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January 1810
January came white and blue. The steady snow made the world outside a rhapsody in white crowned by blue sky. Ewan and Freya engaged in a snowball war in the front yard, the boy laughing and running around the place. Her son’s happiness was the most precious gift she could ever wish.
But she got much more than she wished for. Or else, she got everything she ever dreamed of. Endless joy with her family. Peaceful moments. Daily life with her husband. Loving him and receiving love in return. Agreeing, disagreeing, comforting, being comforted. Kisses, chores, chats, walks. She understood exactly the value of this. And she would never ever complain because one day, alone in a derelict cottage, it had been her craziest fantasy. One she did not expect to come true. Yet here she stood, contemplating these gifts, and revelling in them.
A snowball crashed on her shoulder, pivoting, she saw her husband’s mischievous glint. With an exaggerated expression of revanches, she rolled snow in her gloved hands and threw it at him, catching Ewan instead. The snowball war became a mess with the three of them transforming the front yard in a battlefield. At last, they fell on the fluffy snow, laughing breathless before the nanny came to take Ewan for luncheon.
Old-whisky eyes turned to her as both continued stretched on the ground. “What have you been up to today?” The question came with his hand holding hers.
“Ewan and I did a drawing session before we came out for fresh air.” She replied. “You?”
“Livestock and planning for the spring sowing.” He stood up and pulled her with him.
Hand in hand, they started to the manor. “I am thinking of beginning Ewan’s education next autumn.”
“He is a smart lad.” A side-smile stretched his sensuous mouth.
“I will take it easy until he gets familiar with it.”
“If you need help, I can call in tutors.”
“A good idea. Soon there will be two in the schoolroom.” They had just entered the deserted hall. “Unless, of course, you go on working this hard on the…you know…ploughing.” She completed with a suggestive smile, meaning there might be more in the future.
Speechless, he took her shoulders and turned her to him. “Freya…” He murmured enraptured.
Large hands held her face as his brow touched hers. “You already made me the happiest man in the world, now I cannot begin to describe how fortunate I am.”
She covered his hands with hers. “I am the lucky one.” She murmured.
Steps echoed on the stairs, and they pulled away to see Baxter passing by.
March 1810
A brighter sunset shone on the remaining snow when Drostan came into their bedchamber to change for dinner.
Inside, Freya clad only her chemise as she would also put on a clean dress. Her four-month bump was visible through the fine cloth together with her plumper breasts. She had not been so queasy as the first time and being safe here increased her well-being. Sitting on the foot of the bed, she stopped in the act of putting her stocking.
Their eyes met in an electrical contact. She did not know if her hormones were playing games with her, but her desire for her husband had increased tenfold. Integrally reciprocated by him.
Long strides carried him to the basin as he took off his shirt and gave his back to her to wash. When he turned to her, his tartan tented over his erect manhood. A very erect manhood.
Hazel gaze darted to it then to him, her tongue moistening her full lips.
He neared her, raking his hand in his wavy chestnut hair in exasperation. “Freya, seeing you swell with my child is turning me on like crazy!”
Never taking her attention from him, she answered. “I am not complaining.” Much on the contrary. Her fingers bunched on his tartan to pull him closer. One of her hands snuck under his plaid to close around his impressive arousal.
“What are you up to, woman?” He rasped in a groan.
“Nothing.” She cupped his sac. “Yet.” And ducked her head under the wool.
He sucked in air sharply at the feel of her tongue licking the base of him. “You do not need to…” Her hot, moist muscle slid along him, silencing his protest.
“So hard!” She murmured delighted.
“Stop it before I—” Her lips closed eager around the engorged tip. “Hell!”
By now he was a goner. His large palm came to her wool-covered head. She savoured the salty tang over smooth skin stretching over steel. His free hand covered her breast.
