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“Will we see papa again?” His mother helped him with his boots and coat.
“I do not know, my love.” Pulling the hood over his head, she checked he was warm. “Let us hope yes.”
The boy came limply to her as she lifted him in her arms. As if he lacked the energy to fight. It worried Freya to see him thus.
John had saddled and loaded the horse as she came outside with Ewan. Her trembling hand closed the door, hoping someone found the sign she left.
The servant and she helped Ewan up the horse and then she mounted, too. The footman pulled the mare by the reins as they headed to the road. No use to look back at her kin to see their attentive stares on her.
Despite the devastation inside her, she refused to cry. Ewan required care, and for that, she would have to stay strong. And keep her physical and emotional health.
Lachlan stormed into Drostan’s study without even knocking. “They are gone.”
His oldest brother had asked him to check on them discretely two days later. “What do you mean gone?” Guts frozen at the news, he sprang up from his chair to round the desk.
Impossible! They were safe there. No one gained information of their whereabouts. The McKendricks had taken care of it.
“The supplies you sent are scattered around untidied.” His younger brother imparted. “But these lay neatly on the table.” He threw two books on his desk.
“One black, one yellow. Ross.” His vexed fingers raked his hair. “But how…?” An ugly expletive escaped him. “Someone followed the servants who took the cart.”
“This Ross is going to pay dearly for what he is doing.” Promised Lachlan.
“Organise a search. Let us track my family down.” He instructed.
“Leave it with me. You must stay here in case they seek help.” The younger man strode to the firearms cabinet and grabbed a few of them.
Reluctant, Drostan agreed. Staying here without being able to do anything would kill him. “Take our best trackers.”
With a nod, his brother left.
Alone again, he pounded his fist to the sturdy desk, smashing it in hundreds of splinters. Papers, ink and pens flew to the carpet.
Fury, red-hot and raw shook his guts. Like nothing ever had in his life. To imagine his son and wife trudging the countryside in precarious conditions and with unknown destination worsened the ire. Fists tight, jaw ticking, he fought to neutralise his boiling guts.
Did Ross abduct them? Or did he only force them to leave? If so, where would his wife and child bolt? His eyes darted to the window where the first snow had just started. To think of her and Ewan braving this weather made rage threaten to erupt again, deadlier. If he followed his impetus, he would go to this bluidy McPherson and cut him in a thousand pieces.
But it was not time to give in to impulses. He had to keep his mind focused, or he would not be able to take care of his family. At that moment, this listed as the only thing that mattered
The first day of ride eastwards did not pose too much of a challenge. The weather came crisp, but without rain or snow. Freya detected the lackey tracking them through the woods as she had expected. The main road had seemed the best option since her kin knew where she would head. It also provided more comfort in the riding and the inns along it.
John walked beside the horse she and Ewan rode in a sedate pace. They were not in a hurry after all. Ewan did not show his cheerful mood, but he ate and slept during the day.
Freya struggled hard with her overflowing emotions. Hopelessness menaced her insides like a huge lead cloud trying to invade and numb her. For an instant there, giving up on everything seemed all too tantalising. Why continue after these years of hardship? Why not just surrender to what her kin wanted and be done with it?
Of course, Nova Scotia would procure her the peace and anonymity necessary to bring Ewan up in a semblance of stability. If they survived the crossing and the challenges of the new land, what would prevent them from thriving?
Yes, what?
Everything. Her combative self retorted quick. She would have left without fighting to the last chance. Would have deprived Ewan from his heritage. Deprived Drostan from his heir. Deprived herself from her beloved country.
It was not the time to weaken. It was time to strengthen, harden. Fight. With all her might. Everything she could muster. She had promised herself she would not cry anymore. And she did not though a well of tears lodged in her throat.
Now she promised herself not to give up until she exhausted the last resource. Only if she failed, would she change plans. The energy for that lay just under the surface. The frustration, the strain, the anger at her situation provided more than enough for her to turn it to fuel a comeback. Resistance. Outbraving. She had little else to lose after all.
Therefore, she refused to let this daunt her. To plough through. That would be her motto.
By sunset, they found a coaching inn where they would spend the night as Aberdeen lay another day away. Ewan would need hearty feeding and rest as would she and John.
