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His world.
They fell asleep entangled in each other, without words. Their bodies had done all the talking that mattered.
Lead clouds greeted dawn as Drostan made a giant effort to disentangle from his snuggly wife to get up and dress.
Freya turned on her back, and her eyelids rose slowly. He continued dressing when their gazes locked. “Are you coming back in one piece?” Her sleepy voice did not disguise her worry.
“I will do my best.” Was the reply he could give.
“Do your worst, too. Just in case.” She uttered serious.
With a smirk, he nodded. “Try not to worry, mo morair chat.” His hand found to the door-knob.
“Easier said.” She retorted before he left.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Drostan rode Threuna along the road to the McPherson, his brothers by his side. The strong wind threatened rain, and he looped the tartan wool around his shoulders.
Still reeling from the night, he made a useless effort not to remember it. But images of them crept to his mind. It wrenched him dry. In more ways than one. He did not wish to list the other ways aside the one. It confused him. Shook him. Scared him. To want a woman this raggedly could only mean trouble. Everything felt a thousand times deeper than when they married. They had been younger and inexperienced in a life together. With the years, their marriage—or should he say their non-marriage?—offered a new perspective. The separation caused anger, disillusionment, and bitterness in him. To find her again bridged that gap as the reason for her leaving surfaced. After last night, he was more confounded than he had ever been. Everything in him swirled and churned undefined. But sharper, with more saturated colours spinning like a prism. Discerning this mixture proved to be a challenge.
“I am not sure of the exact place where this worm lives.” Lachlan interrupted his muddled musings.
“We shall inquire.” Suggested Drostan distractedly.
“The man must be well disliked in his clan, I would bet.” Added Fingal. “Everyone will know where not to go.”
The people they met on the way showed his words true. Ross owned lands to the south of the McPherson.
Their horses approached a stone bui
lding surrounded by a tall wall. The construction was not so big as Freya’s father’s and it looked run down, neglected. These lands proved not barren, what did the man do with its produce?
Traditionally, chieftains held enough land to have tenants and obtain a handsome income. Devoid of their original war functions by English law, they found new ones. In the McKendrick’s and McDougal’s, chieftains became men of varied skills and business. A few supplied fire-wood, others timber, or diverse building materials. Those were who dealt in agricultural implements, and even financial services. By no means destitute, chieftains counted an array of options.
The brothers entered the open gate and stopped their horses at the front door. Lachlan dismounted and banged the knocker. The sound brought a willowy man out, whose cold blue eyes bulged on them. Drostan supposed it might be James as of Freya’s description.
“We came to see Ross.” He said firmly.
“He is—” James started.
“What is it, James?” Behind the willowy McPherson, appeared a short, round man with flinty eyes.
At the sight of green, white, and black tartans, he stopped short. Drostan did not repress the satisfaction of seeing the man go rather grey.
Even so, he eyed Drostan directly. “McKendrick.” That the man knew whom to address, not having met the Laird formally, said something about him and his machinations. “To what do I owe your…unexpected visit?” He had the cheek to ask.
“I am here for my wife and son.” He stated in a brusque tone. It would be better to infer that he did not hear of their whereabouts, inducing Ross to estimate his plan met with success.
“How the blazes will I know?” The worm’s brow furrowed as if he did not have the slightest idea.
“You are the one bullying them.” He accused with no qualms. “For years.”
Lachlan, who had not mounted his horse yet, prowled to him. Drostan and Fingal held no doubt their brother would pummel the man at the slightest provocation.
The flinty stare became smug. “Prove it and I shall offer my formal apologies.” The villain proposed.
Apologies? For years wasted away? Anger erupted in Drostan at the man’s cynicism. “My proof is that they are missing.” His voice came low and menacing.
