My da managed it, but then he died.” Her fingers found the cool metal of the pocket watch in the folds of her dress. To think she could now speak of his death with such ease when the very mention had once rent a searing tear in her heart. “As I mentioned, I tried to run the farm on my own, but it dinna work.”
Ewan's footsteps scuffed behind her and she knew he followed.
“We dinna have money - no' for our servants’ pay or food,” she continued. “So I did what any able daughter with a bit of knowledge would do; I went to Edinburgh to become a lady's maid. Only they dinna make much money. Certainly no' enough to run a household.”
They left the shadow of the large barn and Freya squinted her eyes against the brilliant sunshine, grateful for the way it warmed her skin. So long as the wind didn't blow, the weather was quite pleasant.
“Several other girls realized how little money a lady's maid position paid and turned to whoring.” She continued on in the direction of the house as if she were speaking of the weather and not prostitution. “Only many of them couldna deal with the more difficult parts of exacting payment and speaking up for themselves. So I stepped in to help. I’ve no’ ever been shy. The ladies started to give me a cut of their wages for my aid. After a while, I built up enough to no' only help my family, but also help the ladies have a place to go - to get them off the streets. I set up Molly's - no' just for whores to be safe, but for women to come when they fall on hard times, to educate them to be ladies and have any job they wanted.”
“There really was no other way?” he asked from beside her.
She stopped and turned to him. Heat blazed in her cheeks at his ignorant statement, and in that one moment, she wondered how she'd even allowed him to kiss her. “Apparently, ye've no' paid much mind to the jobs open to a woman. Judge me if ye want - for owning a brothel, for selling sex, for being a virgin who peddles whores, but I never meant for any of this to happen. And I’m damn proud of what I’ve done.”
She stepped toward him and pushed her finger into his hard chest. “I imagine ye thought deserters of the military were awful sinners before you became one yerself. The black and white of the world is harder to see when your own life blurs into gray.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she strode onto the porch and into the house, her steps sharp on the wooden floorboards. She slammed through the front door and marched over to the fire to warm her cold, red hands. Her fingers shook where she held them to the heat.
In fact, her insides quivered as well, lit by the force of her defense, the true understanding of what had transpired between them, the power of her emotions swirling through her. Excitement, anger, fear, elation, attraction, frustration - an overwhelming mix of everything conflicting.
Her gaze wandered to the closed door. It did not open.
She had expected Ewan to wander in and come after her with an apology. She stared harder at the door, willing it to open, willing a stubborn man with too much moral fortitude for any one person to walk through it and call out to her with a much-deserved apology.
It remained closed.
She crossed the room in a petty huff and looked out the square pane of glass to the gray, dead world of winter outside. Her heart went heavy and dipped low in her chest. Ewan was gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The light of day had long since faded before the front door finally did open. In that time, Freya had consumed enough tea to make her bladder slosh and enough little cakes to render her nauseous. Then there had been the prattle between Ewan's mother and her own. The ailments, the balms and cures, and the discussion over how life had been twenty years prior.
Marian had headed into town earlier that day and had not yet returned either.
It had not concerned Freya until the world outside faded to dusk.
But then at last, the door opened. Freya leapt from where she'd perched on the seat beside the mothers. Only it was not Ewan who strode in, but Captain Crosby with Marian.
She sagged against him, her face pale. Even Captain Crosby’s usually rigid composure bent toward her.
“Marian.” Freya ran to her sister and eased her from the captain's hold.
The mothers leapt up from their seats as one, albeit a bit slower.
“Captain Crosby, what is the meaning of this?” Ma demanded.
The captain released Marian with obvious hesitation.
Freya shot a hard look up at him. “What's happened to her?”
“It is imperative I speak with you alone at once.” His gaze swept over Marian's pale face. Her lashes fanned over her cheeks like shadows and she swayed unexpectedly, upsetting Freya's balance.
“I want to know as well,” Ma said.
“As do I,” Lily declared. “And where is my son?”
Freya cast a glance at the English officer, who gave her a subtle shake of his head. He wanted to speak to Freya alone.
Freya had failed at nearly everything she attempted at her life in Callander, but this was where she excelled - turning a crisis into a manageable situation.
“Captain Crosby, I need yer help in bringing her to her room.” She regarded the two older mothers who fluttered around Marian like anxious hens. “I'll need ye two to see to her while I speak with the captain. No one knows more about ailments and their cures like ye ladies.”
The mothers looked at one another and nodded in silent agreement to Freya's praise. But Captain Crosby did not aid Freya in getting Marian to her room. He lifted her into his arms as if she were not massively huge with her pregnancy, but as if she weighed nothing at all. “Please show me to her room.”
Marian gave a mewl of protest, and her head fell limp against the captain's red wool jacket.
Freya led the way as quickly as she could with the captain following just as quickly. No sooner had he laid her in bed than the mothers descended upon her, barking their orders to the servants.
