Page 40 of The Lass Defended the Laird (Explosive Highlanders 2)

“You are a grandfather, by the way. The bairn’s name is Ewan.” Fingal put in.

“The McKendrick heir is four years old and a miniature copy of Drostan.” Lachlan boasted the prevalence of McKendrick blood.

Pride smothered The McPherson features. “This is mighty good news!”

“Yes and no.” Contemplated Drostan. “You have no heir and your clan is getting restless about it.”

“I am aware of it.” The man admitted. “And have been pondering ways of granting the next generation’s leader.”

“You must do it at once because Ross is plotting to snatch power after you are gone.” Wallace intervened.

“That bluidy snake!” At least his father-in-law had a good notion of who were his kin.

“This is the reason I summoned you here.” Drostan downed his whisky. “Ross is threatening Freya and Ewan for fear my son will be elected the next Laird.”

His father-in-law expelled an ugly word.

“We recommend you appoint an heir at once.” Lachlan gave stated. “Or we will need to take the matter in our hands.”

“Ewan is too young to pose a competition.” Irvine said.

“Sure. But you are in good health and may still have many years ahead.” Wallace contributed.

“I do hope so.” He sighed. “If Ross has these ambitions, he might start getting ideas.” Like murdering the Laird.

“Precisely.” Fingal agreed. “Another reason for you to tie things up quickly.”

“Where is Freya?” Her father asked.

“Hidden.” Drostan would say no more. He could not be sure who was on Ross’s side in the McPherson, and such news travelled far.

The older man nodded, understanding.

“Do we have your promise you will work on it as soon as you go back?” Lachlan demanded.

“Absolutely.” He rushed to answer. And stood up to leave in a show he would take the proposed course of action.

Freya sat by the fireplace late that night. Ewan had eaten and seemed to have forgotten his afternoon tantrum, having dropped in bed with a light mood. John made his bed in the small hay loft over the shed, refusing to sleep in the cottage.

And she? She did not find her sleep.

Too many things on her mind. Plus, the darned longing.

Out in the crisp night, galloping horse hooves sounded just before they stanched right in front of the door. Boots thudded on the grass, and fists rasped on the door.

No, not fear. She knew these sounds. Her feet paced to the threshold and opened it. In the moonlight, her husband stood tall, broad with windblown hair. A scalding storm took over her body at the sight of him. Improbable that someone followed him in the middle of a chilly night.

Their eyes met in the silvery light as her heart burst to racing speed.

“I did not—”

She did not let him finish. Her hand shot out, bunched on his tartan and pulled him inside as he came willingly enough. Her wits skidded to past sensible. The hunger for him taking her by assault. They fell against the door, shutting it.

“Hell, woman!” He drawled, eyes darkening.

Muscled arms banded her by the waist, lifting her from the floor as his mouth marauded hers; her fingers merged in his chestnut waves. They devoured each other like their life depended on it. Her nightgown and his tartan bunched when her legs laced his hips, and cradled his rock-hard manhood, her ringlets falling from her bun.

He took her to her chamber. “I could not stay away.” He groaned on her lips when she let go. “Just could not.” Their lips fused again.

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