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As Ewan finished his story, she took the opportunity to look at him, bathed, fed, well-slept and in very fine clothes. Drostan wasted no time in providing for his heir.
“Papa said we can live here with him, if I want.” He taunted innocently.
Her eyes involuntarily flew to her husband who pierced her with his old-whisky irises and caused her skin to go crimson.
No answer came from her as she would promise nothing she knew she could not keep. She hugged the toddler again, her mind distancing to that worrisome place it inhabited the last few years.
Not long passed before Baxter came to announce dinner. Drostan took Ewan to the nanny for her to help him with dinner in the nursery as the others headed to the dining room.
Freya just stood up when she heard the knob click shut. Her gaze lifted to see Fingal leaning on the massive wood, arms crossed, an accusing expression on his face.
“I wonder if you know why our stable help found a thorn under Threuna’s saddle.”
Colour bled from her face and nausea threatened to humiliate her in front of her brother-in-law. She had not been wrong unfortunately. Drostan and Ewan in a public place arose the McPherson. Worse, they were watching her and her husband.
Swallowing whatever wanted to come up the wrong way, she replied, “You think I put it there.”
He did not move though his stance sharpened. “Did you?”
“I stayed away for more than four years and did nothing to re-approach any of you. What do you think?” Composure came back to her and her stance took him head on.
“But then Drostan found you by chance, I understand.” He pushed from the door and neared her, piercing attention unfailing.
“An unfortunate coincidence I would say.” Her feet kept her ground. She got nothing to fear, having done nothing wrong.
“Why would you want him dead?”
The blatant accusation caused fury. She understood they did not have the whole picture, but to point fingers at her without proof pushed it a bit too far. “I do not!”
This emphatic negative must have given Fingal pause. “I will believe you for now.” The cutting tone suggested just the opposite. “Should I find out otherwise, you will have a lot to answer for.”
They stood there for long moments in a battle of wills. Finally, she nodded and joined the others for dinner.
The McKendrick siblings had always been protective of one another, and Freya did not blame Fingal for worrying about his brother. Well he should. She wished she could tap in such cohesion to fend off the threat which had hung over her head for so many years; if she was sure it would not turn out to be a foolish step.
CHAPTER FOUR
Drostan climbed up the manor’s stairs after sharing a whisky with his brothers and father. Fingal sat on a corner too silent, something unusual for his blunt brother. He wondered if the reappearance of his wife got anything to do with it.
During their year together, Freya built a good rapport with his family. She used to be a cheerful, easy-going lass, content to share the manor’s management with Aileen, who undertook it since their mother passed. They reciprocated the empathy she showed them. With an unobtrusive personality, she seemed happy to walk the grounds or read a book when she had finished her work. Also, she helped with sowing and harvesting, or any other chores which needed all hands available.
And she was never too tired for him when they finished the day and reunited in their chamber. Then, the best part of the day, or should he say the night, started. His amazement at her warmth, ready smile and sensuality unending. Someone who shared such space in his life had been sorely missed when absent. He did not get over the emptiness she created. Ever. To think she left willingly splintered everything he knew about his wife. Together with what he felt for her.
His guts now tore with ambiguous reckonings. Anger for her abandonment. Wonder with her courage to face raising a child alone. Resentment at the fact she kept him ignorant of it. Desire that surged hotter than ever. It was as if four horses tried to split him to pieces.
Like now, as he entered his bedchamber to find her tempting curves wrapped in a warm nightgown and a shawl, sitting on their four-poster bed, arms crossed. The sight ignited a furnace in him, burning any of those ‘reckonings’ to cinders.
At his presence, she sprang up and turned a full contrariety to him.
“What is it?” He asked, appreciating her feminine frame in the firelight.
“You abducted Ewan and exposed him to danger.” Her blame came with no preamble.
“I did not abduct him.” He prowled to mere feet from her. “He asked to accompany me.”
“And if a four-year-old asks you to try whisky you will comply.” She maintained, tilting her delicate chin at him.
He was aware that a toddler held no maturity to decide more than the colour of the shirt he wanted to wear. “I am sorry.” He saw himself obliged to admit.
