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From the Back Cover
When A Woman Who Feels Too Much
Forced to abandon the husband she has always loved, Freya hides in the confines of the Mckendrick lands. Her kin plan to snatch power from her heirless father and want no opponents for the succession. They threatened to kill Drostan if she did not leave, which she did with a heavy heart. But she did not know she was with child--a child who could thwart her kin's ambitions. She must hide to protect her husband and son.
Marries a Fierce Laird Sworn of Death
Drostan McKendrick hangs on a grey zone without knowing if he is married or a widower. His wife vanished four years ago, never to be found. As he happens on her in a remote cottage, he discovers he has an heir, and is furious about her deceit. He will exercise his right to keep his son since his disappeared wife will not tell him why she chose to live in isolation.
Overflowing Love Must Find a Way
Now Drostan's discovery of his son transforms him and the boy in targets, and Freya will do anything she can to keep the two most important people in her life alive.
Heat Level: Hot, Sizzling
EXCERPT
The want of her he had been holding at bay for the length of their conversation emerged full force. He did not resist it. What was the point? She would leave in a question of hours.
A few long strides and he stood inches from his wife, inhaling quality soap and woman. He took her shoulders and pulled her to him.
She did not oppose resistance. On the contrary, her pupils dilated and her breath hitched.
His, in contrast, accelerated with the heatwave of arousal it preceded. “Spend the night with me.” He rasped hotly, unable to smother the near-desperation coursing through him with her imminent departure.
When had he ever begged a woman for anything? Yet here he stood doing exactly that to the one who made so many vows before a priest. And broke all of them.
Her body went lax and leaned on his. If this was not his wife wanting him too, he did not fathom what it was. His bunched biceps registered fingertips reaching them as if reluctant to give in to it. Satisfaction invaded him when her whole palms rested on his shirtsleeves, his muscles reacting to her touch. His head lowered to the point their breaths mingled in the warmed room.
Triumph and anticipation dominated him with her possible capitulation. All the signs displayed there with her puckered full breasts, separated lips, half-mast lashes. And a slight, almost imperceptible, moving of her middle to cradle his tented tartan and what lay, or rather stood, beneath it.
His scrutiny took in every tiny detail of her flawless face. The silky skin, the perfect eyebrows, the upturned little nose, the delicate jaw. To zero in on her cushioned rosy lips begging for his. Yes, begging, no doubt remained. His mouth aimed at them, going for the kill.
CHAPTER ONE
Scotland, 1809
There were things in life which were weightless. So devoid of the gruelling making existence seem not unbearable, but un-carriable. A waltz in the moonlight. Weightless. The laugher of a child in the sun. Weightless. Lips of a husband in your long hair. Weightless.
And then there were those impossible to carry. The past had that sort of unmeasurable heaviness which you bore like a dead body you dragged everywhere. It walked beside you on muddy roads. It sat next to you at meals. It lay by your side on cold nights. And it sank in your reminiscences—present and irretrievable at the same time.
The irretrievability weighed more than anything. Because you wish it alive here and now. And then you wish it never got engraved in your memory in the first place. The tons accumulated in the conflict of your tearing wishes hunched you. Day after day after day.
Freya’s mind rambled on about levity as she stumbled from the rushing river bank balancing two pails full of water in her once delicate hands. Usually, barrels around her isolated cottage provided rain water enough for years. Only, it had not rained in days, miraculously. Or not, if the weight on her shoulders had anything to say about it.
The weight on her shoulders had been immeasurable in more ways than one.
She struggled up the steep, sandy bank and looked up to her derelict cottage yards away. The robust wood used to make the pails were heavy when empty; full of water they added trice to the effort of hauling them.
“Mommy, let me help you.” Said Ewan, her four-year son, trailing close after her, his child’s voice echoing in the swishing trees around.
Minding one arduous step after another and avoiding falling on the hazardous terrain, Freya answered her son. “No need, my love.” She managed in between laboured breaths. “It is not far.”
Except her hazel eyes lifted to her abode once more where it stood on top of a hill. The high ground favoured surveillance of the surrounding area whereas it offered a challenge when the need to carry anything up—or even down—arose.
River bank vanquished, she started up the rocky surface leading to the front door, not deaf or blind to the sound of rushing water, the birds, or the cool autumn breeze swirling among the yellowing trees as the sun inched towards west.
A too big step to transfer from the bank to the track made the content slosh in the pails with the consequent loss of precious drops. Freya halted to regain balance and focused on the uneven stone steps she had carved on the track to make transit easier.
Four years ago, in desperate flight, in the darkest night, she had come across this isolated and crumbling place. It had to be enough to hide from the world and the threats which inhabited it. But every single day brought a duel against fear. Fear of discovery. Fear for her son. Fear of loss. A loss that already resided in her heart for the self-impo
sed exile.
To wake up each morning and go to sleep each night with a void inside her had become the tune of her life. The only solace she found was on her son, who had always been the brightest beacon in this darkness. Her little boy remained the one thing no one, absolutely no one, could know about in this entire world.
Her feet overcame one slippery step after the other, followed by her son’s chatting and her puffy breaths. Mere five to go, she counted with a lengthy exhale. Mother and son approached the cracked front door and Freya slowly squatted to repose the pails on the muddy ground. Unfolding a body which had turned strong and resilient with daily chores, hazel eyes took in the slight building.
It had long been abandoned by the time she found it. But she made do, one repair here, an addition there to carve a home for Ewan and herself. The abode consisted of a room for sitting and cooking and a bedroom where she slept. A cot lay by the hearth in the sitting area for Ewan, made comfortable with threadbare blankets and the proximity to the fire.
As her torso bent to lift one of the pails, her auburn long hair set free from the careless bun that confined it to shine glorious in the late afternoon sun. Never mind, she was going to wash it soon enough. The water went into the massive cauldron hanging in the hearth. She would bathe her boy and use the water for her afterwards.
Warm water poured in a wooden basin, Freya turned to the four-year-old. “Ewan, undress and come to the basin.”
His little arms worked on ragged clothes, the sight prickling his mother’s eyes. Her son deserved so much more than a derelict home and over-worn clothing. The meagre produce she sold in faraway markets allowed barely for their subsistence. And she reminded herself safety would always come before everything.
Coarse homemade soap and washcloth in hands, Freya concentrated on caring for Ewan.
“I could bathe in the river, mommy.” He commented after she had cleaned his face.