“Is she all right?” Freya asked anxiously.
Captain Crosby cast a long, worried look at Marian's pale form. “I hope so.” He held out a hand, indicating she lead him to a place they could speak privately. She did so, taking him to the room where they entertained all their guests - only now the room usually filled with sunlight was cast in the shadows of night.
“Marian was held for questioning,” Captain Crosby spoke as soon as the door closed behind them. “Only for an hour. I found out and immediately put a stop to it. I only wish I'd found out sooner.”
Anger exploded inside of Freya. “Questioning?” she hissed. “What sort of questioning would leave a woman pale and limp?”
“They didn’t hurt her. I asked.” His jaw clenched. “They interrogated her. About a soldier who deserted his post. A man of the Black Watch whose regiment was in Edinburgh at the time.”
Freya's insides quivered like poorly set jelly. She shot her chin up in a show of defiance, a mask to cover the tension gripping her body. “Why would they ask her about such a thing?” she demanded.
“Not many new men come to this area, and they knew about your husband
's arrival. Orders have been issued to find the deserter and have him arrested.”
The air Freya pulled into her lungs did not seem nearly enough to placate her body. Her head was too light, her heart pounded too loud. “And what would happen to him?” she asked through numb lips, already knowing the answer.
“He would be tried, found guilty, and shot.”
“Did Marian know him?” she asked.
Captain Crosby shook his head, and Freya breathed out what she hoped was a discreet breath. She pressed her hands together to still their shaking and her palms immediately began to sweat. “Might you offer us a description so we can keep an eye out for this man?”
“Dark blond hair, blue eyes, tall with a strong physique.” Captain Crosby spoke slowly. Purposefully. “He may have been shot around the torso. We were warned to look for someone with a possible limp.”
Ewan had been limping through the house since his arrival.
“Have you seen a Captain Ewan Fraser?” Captain Crosby asked.
Freya's heart tried to pound through her chest. “Nay, I’ve no’ seen him.”
“With all due respect, your husband matches the description of Ewan Fraser.”
“He isna the man ye seek,” Freya said quickly. Too quickly. All pretense of smoothness had been frayed away by the hysteria blanketing her control.
Captain Crosby offered a slight bow. “I am a gentleman, my lady. I will accept the truth if it comes from your mouth.” He eyed her levelly. “Is your husband Ewan Fraser?”
“Nay,” Freya said with finality. “He is Ewan MacDonald.”
“Then I take you at your word, my lady.” He leaned closer. “Given your husband's...similar appearance to the man they seek, it would be prudent to leave the area for a bit. If there is this much import placed on this man's disappearance, he either knows something of great significance or has someone intending to see him brought down.” He paused. “Perhaps there are some relatives you might visit for a while? In another location?”
“Aye,” Freya said slowly. “I have family we can visit.” And by family, she meant Edinburgh, where she knew enough people to find a respectable place for the mothers and Marian to stay.
He nodded stiffly. “Excellent.” He bowed once and left the room, leaving her alone in the darkness.
He knew. Of course he knew. But he'd kept their secret. He'd saved Marian, he'd kept Ewan's identity safe, and he'd issued a warning. They needed to leave.
Now.
Freya pushed through the door of the room, out into the hall where the sound of shushed voices came from Marian's room. If the soldiers had merely questioned Marian as Captain Crosby had insisted, then most likely her younger sister was suffering from exhaustion and perhaps fright if she knew they were seeking Ewan. Marian's heart had always been so strong for others, it didn't leave much strength for herself.
The mothers would see to Marian with greater care and skill than she possessed. For now, Freya needed to find Ewan so they could escape. She yanked her cloak from where it hung on the wall, fastened it under her chin, and ran out into the freezing night to find her ‘husband.’
***
Ewan stroked the sharpening stone over the blade. The hiss of it echoed off the barn walls around him. He pushed the stone away from him over the scythe's edge, over and over and over - methodical, soothing.
Even still, it did not clear away Freya's words. She'd been right, of course. The world wasn't right and wrong as he'd seen it. And yet, he'd held to that ideal, built his life around it. To not have it anymore left him hollow and hopeless.
A traitor.
He should have left. But no, Freya was right - he'd put them all in more trouble if he left.
He should never have come. Nor should he have asked Freya for help.
She'd sacrificed too much for him already. Then he had taken her virginity and offended her.
Footsteps pounded through the barn. Ewan's head shot up to find Freya racing toward him. She stopped abruptly and stared at him, incredulous.
“Have ye been in here this whole time?” she asked.
Ewan looked at the tools lying around his feet, their metal edges no longer chipped or rusting, but sharp enough to slice a strand of hair into two.
“This.” She said the word softly. “This is what ye've been doing?”
He clenched his back teeth, suddenly hating having stopped his methodical work to have to face everything he wished he could turn away from. “I needed to think, and I figured ye'd need these tools in better repair for growing hay.”
