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“Mine will have to do.” She defended the indefensible. But her son had her unconditional love, and he remained safe under her protection. In anonymity.
Eyes clasped on one another, they duelled; each sure of their position.
At that minute, the door opened and Ewan barged in with a pile of dry sticks in his little arms.
The sun had just hidden beyond the distant hills, leaving behind the cool air and red light chased by dark-blue sky.
Drostan made no move to leave as she expected. This cottage sat on the borders of the McKendrick lands and it would take at least two hours to ride to the manor. Oblivious to her fretting, father and son crouched before the hearth and fed the sticks to the fire as if they did this every evening.
As Freya watched the homey scene, warmth and anguish assailed her. She had deemed it impossible to happen. Her son’s fate would be to grow up without his father. She would be able to present him as the McKendrick heir when he had grown enough to fight for himself; and fend off the threats. Both together here was much more than she had dreamed. Once again, tears glassed her eyes over and she blinked them away, thanking the fact that her husband and her boy had their backs to her.
“Are you not riding back?” Her question thrummed in him like a violin cord, playing in the tension of her presence.
Despite her absurd arguments earlier and his contempt to her reasons, aversion to her would forever be a far-fetched lie. This evening with her and Ewan would list as the first one he did not spend in bitter loneliness in years. Four to be precise.
His attention snapped to her and their gazes crossed in the intimate firelight. She stood in the middle of the room with her hands clutched at her midriff, and a frown above her delicate nose. The very same he rubbed with his own before kissing her senseless.
“Too late.” He replied, trying to dispel his response to her. That he was intruding in her self-proclaimed privacy did not shame him. If he prompted himself to confess anything, it would be the lingering exhilaration at finally finding her.
He watched as the implication he would spend the night downed on her. An intake of breath through lips ajar and her tongue darting out to moisten them. His blood rushed faster at the remembrance of what such mouth had already done to him, for him. With him. His blood ran even faster at the admission he still wanted it, her. The years had subdued none of it. He snatched his head away from her before his body snitched him right in front of his son.
“Then I hope you do not mind eating stew and bread.” She devolved.
If she thought the humble fare would chase him away, she would find herself wrong. He had spent many a night sleeping in the open and eating bony roasted rabbits back in the day.
“It is perfectly fine with me.” He assured her with a crooked smile.
On a worn bench by a table full of scratches, Drostan savoured the delicious dinner. Delicious yes, but the stew counted more potatoes than meat, and the bread contained too little flour to give sustenance. He wondered if Ewan ate enough for growing up.
“How do you support yourself?” He asked. She took nothing with her when she left, not even her clothes.
Her beautiful eyes lifted from her bowl and found his. “The river provides fish.” Her spoon downed to rest on the bowl. “And I grow potatoes and vegetables to sell in the market.” Her chin inched up daring him to object to her means.
He would not. She left a life of comfort behind to live a frugal one. It showed she did not avoid hard work or the burden of raising a child alone. To carry goods to the market and bring what she bought back could not be easy. On foot, he would guess as he did not see a donkey or any other transport around. She lived a strenuous life. Unnecessarily. Had she told him she wanted to part ways, he would have seen to her comfort and a decent place to live. The knowledge he had a son, and an heir would change this.
“I can fish, too.” Ewan chimed, beaming at him. “Once I fished one this big!” He stretched his arms to show the size.
Drostan smiled proudly at his son. “A good son always helps his mama.”
The boy’s old-whisky eyes became worried. “Mama does not allow me to help a lot.” His little hand came to his face. “Today, she carried the water from the river alone.”
The Laird’s equally coloured eyes snapped to her; and she lowered hers with a flick of her long lashes. Did she get so bored that she preferred a back-breaking life to living with him?
After dinner, they tidied up, and Drostan headed out to tend to his horse.
A long sigh escaped Freya when her husband stepped outside, giving her a reprieve from his high-strung, disturbing presence. Her heart did not seem to get any slower though. The strain of making him believe her story. The gnawing the simple sight of him caused. And the wrenching effort of hiding this effect he had on her was like running ten miles with full pails under the rain.
Her lungs drew air for the hundredth time to no avail. Her head gave a shake to get a grip; she heard the door close behind Ewan as he followed his father. She would take the opportunity to wash the gruelling day off her and prepare Ewan’s bed.
Father came back carrying his son who blinked repeatedly to dispel his somnolence. Again, seeing how mindful her husband cared for their son moved her to the brink of tears. If no threat hung over her, she would have witnessed it from the very start.
Parents dressed a half-sleeping Ewan to bed. “Papa, will you be here tomorrow?” This being the reason he fought slumber this long, Freya realised.
Drostan and Freya exchanged a glance. She did not know what to answer the boy. Lying to him would be out of question. But then she looked down to the cot to an already sleeping Ewan. She caressed his mop of chestnut hair, covered him snugly and walked to her room, trying hard no to look at her husband.
The door opened then closed, and her eyes flew to it from where she sat on her bed, clad in a mended nightdress.
Drostan still had his large hand on the wood as his gaze darted to her in the candle light.
