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The moonless night gave her cover, despite the dangers she exposed herself to in the dark. Ewan must not remain at the McKendricks. This was imperative.
Eyes fraught with distress surveyed the road for the hundredth time. If she could hide in the shadows, so might anyone, good or bad intentions.
No one, absolutely no one should acquire the faintest notion she had the McKendricks heir. Or Ewan and, worse. Drostan, would be in dire danger.
She promised, she grovelled, begged, traded every asset she could muster to put the two people she loved most in the world out of harm’s way. And live a split life. A half-life. No life at all. Nobody noticed she had a son. She had been tremendously cautious to hide him. To the point of obsession.
And her bull-headed husband—estranged husband—had to put them all in danger. His brothers, his sister, his father. Everyone. By sniffing at them in her isolated cottage, which she left when absolutely necessary to sell her meagre produce in the market.
Something swished in the woods. Possibly a night animal walking. A wolf. Not taking any chances as she hid in the bushes and waited, peering at the side the noise came from, she saw nothing.
In this pace, she would reach the McKendrick’s by morning. And who knew she would manage to retrieve her son from her bear of a husband? In secret, to keep him safe by her side.
The moments of their year together still lived vividly in her memory. So much so, a shiver ran through her every time she indulged in remembrances. Which she avoided like the fires of hell.
The night quieted anew, and she exited the bush to continue her journey. Racing through the darkness, she more fumbled than saw the way. Good thing she walked it often.
Five years. This simple ruse could destroy five years of careful concealing. Five years of bitter isolation. Bitter loneliness. When she lived in fear for her son, in longing for her husband. The frugality did not bother her, she learned to enjoy it. But missing a family, a home would never sit comfortably with her. She must struggle to keep things as they were, or the consequences would be dreadful.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“My Laird.” Glen curved over Taran’s body sprawled on the settee in the study. “My Laird.” The smell of whisky reached the butler as a nauseous wave. He shook the leader of the McDougals slightly.
“Hm.” The man on the settee grumbled, turning to the other side.
“A footman came ahead, My Laird.” Why did the servant have to hassle his non-existent sleep? Taran thought in a fog of ethylic slumber. “The lady is an hour away.”
This got his attention. As lightning, he sprang up, eyes opening to a blindly obfuscating bright afternoon. Late afternoon at that. The blood-shot irises closed hurtfully. His large hand tapped his skull which threatened to crack with pain. He groaned helplessly.
“I saw to a bath in your room and fresh clothes, my Laird.” Glen added as he went picking a wine bottle, splintered pieces of a whisky bottle and glasses. “Oh, and mint tea. For the breath.” This in a mildly reproaching way.
Not giving himself time to awake completely, he hurtled from the study to his chambers, still disbelieving the message.
In half an hour, he had bathed and drunk what seemed an ocean of strong mint tea, which helped with the skull-splitting pain. Fresh tartan, shirt and hoses made him feel marginally better.
He prepared to put on a show, reaching his study—now tidied—piling ledgers on the desk and placing one open before him.
It was when he heard the carriage stop at the front door. He had yet to trust it would be really her. Ears sharpened, he heard her greeting Glen. The melodious tone wafting to his ears. He closed his eyes tight, nostrils flaring with a forceful intake of air. Not under torture would he admit to relief.
Light steps sounded on the wooden planks, approaching. He opened his lashes and positioned as if he sat engrossed in a ledger.
The door rasped and opened. He counted to three. And lifted his head to her.
A caber-toss-like sentiment pummelled his chest. Air impossibly robbed of him.
His wife came back. For real.
His too avid eyes clasped on hers. Hers on his. Little hand forgotten on the handle. The universe arrested in this unique second. Nothing moved. No wind. No clock ticking. No trees swishing. No birds singing. Time arrowed on her, on them.
Hauling himself from the chair, he came to his feet. He wanted to lock the door, spread her on his desk, and take her hard and fast and total. Several times. Until the servants ran away with their savage noises. He fastened his feet to the floor and made his stance look mild. Very mild.
“Aileen.” He said, as if he saw her this morning. As if he never doubted her return. As if he did not despair at her imagined abandon. As if he did not care one way or the other. “Did you have a nice trip?”
The question seemed to shake her off their trance. “As nice as the roads allow.” Dusty boots, breeze-streaked chestnut hair, wrinkled dress and plaid spencer, she was the most beautiful woman on Earth.
“Good.” He responded casually. “I will tell Glen to delay dinner, so you can refresh.”
Mahogany inspection took him from the top of his damp hair, down his broad chest, his neat tartan, bare knees and shoes. A squint with that edge of hunger on perfect features he recognised so well, the wee hurricane sensed something wrong.
