The Lass Defended the Laird (Explosive Highlanders Book 2) Read online

  “The little wretch is not inside.” James proffered.

  Ross’s eyes darted to his brother. It was the millisecond they needed.

  “Down!” Drostan thundered and tumbled her to the ground, covering her with his frame.

  Alarmed, Ross shot in their direction. As Drostan and Freya fell, the shot caught James on his arm and his disgraceful person thumped on the road screaming.

  With the only ball in the riffle gone, Ross ran to take James’s, but Fingal was faster and pointed the newly acquired gun to the willowy McPherson on the ground, immobilising him.

  Quick as lightning, Drostan stood on his feet and advanced on Ross, who showed a look of dread on him. The McKendrick grabbed him by his collar and flew countless punches on his despicable nose. The older man was no match against his out-of-control rage and lost balance. With an angry push, the fat-bellied man hit the dust, Drostan came over him, still discharging non-stop punches, releasing a lifetime of bottled ire.

  More horse hooves announced other people coming towards them. Freya finally regained her capacity to react and looked up to see Taran, Wallace and Lachlan galloping and shouting. She managed to stand up.

  Her husband seemed not to have registered the newcomers as his fists pounded tirelessly down, his stance crumped with extreme fury. Ross had passed out long ago. She did not want her husband to be the criminal. Her kin were.

  Fingal and the coachman tied James and dragged him away.

  Stumbling to him, she placed a light hand on his muscled shoulder. “My love.” Her voice came soft and calm.

  He froze in a second, his old-whisky eyes lifting to meet hers. That marvellous steel frame unfolded from the ground.

  Bloody knuckles, sweat jaw, dusty shirt, rumpled tartan, he was the very image of a fierce warrior. He glared at her hard as his bunched biceps banded her by the waist, pivoted and pressed her against the carriage, his mouth nosediving to hers.

  With a moan blocked at her throat, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back as though they were alone. Or in bed.

  Or in heaven.

  “Ahem.” Wallace cleared his throat.

  “I know this might not be a good time to interrupt.” Fingal’s voice did not penetrate the haze the couple merged in.

  “Since it is the appropriate place for this type of…demonstration.” Came Lachlan ironic.

  Drostan and Freya did not pay heed.

  “A rather…healthy demonstration.” Taran put in.

  Still, they did not disentangle from each other. If anything, they seemed take the kiss to the next level.

  “Papa is kissing mama again!” Ewan, who had just arrived in Aileen’s carriage, exclaimed.

  His parents let go at once.

  Meanwhile, Fingal was explaining what had happened and how Drostan had bloodied Ross.

  “Never do this to me again.” Drostan rasped for her ears solely.

  Their noses’ tip still touching. “I will do whatever I have to protect you.” She murmured back.

  “Impossible woman!” After which, he deigned to pay attention to the people surrounding them.

  “We thought it better to stay behind to be able to keep an eye on you.” Aileen provided, holding Ewan’s hand.

  Only now did Sam alight from the carriage with a heavy science book in his hand and an abstracted look in his eyes.

  “But you handled the criminals well.” Taran conceded.

  “I will tie Ross and call the magistrate.” Volunteered Lachlan.

  “Bearing forbidden guns, these men will rot in jail.” Predicted Sam.

  Next morning, Drostan awoke with a start with grey lights of dawn trickling through the drawn drapes. He groped the rumpled sheets for his wife and found merely cold cloth. His head jerked around, an empty bedchamber greeted him.

  Strong legs sprang from the bed as he wrapped his tartan messily around him.

  The events of the previous afternoon blew him away. There should be expecting retaliation from Ross, certainly. And he wanted to prepare for it. Only he did not have the chance. Strong revolt took him over as the villain finally revealed what blackmail convinced his wife to leave him. He still reeled from it. On that road, his mind had been so focused on the danger, and on how to overcome it he did not respond to her voice pouring her heart out for him.

  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

  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.

  Her mouth caressed him hungrily. “The…big size of you is rather…satisfying.” She murmured before taking him in again. His hand responded by teasing her breast further.