“It was a foolish dream, Ewan.” She shook her head. “There'll be no growing hay, no' when we canna stay here.”
Alarm prickled the hairs at the back of his neck. He eyed her carefully. “What do ye mean?”
“Captain Crosby warned me the redcoats are looking for ye.” Her jaw set. “They interrogated Marian.”
Ewan leapt to his feet. “What did they do to her?” Fire lanced through his side, burning at the site of his injury - the one he'd been ignoring while he spent the afternoon hunched over the tools, the one he hadn't felt when he'd made love to Freya.
He felt the wound now, as surely as he felt the burden of regret.
“They only questioned her,” Freya said. “Captain Crosby put a stop to it, but she's no' feeling well. Our mothers are looking her over.” Freya rolled her eyes. “After listening to them prattle on about ailments all afternoon, I'm certain they can help her.”
“I shouldna be here,” he ground out. “I shouldna have involved ye and yer family. I've become the very thing I've always hated.” He clenched his hands into hard fists until skin strained into skin with nowhere else to go. “A traitor who has lost all and made everyone else sacrifice everything.”
It took a long moment before he realized silence had thickened the air.
He looked up and found Freya watching him with her arms crossed over her chest and her brow lifted with mirthless amusement.
She held out a hand in a gesture of encouragement. “Dinna stop. Ye were doing so well feeling so verra sorry for yerself.”
Embarrassed heat washed over his face.
Freya walked over to him and caught his hand. He looked up and found her blue eyes gazing up at him, softer than he expected. Softer than he deserved.
“Ye're lost because yer world has flipped.” Her brow furrowed as if it pained her to speak. Only it wasn't sympathy with which she spoke, but understanding. “Ye're lost, but ye'll right yerself again. Who ye are in here.” She released one of her hands from his and pressed it against his chest. “This willna ever change - and the man in there is good. I know, because I made the sacrifices ye see now for that man.”
She lifted her hand to his cheek, her palm warm and powdery sweet. “Because I believe in that man.” Their gazes locked and for a long moment, neither had the ability to say what passed between them.
Attraction, respect, affection.
If this were a different time...a different place. If they were different people...
She glanced to the ground, and her mouth lifted in a soft half-smile. “Ye really sharpened all these for me?”
“For us,” he said. “I dinna know how long I'd be here, and I canna stand being without purpose. I wanted to help ye restore yer dream.”
She shook her head and slapped his chest, a playful, light gesture he didn't even feel beneath the thick wool of his cloak. “And all this time I was so worried about ye. Well, torn between being worried and being angry, ye arse.”
She shot him an amused look. “And ye were in here, doing what might be the kindest thing someone’s done for me in a long while.”
He frowned. He hadn't meant to worry her, but the tightness in his chest was quickly replaced by another ready emotion. Hope? Excitement?
She had worried about him.
Her gaze lifted to his face once more. “Thank ye. For doing this, for intending to be part of it.” Her cheeks flushed. “With me.”
His pulse q
uickened and suddenly he couldn't stop remembering how her skin felt beneath his fingertips, how she'd cried out when pleasure claimed them both, how lovingly she'd stared up at him afterward. The hole in his heart began to fill and grow warm.
“We need to go,” she whispered, as if she were in the same spell as he, inside something fragile and wondrous - too easily shattered by the slightest interruption.
He nodded.
“To Edinburgh, where we can keep an eye on our families and they can be away from us and safe,” she said quietly.
He nodded again.
“Together,” she added. Then she cradled his face in her hands, went up on tiptoes, and pressed her generous mouth to his.
It was a soft, simple kiss. While it made him want more, it was fittingly just enough. She eased away from him and cast a regretful look at the glittering array of tools sparkling in the lantern light. “We need to go,” she said again.
Urgency tinged her tone and pulled him from the trance.
“Aye, Edinburgh,” he agreed. “We both know it, and know where to hide our families.”
She held out her hand and he took it - a team. Together. “Exactly,” she said with a determined smile.
Ewan blew out the candle and they left the barn, not stopping through the cutting night wind until they were in the house. Lady Campbell stood near the front door, her slender hands patting anxiously over her hair where several wiry gray curls had escaped the small bonnet atop her head.
“Where have ye been?” she demanded.
Ewan frowned, but Freya spoke, her tone unapologetic. “Working out the details of where we will go.”
“And?” Freya’s mother asked.
“Edinburgh.” Freya pulled out the gold pocket watch and clicked it open. “We can be ready to leave soon.”
She glanced at the face of the old watch, where Ewan knew time ran an hour ahead of life.
A lot could happen in an hour.
“To Edinburgh?” Lady Campbell shook her head and sent the gray and white curls waggling around her sharp cheekbones. “Nay. I willna go to Edinburgh. I willna go to the place where ye keep yer whores and sell sin.”
The Madam's Highlander Page 9
