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“I will talk to Ewan.” He said at last, striding to the entrance and leaving her to cope with the burden of his presence. Or his imminent absence. And everything it entailed.
“Ewan, finish up your luncheon or it will get stale.” Freya said as the wee one seemed distracted with the clay tiger they found for him among the things in the cottage.
“Yes, mama.” He answered, and went back to it.
Despite the tensions of the previous morning, both enjoyed a very cosy evening after Drostan departed. Ewan chatted non-stop during luncheon and helped disperse the tight atmosphere between his parents. As the boy moaned his discontent at his papa’s leaving, her husband promised to be back soon.
Which discharged a hot current of expectation in her. Naturally, the man would be around with disquieting frequency. She did not know how she would be able to deal with seeing him day in day out. Or else, if she would be strong enough to resist him. Or if she wanted to resist him after all. Want being the wrong word. She wanted him, to be frank. But she should resist him, no doubt. At the notion, she wished she were made of stone, unmovable stone.
One thing she could not deny though. This place proved to be much safer than the isolated spot by the river she had lived in for years. This helped her relax like she had not done for a long time. Before tucking Ewan in bed, she read a story for him from a book among those stacked in a crate. When the boy fell asleep, she took another book and sat by the fireplace with a tea.
With a sigh, she looked through the window to the tranquil loch. A light breeze rippled the surface with tiny waves playing with the sunlight. Few birds remained for the winter and a soothing silence reigned with a faint aroma of rain.
Deciding to go check the horse, though they took care of it yesterday, she opened the front door. And the scraps of peace and safety she garnered so far vanished like mist in the wind.
“Ewan, would you please go feed our horse oats?” She said without diverting her look from outside.
“I will call her Loch, mama.” He informed as he used the back door to reach the shed. No time to explain to him that Uncle Fingal must have a name for her and she did not ask Drostan for the information.
When she heard the back entrance closed, her stance hardened, as she stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind her.
Ross, her third cousin, stood at the track leading to the cottage, his horse grazing nearby. They would never give her a reprieve, would they? The more she struggled to comply with their demands, the more they pushed her.
Short, bald and with a round belly denouncing too much whisky and meat, his fifty-something long-nosed face did not show his ugly character. Neither did his measured movements as he walked to her.
“I heard of a ‘Hag from Hell’ yesterday.” The mention of the bad witch depicted in the Scottish folk tales in his nauseating high-pitched voice gave her the certainty of his involvement in the raid.
Freya crossed her arm and looked him directly in the eye. She was tired of cowering. She was tired of living in fear. So tired of these lonely years. “And I heard of too many of your crimes.” She devolved.
What use had there been in doing what they blackmailed her to do? What use did she have for isolation and sacrifice if it came to yesterday’s attack? What use did she have for the never-ending terror burning a hole in her insides?
Her reply elicited a vexed glare from his disgusting blue-eyes. “Grew a pair of claws, I see.”
“Say what you came to say and leave.” Despite the dread that threatened to make her sick, she held her ground.
“You broke the promise of staying away and now the McKedricks know of their heir.” His yellow and black plaid did not confer him the same dignity it did her father.
It did not surprise her they knew of Ewan, even if she had hoped they did not. “They found me. I had no choice.” She stated solidly what he must already know.
“Yes, well.” He looked down at his boots and back to her as if he was talking to an underling. “You will have to regroup.”
A shot of cold wave flashed through her body. “What do you mean?”
“Either you make yourself scarce again, or your precious husband will have to go.” He made a show of adjusting his kilt, having become adept of the latest Scottish fashion. He pleated his brow as if a fresh idea came to him. “Thinking on it, I might do it anyway and marry you to a McPherson kin.
“Never.” She blurted stonily.
“That would neutralise your son’s chances at succession.” He reiterated. Married to a kin of hers, there would be no alliance uniting McKendricks and McPhersons.
She had hoped it would not come to that. But she would have to play the card she hid in her sleeve. “These past years, I have kept letters with my solicitor exposing both your and James’s blackmail and crimes.” The revelation brought a rabid look on her cousin’s beady eyes. “Should anything happen to my husband, my son or even me, the letters will be sent to my father and the other chieftains.” She paused for effect. “And the McKendricks. And the McDougals. The magistrate.”
No more, she shouted innerly. No more cowering, no more conniving with a man who would drag her clan to the mud. No more of this!
He scoffed an ugly smirk. “Who would have thought you harboured such spirit? So meek and accommodating, always.” He gave one step towards her and she concealed the flinch it provoked, but did not move back.
That was the problem, was it not? The more accommodating she became, the more they cornered her. These years’ deprivations had strengthened her. The time came to stand up for what she wanted. “And look where it got me.” She retorted.
He shook his head seeming to muster patience to talk to a child. “The thing is, my dear lass, that after the deed is done, it will be dreadfully difficult to prove I did it.”