  Head dropped back, his hand on her head coaxed her further at the same time his other one teased her swollen breast. “It is all yours.” At his hardest, he was on the verge of explosion.

  As an answer, she took more of him.

  “Freya.” He groaned. She registered him even harder now. “Let me go…I am going to…” She licked with more enthusiasm. “Buidy hell!” He exclaimed when he arched back and inundated her cavity.

  Fortunately, they did not get late for dinner.

  May 1810

  Ewan and his mother sat on a blanket in the sun in the front lawn, the spring day warmer than usual. Her boy had collected a handful of the thousands of dandelions carpeting the meadows, and he wanted to make a flower crown for her. So she was teaching him.

  Her bump began to show even under her clothes, but she did not have any discomforts so far.

  A few weeks ago, Ewan’s parents sat with him and explained that he would have a brother or sister. When they broke the news, the boy seemed to think it strange. Soon, he embarked on a string of questions his parents answered as truthfully as they could.

  “Now, you take the other flower and pass it along the thread like this.” She oriented her son.

  Wallace did not contain his satisfaction to learn he had another grandson or granddaughter on the way. Fingal and Lachlan were still getting used to a pregnant woman in the household though they took it in stride.

  “Can we play together in the nursery when he is born?” Ewan wanted it to be a boy, naturally, to have a partner in mischievousness.

  “We do not know if it will be a boy.” She reminded him. “But you can play with him or her when they get older.”

  His attention lowered to her roundness. “I would like to touch it.”

  “Of course, my love.” She took his tiny hand and placed it delicately on her belly.

  Tentatively, he stroked it. “Was I this small, too?” He marvelled.

  “Yes. And you were a very well-behaved babe.” She completed.

  He smiled before his stance lit on something behind her. “Papa is here!” And ran to him.

  Father and son neared her, large hand on the bairn’s shoulder. The view of her husband caught her focus. Chestnut hair gleamed in the sun and the light transformed his old-whisky eyes in a fiery shade. Stubble darkened his chiselled features as his loose tartan flowed in the breeze. “
A nice flower crown you have there.” He commented, his avid stare fixed on his wife. With the intense spring work, he had been spending long hours in the fields with the other McKendrick men.

  “I made it for mama.” Ewan informed with a proud smile.

  “Your mother deserves all the flowers in the world.” He praised.

  Late that night, Drostan and Freya lay in bed. He spooned her, a large hand splayed on her bare bump, caressing it.

  His fiery desire did not subside. On the contrary, it increased together with his wife. They talked to a doctor and to the midwife about it. The doctor offered little reliable information about such activities at such a time. But the midwife gained input from women who preferred to confide in other women and said it was quite normal. So he did not refrain from seeking his woman and she responded with eagerness.

  “I never thought I would be so turned on by my wife carrying my child.” He started.

  “It is no problem for me, mo gradh.” She reassured him. “I must go it alone the first time. Your companionship is just a dream come true.”

  He held her tighter and grazed his stubble over her shoulder. “Perhaps missing on Ewan’s early days did something to me.” His hoarse voice mused.

  She turned to his features illuminated by the fireplace. “I did not believe men would feel like that.” Her gentle palm covered his square jaw.

  “I cannot speak for others.” His hand kept on her middle, and he raised to kiss her navel. “I know I do. It is like a gap in my life and sometimes I get upset remembering it.”

  She pulled him to lie on her swollen bosom. “It is the same for me.” Her fingers stroked his hair soothingly. “The loneliness was sharp.”

  “For me, too.” He murmured. “Though I believe we should try to let go, and make room for the good things that are coming.”

  “It will not be easy, but we can do it.”

  “The chance to take part in our second child’s beginning is also a dream come true, mo morair chat.”

  She smiled tenderly at him.

  His head lifted to her all bad intentions. “Meanwhile, I will enjoy…say…ploughing my wife.” And proceeded doing just that when his mouth took her breast shamelessly.