Page 21 of The Madam’s Highlander

His mother stared at him, her face incredulous. “Lad, what have ye done to yerself?”

“Let me do this.” A firm arm came around Ewan's shoulders and hooked his weight under his armpit.

The English officer was helping him.

“Which room is he in?” the redcoat asked in his prim tone.

“This way,” Freya's mother said. “It's the only room left with a bed large enough for two. Now that they're married.” She said the last word slowly and gave a worried glance back at him.

Ewan forced his feet to work, putting one foot in front of the other - a slow, gradual progression up a set of impossibly long stairs and down a hall which seemed to go on for an hour before finally a door opened to a room. With a bed. How he longed for the cradle of a soft mattress beneath him.

His face was damp with perspiration and his side ached terribly.

The man helped him to the bed where Freya eagerly pulled back the blanket. Bed. Ewan's eyes were closing with the very idea of letting his body rest against the pillowed softness, the cool sheets against his hot skin. With Freya's small hand guiding him, he sank onto the mattress.

“His cloak is still on,” the Englishman said.

“It's fine - he'll be the one wrapped in it in the morning and it'll be his own fault,” Freya said with reproach. “Go on, I'll handle the rest.”

Clipped steps rang out on the hard floor and Ewan knew the officer was leaving. The door closed with a click and his mother was immediately at his side.

“Ewan, what is the meaning of this?” She shook her head. Disappointment showed in the crinkle of her brow, and it sliced into him.

“It isna drink at all,” Freya whispered. “I needed a distraction. He's been shot. The medicine I gave him was too strong. He's no' drunk, he's drugged.”

“Shot?” his mother's voice was so small, as if she were frightened.

He wanted to reassure her he was fine. He'd been worse off before. But all that emerged from his lips was a gravelly moan.

A soothing shush came from overhead followed by the sweet powdery perfume. Freya. She pulled away the blanket with gentle hands and untwisted a cloth from around his hips. His cloak?

She hissed out a curse. “The wound has opened again.”

Something heavy fell to the floor, like a sack of grain dropped hard. Ewan lifted his head and squinted his eyes open to discover his mother had fainted dead away.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Freya's head drooped over her tea. Only a rim of pulpy leaves remained at the bottom of the fine cup. Still, she could barely keep her eyes open against the pull of exhaustion.

Most of the household was asleep, and she found herself wishing she could join them. Captain Crosby had retired to his room before she had emerged from her own. Ewan was resting comfortably with fresh bandages, the wound stanched. Lily had been easily roused within seconds of fainting and had been seen to her room with promises of an explanation later.

Lily had inadvertently kept her son’s cover by declaring herself a MacDonald instead of a Fraser with ‘that man’ billeting with the Campbells. That man of course being Captain Crosby. And so now it was Lily and Ewan MacDonald.

“Ewan is a soldier of the Black Watch.” Freya spoke in a quiet tone, nothing that could be heard over the crackle of the fireplace in the kitchen hearth. “After he found out what happened with Lily, he insisted I help him leave Edinburgh...and the Black Watch.”

“He's a deserter,” Ma said, her tone aghast. “Does Lily know?”

Freya looked up at the seat opposite her at the narrow wooden table. It was a servant's table, but it was the quietest room in the house, one that would afford them a more candid conversation than anywhere else.

Freya's back stiffened. “He's a man who realized the people he fought for were the ones killing his people. And Lily doesna know. I wasna sure if Ewan wanted her to, so I dinna say.”

Ma put her hands on the table, palms flat, fingers spread, as if she meant to reach for Freya but would not allow herself. Had she wanted to finally touch her daughter after all these years? A caress, a hug, a stroke on the cheek, something. But she pulled her hands away and clasped them to her chest. “They'll kill him if they catch him. They'll kill ye-”

“I think it was good of ye to help him escape.” Marian waddled toward the table, the kettle extended to avoid brushing her massive belly.

Freya glanced away, unable to allow herself to lay eyes on the swell of hate in her sister's stomach. “I couldna let him die,” she muttered.

Marian held the kettle aloft over Freya's cup, but Freya shook her head. “I canna have another. I need sleep. I need to think.”