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t with his father, both trying hard not to talk about the lack of news from Lachlan. He had sent more men for the search. This time, Fingal volunteered to take men to the opposite direction. No news from him either. Desperation was ready to take over.
At the butler’s rather urgent tone, he called him to enter.
“My Laird, Lady McKendrick—” He had not even finish talking when Drostan and Wallace rushed to the front yard. “Is approaching the manor.”
Bleeding hell! How could it…? No one had been able to locate her, and she was here? He almost did not believe it until—
He spotted her just passing the front gate, Ewan on a donkey and she… Goddammit!
Muddy clothes, sweaty hair under the hood, flushed cheeks, bent shoulders. And her beautiful eyes swollen, doused. Almost lifeless. The sight of her hit him like a thousand bricks on the chest.
Running like a mad man, he neared her. “Freya!” He shouted, mindless of who heard his anguished call.
He caught her a second before she fell. “Ewan.” She murmured almost incomprehensibly. “F-fever… D-doctor…”
Wallace was already at the donkey taking the faint boy in his arms.
“Do not worry.” He lifted her in his arms. “I will take care of him.”
Her eyelids blinked slowly, absently.
“J-John… Loch… Ab-Aber-Aber...” Her voice died away.
“Lachlan is…” But she passed out before he could finish.
“She is burning with fever.” He growled to his father.
Muscled arms carried her hurriedly inside, he barked orders for doctor, healer, bed, fireplace and whatever else the devil they needed.
“Baxter.” He bellowed and did not wait for an answer. “No one is to know they are here!” He clattered up the stairs two steps at a time, and continued. “If anyone breaths a word, they will be evicted from my lands.”
“Yes, my Laird.” Came the reply from far down. As the leader of the servants, he would have to pass on the orders.
A glacial bony hand squeezed his guts at the sight of her and their son in this condition. They had been on the road for days on end. Without knowledge of when they became ill, there was no predicting when they might heal. If they— He cut out the blood-curdling thought before it materialised.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Drostan would not be able to tell how long he sat on the chair by the bed, by his wife. The late, cold night lasting forever. He did not know who fed the fire on the fireplace, who came or went, who talked to him. His thoughts and attention focused on only one point. His wife.
He held a vague recollection of bringing her here and going to see about his son. Wallace said he would keep an eye on the boy though the nanny had been present. Alternating between his bedchamber and the nursery, he barely remembered if he ate. He certainly did not sleep. Would not have succeeded to even if he tried.
Freya and Ewan lay unconscious, unresponsive. The doctor had been in and informed that, besides a bleeding, there was little left to do. The Laird would not allow anyone to suck his wife’s or son’s blood. So he had gnarled for the doctor to stuff his treatment…well…there. After which, he expelled the villain with threats of slow, torturous death.
Torturous as this waiting.
The healer had presented more resources, making them drink a mysterious concoction and spreading a foul-smelling ointment which seemed to have brought some relief to them. Even if the remedies did not bring any real improvement.
Thus, he sat there for hours, or weeks, he could not tell.
Tartan in disarray, wrinkled, unbuttoned shirt, unshaved, mussed hair, sore muscles, head bent on his palms. He did not allow anyone to take turns with him. A maid, his father, Fingal, who had already shown up.
He wanted to call Aileen, but deemed it unfair to make her travel in this weather. More than that, Taran might kill him if he took her away from the McDougal again. A possessive bastard, his brother-in-law.
At a rasp on the door, he called in. Wallace’s grey head appeared. “Ewan is asking for you.”
Drostan sprang from the chair. “Is he awake?” He hurried out.
“I believe he is delirious.” His father, also in a deplorable state, answered.
