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A little less than a year into her marriage, two of her third cousins had caught her unawares collecting flowers by the loch not far from the manor. Ross, a not so popular McPherson chieftain, and his younger brother James were manoeuvring to snatch power in the clan after her father passed.
Her father, Irvine, was the youngest brother on the lineage of their clan’s Lairds. Like his much older brother, Stuart, Fiona’s father, he issued no male heirs. The unwritten rule dictated that in the lack of male heirs, an election should ensue. The clan must appoint names. Also, candidates could step forward for the election. These candidates might be any kin with a drop of McPherson blood.
Therein lay the problem. Should Freya produce a male offspring, he would become a strong name for succession as a direct descendant of the McPherson laird, albeit through a female. Because Irvine could appoint him as the successor. As the male heir, Ewan held the chance to unite both clans and shift the power balance in the Highlands. Ross and James did not like the idea. Hence, they wanted to prevent her from having any children. They threatened to “eliminate” any male heirs she may have. To stand on the safe side, they instructed her to leave, or would kill Drostan if she did not. Naturally, she was not to spill a word of this to The McKendrick, or…
Ross, followed by James, had incurred in every dishonesty possible. Nobody could prove it, but rumours abounded.
After her kin spoke to her, Freya spent weeks torn with doubts. If she did what her instincts guided her to do, and talk to Drostan, she would put his life in danger. And she preferred a trip to hell than cause this. Even more serious, it might deflagrate a clan war. Informed of the threat, The McKendrick would not hesitate to do everything in his power to safeguard his family.
If she told him nothing, she would be complying with her kin’s criminal designs. With the dreadful consequence of it inadvertently helping them achieve their aims—thereby putting her clan in the worst hands possible.
Her father and her old uncle before him had steered the McPherson into peace and prosperity. Stuart’s daughter married The McDougal, Taran, in a valuable alliance. Their son, Sam would inherit after The McDougal. Of course the union did not go so well since Fiona did not carry out the marriage as she should have before her tragic death in Aberdeen. But an heir they produced anyhow.
With Stuart’s passing, Irvine continued his brother’s work with impressive improvements. The marriage agreed between Wallace, Drostan’s and her father consolidated the clan’s position in the Highlands.
Not that she had been any disagreeable with her destiny. She had hoped for it, in fact. To have fallen girlishly in love with her future husband at sixteen, at twenty-one, she burned for him. Her friends regarded her as the most fortunate bride in the world because Drostan gave all the signs he corresponded. Freya thought herself lucky, too. And thus it was that she felt so elated in her wedding day, she could hardly hold it in herself. The whole of the McKendricks and the McPhersons witnessed her happiness. Which gave her kin leverage for blackmail.
After deciding that Drostan’s life was much more important than any clan skirmish, she left as if it had been the last day of her life. And it had. She died inside the night she stepped into the late summer air with unknown destination and a shattered heart.
Two hours into her sloshing in the mud proved to be extremely arduous. The rain stopped by then which made it slightly better though her
clothes got thoroughly soaked. Autumn wind blew into the threadbare fabric chilling her skin. Nonetheless, her blood ran so troubled she did not feel it.
The swishing of trees in the pitch dark made for an eerie journey. With no moon and an overcast sky, danger loomed. A noise deep in the woods startled her, and she ran to hide behind a huge rock on the road side, hoping it was not a wolf in search of its meal. Or a bear. Even if it would be better an animal than a threatening human being. The night went still anew before she regained the road.
Hungry, exhausted, cold and in squirming emotions, Freya approached the McKendrick’s front porch as early morning light fell on her face. Her heart flipped with the splintering memories that struck her. This had been her home—her happy home—for the best part of a year.
As her hand drummed the door-knocker repeatedly, she waited until the butler unlocked it. And his crinkled eyes widened on her. “My Lady McKendrick.”
It had been a long time she did not hear the title uttered to her, one more gash bleeding from another life. “Good morning, Baxter.” A freezing hand pulled the hood away from her ashen face. “I need to see Ewan.”
The old man’s brows creased at her bedraggled state and made way for her. “I am afraid there has been an accident, my lady.”
Her head snapped to the man, brows creased. “An accident?” A dainty hand rubbed her dusty forehead. “Ewan…” Wide hazel eyes swam in anxiety and her heart boomed with tragic possibilities.
“Ewan in fine.” Drostan’s grave voice came from behind her. Then to the butler. “Baxter, have a warm bath prepared in my chambers and a tray of breakfast taken up, please.”
“Yes, my laird.” And hurried away.
“Where is he?” She asked. Only now did she notice a cut on her husband’s temple together with a weariness hovering over his taut frame.
“In the nursery, sleeping. The nanny is with him.” He even hired a nanny for her son in this short time. His concern did not escape her though he took the boy without her permission.
Drostan inspected his wife from her auburn hair plastered to her head, her soaked peasant’s dress, the faded cloak—with which he had gifted her—to the cracked muddy boots. Guilt coursed through him for forcing her to walk for hours to reach the manor. He had not expected her to travel at night and the fact ate at him with persistent worry.
Anguish still smothered her beautiful face. But before explaining, he must get her warmed up or she would catch her death. “Come.” He motioned her to the stairs. “First you will refresh, then we will talk.”
She hesitated, staring at him as if she wanted to refuse it. Several seconds elapsed when she finally nodded and followed him.
In the chambers that had been theirs, and in which he slept alone now, the maids poured steamy water in a tub. He watched her come in, eyes wandering around an unchanged decoration. “I will leave you in the maids’ care. Your dresses are where you left them.”
Hazel attention flew to him in surprise. Their eyes held for long moments as her voice came strained. “Thank you.”
With a short bow, he turned and closed the door behind him. Despite the circumstances, Drostan regarded her presence here as a small victory. Right in his bedchamber where she belonged. And he would make sure she stayed in it, preferably in his company. Especially in his company. The knowledge she was alive made him intent on tying his family together anew. With his son, and the brothers and sisters he would be sure to follow.
He had feared he would die a childless, bitter man counting a lost wife and decades of loneliness. Without proof that he had become a widower, there had been no chance of marrying again. Not for long years. Seven, according to the law. Fingal, his middle brother, would inherit after him. What angered him most was the idea of living a life with no family to call his own. His mother had passed away almost ten years ago, but she had given his father three robust sons and an insubordinate daughter. The thought drew a crooked smile from his sensual lips. Aileen found her match in The McDougal. This opportunity for him to put his life to rights had just presented itself. He would grab it with his both hands.
Freya’s eyes slapped open in startled alertness. She lay in crisp bedsheets and a fine wool coverlet on a bed that rivalled with fluffy clouds. Her former bed, warm, cosy. Dripping in nightly recollections.
