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Clearly. He did not dirty his hands, he left that to his thugs.
“The seeds of suspicion will sow everywhere.” The letters she had written would get people intrigued at the very least.
“But will not prevent me from being called The McPherson.”
This would be the worst. And she would have inadvertently helped him with it.
He continued silent, her mind in a storm as to how she could revert it.
“So I suggest you go into hiding again before your husband,” he looked at the shed, “or your son suffer the consequences of your rebellion.”
All the blood in her body drained, and she blanched to a ghostly hue. Her legs nearly faltered as she strived not to pass out. Gulping a lot of cool air, she kept her stance neutral. Not for the life of her would she let him see he had hit her harder than with a fist.
Calmly, he turned to his horse. “Think about it.” And rode as he would if returning from Sunday service.
Her composure held until he disappeared round the bend on the road. Then she collapsed on the grass in front of the cottage, face washed in tears. There could be no doubt which action to take. She was not about to lose her adored son, much less the husband for whom she would die a thousand deaths.
What saddened her even further was the thought that this constant running did not afford Ewan a stable life. Her boy deserved to be happy above all. Her chin fell forward and her hands covered her bathed face, sobs echoing in earnest in the damp air.
A small hand touched her shoulder. “Mama?”
She lifted her gaze to him unconcerned if he saw her state. Hands holding his cherubic cheeks, she caressed them with tender thumbs. “My love, I am afraid we have to leave.”
Confusion entered his old-whisky eyes. “I do not want to leave.” His faint voice denounced his disappointment.
“I know.” She replied pitifully. “I wanted you to grow up here, close to your father. But we cannot, my love. It is too dangerous.” Her tears dripped from her chin to her bodice. “Do you think you can help me with that?”
He nodded, putting on a brave stance. “I think so. I will protect you, mama.”
She shook her head, managing a faint smile. “No need, my darling. Mama will take care of you.” In slow, hopeless movements, she stood up, took his hand in hers and paced to the cottage to gather their things.
Drostan rode Threuna along the empty road in a rather eager mood this afternoon. Even with the rain that is. It started not five minutes ago, but he did not mind it. Only a half mile left to ride.
Despite the harsh words he and his wife exchanged the previous morning, he did not find enough strong-will to stay away. From her, that is. His son would always have his attention and care, nonetheless.
To see her, and her colouring of what could only mean arousal at his proximity, threw him in a want that boiled his blood. But those hars
h words played in his mind the whole night. The possibility she strove to hide Ewan from him eviscerated burning rage from his guts. No sensible explanation came from her as for the reason since she did not seem to mind his visiting the boy.
What kept him awake with something like acid burning through him was the suspicion she might have someone else. Freya had never given sign of being a woman too fond of men’s attention. As they became betrothed, he sensed she had eyes only for him, as he for her. It made no sense that she would leave him for another. He must ask though. And stand up to whichever truth she cast at him. Albeit she looked him firmly in the eye and denied it. He had no choice but believe her. He did, hoping he was not making a mistake.
And so here he rode back to her, his son. He did not fathom what else he was riding to.
As soon as he dismounted, he realised something out of the ordinary. Doors and windows closed, no movement. No sign of life. His son would have rushed to greet him, for sure. Their absence became a fact when he saw the shed empty.
In a rush of anger, he barged into the cottage only to see everything meticulously in order. As if no one ever lived there. Apart from washed plates and pots drying on the counter by the window. They had spent the last night, at least.
His hand pulled the entrance door so abruptly it banged at his back. Damned woman! What the hell did she get into that crazy head of hers to leave after promising to stay here? And in this weather!
He practically jumped on his horse, checking around for signs to track them down. The rain turned into a downpour which would make it more difficult to find vestiges of their route. But he used to be practised in it, having spent a lifetime in nature.
As the road left the loch behind, he found a horse hoof print leading to the woods. Cold rain spattered on his head and shoulders. Mud splashed on his bare knees and boots. The wool tartan weighed on his soaked shirt. He cared nothing for it, his blood boiled with fury.
The ability to still find sign of them meant they set out not long ago. His impatient hand raked his dripping hair. He wondered why he insisted in going after them when it was clear she wished to evade him. Even if she had to risk Ewan’s health by doing so.
His son and heir did not deserve this nomadic life. Stability, education, heritage were his due. He hoped to be strong enough not to twist her delectable neck when he found her. Threuna got free rein and galloped through the naked woods.
An hour passed when he detected a slight movement far ahead. In a faster gallop, he discerned a horse and the rider in a—stubborn woman!—faded green worn cloak.
