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His woman had run, hidden and endured the harshest of conditions for her own husband. He wished she had come to him. He wished she had trusted him with that burden, shared it. Wished these years of hardship had never happened. But they did. And Freya’s unwavering courage humbled him. The depth of her love. For him. For Ewan. The depth of her commitment to their marriage and what it meant to her. Commitment to their family. Her loyalty and firmness. All of it made his admiration and respect soar sky high.
After delivering the criminals to the magistrate, they returned to the manor, arranged accommodation to Taran and Aileen, and Sam; and put Ewan to bed. A fortunate thing Ewan travelled with the McDougals and did not see what transpired on the road.
He had lost his mind. Awareness of Ross’s blackmail, of Freya’s reasons and feelings unleashed the worst in him. His fists simply dumped these years of loneliness and injustice on the man. Not that the kin did not deserve it, well understood. But, if Freya had not stopped him, he feared the worst would have taken place. Maybe it was shock though finding excuses made nothing better. The fact was he spun out of control, and his wife had been the one to bring him back to reality. She was not only his north, she was his ground. Her simple loving gesture had grounded him and put the episode in perspective.
Drostan would never understand how he survived without her these past years.
When they reached their bedchamber at last, a bath waited for them before the night had been out. They helped each other wash with that reverence solely a traumatic evening brought. As though they valued their life as though they realised the preciousness it encompassed. As he carried her to bed, he made love to her desperately. Then solemnly. Then tenderly. He could not seem to let go. Neither she. They clung. And clung some more.
The Laird had an idea of where his wife might be. Outside, he strode purposely along the hallway. On the top of one wing, the stairs led up to a terrace overlooking the McKendrick’s lands. She used to come and enjoy the landscape before she left.
And there she stood, wrapped in one of his tartans over her pristine nightgown shimmering in the morning first lights, her back to him. A cool wind combed through her loose auburn strands, her gaze in the far away.
Mists floated in the horizon, giving a mythical tinge to the distant mountains; they hovered about the loch where she and he met so many times as betrothed. The dry grass tickled the airy gauze with a shy shaft of sunlight struggling to participate in the scene. She had always loved the view.
“It is too chilly for you to stay here.” He neared her and wrapped his arms around her slim waist as she rested her head on his chest.
“I missed this terrace.” Her tone expressed wistfulness.
“It missed you.” He answered to lighten the mood. Lowering his head, he inhaled the perfume of the auburn ringlets.
She breathed a small smile. “I could not sleep.” Her words did not surprise him.
“I must say I did not have this problem.” The comment came in a husky voice.
“Of course.” She jested. “After our nightly exertions.”
“The best I can think of.” His lips found the tender skin of her neck.
“And deserved.” Seriousness coming to her. “You saved all of us from too long a threat.”
“If only I did it from the start.” His palms jaunted along her side.
At that, she turned in his arms, her eyes lifting to meet his, hands on his shoulders. “Never.” It came as a whisper, sadness in her gaze.
“I just cannot imagine the depth of the sacrifice you made for us, Freya.” Vexation covered his chiselled features.
“It was no sacrifice because it was for you.” So simple w
ords with so deep meaning.
“Do you know how much I love you?” He devolved with a crumpled expression. “I loved you all these years, trying hard not to.” The confession came in a rasp. “In my head, you left me because you did not…”
Her forefinger on his sensuous lips prevented him from finishing. “Do not let it mar what we have now.”
“Hell, Freya!” He sought the curve of her shoulder as strong arms held her tighter.
“Let us not regret the past, Drostan.” Delicate hands took his jaw and their stares merged. “We have the future.”
“And I will go mad if it is not a future together.” His long fingers raised to hold her dainty cheeks
“It will be, mo gradh, my love.” Her suave whisper seemed to soothe him.
“Never stop calling me that.” Her Laird commanded.
“Mo gradh.” She repeated to his utter satisfaction before she regaled him with one of those explosive kisses of hers.
EPILOGUE
