Page 24 of The Madam’s Highlander

“It's impolite to dress in a room with a man no' your husband,” he countered.

“But ye are my husband.”

He opened his eyes and found her still nude, facing him now. Her long red hair draped behind her shoulders, putting her entire shapely form on display for him – round, full breasts with pink nipples drawn tight against the chill in the room. The generosity of her breasts made her tiny waist appear that much smaller, an appealing contrast to the flare of her rounded hips. Lower still was the downy curling red hair…

He needed to close his eyes, but his lids no longer worked. “What do ye mean?”

Freya smirked at him and stretched out a long arm to draw an article from a wardrobe. White fabric. A shift.

She drew it over her head, and it fell over her lush body like a shapeless blanket. Ewan blinked. “We're no' married.” Even as he said it, his body responded in hope to what his mind knew was a lie.

Married.

His.

He could have her – smooth, beautiful, tempting. His.

She approached the bed, her body moving beneath the voluminous fabric. Had he seen her in only her shift, he would never have imagined what lay beneath, but now that he knew, he could not keep his imagination from playing over the fabric.

She sat on the bed, and her powdery sweet scent caressed him as surely as her soft shift against his thigh where the kilt had ridden up in his sleep.

“We're no' married,” she confirmed his suspicions with a whisper. “How much do you remember of last night?”

Last night?

He slid a glance around the unfamiliar room. Light from the rising sun slanted into the large space. A fine blue silk carpet covered the entire floor, and a massive wardrobe stood in the corner, the one from which Freya had drawn her shift. He didn't remember having ever seen such a room before, let alone the prior night. And certainly he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings when he woke to the allure of a bonny naked woman.

Then, the whisper of a memory. Trying to wake, his eyelids heavy as lead, and Freya’s warning of being near home. Of redcoats.

Fear edged him into consciousness. “Where am I? What's happened?”

“My house.” Freya put a cool hand on his. “There's an officer billeting here, a Captain Crosby.” She paused, and he realized she was waiting for him to offer recognition.

He shook his head.

“I'd hoped ye wouldna know him.” Her shoulders visibly relaxed. “I gave ye a bit too much medicine in the carriage and it left ye...addled.”

“Addled?” He frowned. Addled was never a good thing.

“People needed to know what was wrong with ye.” Freya was speaking with surprising patience and gentleness.

Ewan eyed her warily.

“I came up with the first thing I could think of,” she said. “That ye were drunk.”

He stiffened and was rewarded with a hot stab in the side where the bullet had torn into him. “I dinna drink - no' like that. Never.”

She curled her hand around his now. “I know,” she said. “I also needed an explanation of why ye were traveling with me in addition to why yer ma is staying with us. I said we were married.”

“Married.” He repeated the word slowly, the frown returning.

She let go of his hand and pushed at the shoulder on his good side in mock chastisement. “Dinna say it like it's the worst thing imaginable.”

So now he was a drunkard and a shite of a husband. “Anything else ye'd like to tell me?” he ground out.

“Aye, ye're no longer Ewan Fraser, but Ewan MacDonald.” She said it as if it were a small thing, as if it didn't matter that he no longer had his own name. Perhaps she saw the horror on his face, for she quickly continued. “Yer mother was cautious of the redcoat when he arrived and gave him a fake name. Fortunate for her quick thinking, as it has saved yer arse from being known to a redcoat as a man wanted for desertion.”

Desertion.