Page 3 of The Lass Defended the Laird (Explosive Highlanders 2)

At this, his scowl deepened to a suspicious frown.

Mummy? Mummy! What the hell is happening here?

She had a child? Children? By whom? Whoever sired the brat, he would…

By now he realised she had shut him off to dedicate her full attention to a wee thing of three or four in a basin far into the darkened room. With swaying hips, she returned inside to stand between him and the child, preventing him from seeing the latter.

“Sorry, my love.” The jealousy which speared Drostan at her tenderness caused him to think himself a monster for resenting a child.

A big towel wrapped the small body, head and all, as the mother lifted it to her with loving care.

He prowled inside, not caring he might be trespassing. And he did not. This was his cottage and the woman in it occupied it unauthorized, anyway.

Mother and child stood with their backs to him, but he reached them in two large strides. He must see the bairn, must know how it looked, must see whom it looked like, must…

His large hand grabbed the towel and yanked it from the child's head. A mop of chestnut brown hair greeted him; a pair of old-whisky eyes turned innocent to him.

And he froze.

Froze as if an instant frost had descended from the arctic. Froze with bunched muscles that refused to move. Froze hard as a highland lake in the height of winter.

Just to have it all melt in a heatwave of rage as uncontrollable as the ocean clashing against the cliffs.

His wife lifted her gaze to him, and in them he saw something resembling dread, apprehension. Pure terror. Freya? Afraid of him? Did she think he would harm either of them? The possibility made him angrier.

That she had abandoned him should be enough to raise his temper. That she had hidden a boy who was undeniably his son from him got him fuming.

His wife of five years, four at a distance, knew him, naturally. Her head shook slightly, surely sensing his reaction and bent on protecting her son from it. After he ogled her with an intensity prone to burn the old cottage to the ground, he nodded and gave his back to her, attempting to put his fury under control.

By the time he faced her again, the boy had dressed in clothes as ragged as hers, but clean. His mother stood behind him, her elegant hands on his shoulders.

“Drostan,” his name on her full lips unleashed an explosion of memories he had worked hard to erase for more than four years. “This is Ewan. He is four and is your son.” Though distant, her modulated voice still unbalanced him, it always had. Now, the sound came as sirens for seamen adrift for decades. Tantalising, worth drowning for.

Her shapely legs crouched beside his son, an arm on his shoulders. “Ewan, meet your father, Drostan, Laird McKendrick.”

His tiny copy turned a cherubic face up to his father and beamed with the light of ten suns. “I have a father!” And would go skipping all over the place if his mother had not stopped him.

“Remember what I taught you about being introduced to new people?” She reminded him with utter care.

The boy became instantly solemn, and bowed his tousled head to Drostan. “Nice to meet you, Laird McKendrick.”

Drostan came down to the boy’s level, not missing the fact that Freya stood up and put distance between them. He took the wee hand in his. “My pleasure, son.” He responded as a wave of tenderness washed over him. “Your great-grand-father called Ewan.”

“Really?” His son marvelled. And the Laird wondered what his father, Wallace, would say when he came to know the heir to the McKendrick had been right under their noses for all this time.

Wallace had gradually retired in the last few years, transferring most of his responsibilities to Drostan, who took his place as The Laird de facto presently. His brothers Fingal and Lachlan shared in the clan’s tasks and authority. Aileen, their youngest sister, had married Taran, The McDougal, quite recently.

“Ewan.” Freya’s voice broke into his musings. “Would you gather wood for me to make dinner?”

“Sure, mama.” And skipped to the entrance, happy to go back into the outdoors.

His boy must have taken all the light mood with him as Drostan’s enormous frame faced Freya, whisky eyes burning with renewed fury. “You will explain everything right away.” The command silky and fierce. “And it had better be very reasonable.”

CHAPTER TWO

Reasonable, indeed, Freya scoffed inwardly. But as she turned to her husband, speech got stuck somewhere in her throat. His tall figure dwarfed the room and everything in it. The white shirt under his tartan did not disguise his muscular chest or his powerful arms. Standing there, fists on his hips, feet apart, glaring her stonily, all domineering and hot-blooded male, the woman in her screamed to be heard. Worse, screamed to be satisfied. Screamed to go to him and savour him from shiny wavy hair to long masculine feet. It was as if a force inside her pulled her to him, and she must clench her muscles not to obey this force.

“I am waiting.” He uttered.

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