Page 45 of The Madam’s Highlander

“Dinna ye know?” Ma said. “Thomas is Captain Crosby's Christian name.”

Freya pulled her long stare from Ewan to regard her sister.

Marian's sweet face crumpled with obvious pain. “Thomas.”

The aching knot returned to Freya's throat and she resumed her vigil of Ewan's disappearing form. She and Marian had both left behind the men they loved.

It wasn't until she could no longer see Ewan in the distance that she finally gave into the gritty burning in her eyes. She leaned her torso over Marian's sagging form and cried until her world fell into a blissful black.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Freya was thinking of him again. It was a hurt she couldn't help but gingerly prod. A hurt that had not diminished in the six months since it'd been sliced open.

She settled back in the overstuffed chair in her office at Molly's and regarded the neatly organized line of journals, the sparse furnishings. It was too perfect. Too right. A restlessness inside her stirred, edgy and insistent. It left her with the sudden desire to sweep her arm over the shelf of journals and send them scattering them to the floor, their pages floating to the ground in an errant display of destruction.

Instead she gripped the edge of her desk, as if doing so might keep her from spiraling away from the world.

She should be happy. Molly's was doing well, as it always had done in the past. The mothers had taken to enjoying educating the women who sought Freya's help, though they'd insisted on relocating the makeshift school to a separate location. Even Marian had found a place at a nearby church to aid wounded soldiers.

It was perhaps the only charitable task Marian had taken on with an ulterior motive, for Freya knew her sister sought a certain wounded redcoat in particular.

Not that Freya could blame Marian. After all, what would she give to have Ewan back?

The familiar squeeze gripped her heart and threatened to crumple her into a ball of pain at his loss. How could it be almost more painful at six months than it had been when it happened?

Freya gripped the wood harder and let the sharp edges of the desk bite into the tender lines of her fingers and palms. She would not cry.

Her eyes tingled with wet heat.

She would not cry.

Ewan’s image swam into her mind, the affectionate look in his loving gaze, the dimple that showed only for her. Her throat drew tight.

Damn it. She would not cry.

Outside her office door, the cacophony of conversation and laughter indicated Molly's was beginning to pick up into a full night. She could not allow herself the weakness of her pain. No, she would need to keep it curled tight in her heart until she was alone with the solace of her cool pillow and the embrace of silence.

The door flew open and Alli appeared in the doorway. Her mouth worked, opened and closed, opened and closed, but nothing emerged. Tears shone bright in her eyes and alarm fired through Freya.

She leapt from her desk. “What is it? Marian? The mothers?”

Alli shook her head, mouth open.

“What is it?” Freya asked impatiently.

“It's him,” Alli whispered.

Freya's knees went soft. Her heart pounded. She couldn't hear for all the damn roaring in her ears. Surely she hadn't heard right. “What?”

Alli's mouth worked to say the most beautiful name in all the world. “Ewan.”

Freya pushed past the younger woman. Outside was a tangle of soldiers and whores, silk and uniforms, flirtation and desire. And there, in the midst of all of it, was Ewan wearing a plaid of earthy colors and a crisp white leine. His skin was more tanned, as if he'd ridden through the long summer days, and his face had been scraped smooth to reveal his clean, sharp jawline.

Freya whispered his name and her heart crashed into her throat. Then, despite the pinching shoes and impossibly laced corset and all the damn people watching, she ran to him.

Ewan laughed, his teeth a stark white against the darker skin of his face. He opened his arms and caught her against his powerful chest and then, finally, finally, finally he enfolded her in the full embrace of him. He overwhelmed her in the most wonderful ways - the warmth of his skin beneath the fine leine, the spicy, familiar scent of him, the strength of his muscles squeezing her. Tears clogged Freya's throat and she buried her face in his chest to keep them from being seen.

“Freya.” Her name rumbled against her cheek. “Freya, Freya, Freya - my beautiful Freya.”