Page 20 of The Madam’s Highlander

“Sorry,” Freya muttered without looking over her mother's shoulder to where the unwanted stranger stood patiently. “And he's alive, he's...”

She scrambled through a million thoughts in the flash of a second. He couldn't be her brother, the officer would know there had never been a son. Nor could he be a cousin - why would a cousin be staying with them randomly and without notice? He couldn't be a friend, for why would she not be bringing him to his own home instead, especially with such an intimate closeness between them.

An intimate closeness...

Of course!

What else would better explain her having Lily there as well as Ewan?

“He’s Lily’s son, Ewan.” Freya straightened. “My husband.”

***

Married? The fog surrounding Ewan's brain had started to lift. Still, what Freya had said made no sense.

They were married?

He didn't remember getting married. He remembered... His side ached. He remembered getting shot. Running.

His mother.

A woman's face peered into his, her skin crinkled with age. Not his mother.

“Yer husband?” the woman said. She frowned and the wrinkles around her mouth puckered. “What's wrong with him?”

There was a moment of hesitation, enough for Ewan to shift his gaze to Freya. She cast him an apologetic look.

“He had a bit too much whisky earlier,” she said slowly.

It was his turn to frown. He hated whisky, and rum, and all other strong spirits. He didn't like his senses dulled and his wits scattered. His balance teetered and he swayed.

This.

He didn't like this.

Freya moved underneath him, shifting his weight to put him back in a steadier position.

The older woman tsked.

“My mother has a recipe for helping when someone is too far gone with drink.” An English voice spoke, his accent sharp with authority. Ewan looked up at the man whose body was slight beneath the heavy uniform and whose look condemned him at first glance.

Hate filled Ewan, the burn of it cutting through the fog in his mind and straight into his heart.

The Englishman regarded him with just as much contempt. “Though I'd caution you against a drunkard for a husband.”

“My son isna a drunkard.” A familiar feminine voice spoke. One he'd heard for a lifetime and kept in his heart through nights slept in mud and through battles with men dying around him.

His mother.

“Ma?”

“My son.” Then she was there. Her white hair pulled back in a soft bun, her sweet honeysuckle scent surrounding him. Tears shone in her blue eyes and she threw her arms around him, almost knocking all three of them to the ground.

Freya grunted at his side. “Help me get him,” she ground out. “He's no' exactly a wee man.”

“Of course,” his mother said. Her arm came around him and dug hard into his injury. He clenched his teeth but could not manage to bite back the groan of pain. His mother removed her arm immediately, and he almost fell forward were it not for Freya's body braced against his.

She was a good wife. Even if he didn’t remember marrying her. Which made him a bad husband.