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“You should get rest.” He told the older man.
“I might say the same.” He rubbed his face. “Fingal is taking over. I will go get something to eat.”
Drostan nodded and entered the nursery. The sight of his son lying feebly on his bed speared his heart.
“Papa.” He grumbled, his little head bouncing from one side to the other.
Fingal and the nanny, a woman in her sixties, stood to one side.
The day before, Lachlan arrived with John and Loch. He and John explained how Freya had eluded their follower. The three brothers and their father were dumbfounded at her sharpness and resilience. A brave woman, this wife of his proved to be.
“Mo balach.” He answered, and the sound of his deep voice made the boy less restless.
He took the boy, limp and feverish in his arms. “I am here, Ewan.” His little arms circled instantly his father’s neck, eyes closed. He remained silent for a while.
“Where is mama?” The boy wailed. “Mama! I want mama.”
He and Fingal exchanged a glance. Freya was still unconscious.
“Better to take him to her.” His brother ventured. “Just for him to see she is around.”
Agreeing, Drostan wrapped his son in a thick wool coverlet and carried him to his chamber. All the way, Ewan mumbled for his mother.
Inside, Freya lay as helpless as ever.
“Mama.” Ewan wailed lauder.
“Ewan?” She murmured weakly, her brow sweat and ashen. “My love, I am here.” She said in her sleep, instinctively recognising her son’s voice.
His father took him to his mother and lay him gently on her. The physical contact might show to the boy she was here.
Drostan lifted her, and she hugged her son, murmuring tender words to him in her slumber. It calmed Ewan instantly while he gave the impression that he fell asleep.
The three of them stayed there for long moments until Drostan thought it better to take the boy back before he got cold.
“Are you not taking a break?” Fingal asked after his nephew lay back in bed. “You have not had a wink in three days.”
“I cannot.” He answered.
“Well, see that you do not fall ill, too.” His brother admonished.
Little food and little sleep was wont to do that to anyone, he acknowledged. But for the life of him, he could not.
Hours later, sitting on the chair by his bed, old-whisky eyes watched the first light of dawn break in the sky.
“Drostan.” Her faint voice sounded from the bed. “Ewan!” And she sprang up, lowering the covers to reveal her chemise. He had undressed her down to it before putting her to rest.
His head snapped to her. “Freya.” He launched to the bed. “No. Keep lying down.” His large hand held her shoulder.
She lay back with a tired sigh. “Ewan? How is he?” Her tone strained. A hand swiped her plastered hair from her forehead.
“The fever broke a few hours ago.” He had been to the nursery to check on him and the nanny gave him the good news.
The relief on her features dispensed with words. “I was so terrified I was not going to make it!”
He took her hand in his. “You did, Morair Chat.”
Her answer came in a frail smile. “How long was I ill?”
