“Aye, that ye do,” she conceded. “And the land will be hard, but ready to be broken into black, lush earth where we can then spread the seed. It's hard work.”
“I dinna mind hard work. And I'll get to be with ye.” Heat touched his own cheeks now. His gut twisted. He shouldn't be doing this, painting the scene for her that could never come to pass. And yet he could not help but give himself the opportunity to dream with her, to see it on her face. To have this combined wish to cherish, along with the memories they’d already made together.
“I like being with ye,” she said.
He reached out a hand and stroked it over her smooth face. She closed her eyes and turned into his palm. His heart swelled.
“I like ye being my wife,” he said quietly.
Her soft intake of breath whispered over the heel of his hand. Her eyes opened and regarded him with a beautiful blue he would never forget.
“I dinna want ye to do it, Ewan,” she said.
He didn't bother to ask what she referred to. She understood his intent even as she’d played along with his fantasy.
Ewan stroked her cheek. “I have to.”
She shook her head free of his tender hold, and tears shone bright in her eyes. “Ye could go now. Ye could run and then we can meet up when it's safer for ye.”
“They'll interrogate ye,” Ewan said. “All of ye. And they willna always be kind about it. Freya, ye’ve seen what they do.”
“Ewan, please, I—”
The whinny of a horse broke through the silence. The clop of hooves on the hard-packed dirt outside the home became apparent. Several sets of hooves.
Freya stiffened and fumbled with her full skirts. She grabbed the pistol and shoved it at him. “I'll fight by yer side.”
The pistol's weight was hefty in his hands, the metal cool against his palm. He shook his head. “I canna.”
“Ye can,” she whispered vehemently.
“And risk a bullet hitting Marian as she labors? Hitting one of our mothers? Risk losing ye?”
“Ewan.” Her voice broke on his name. “Ye canna go. I...I...”
Footsteps pounded up the few stairs and thundered over the porch. Danger loomed over them, coming closer, closer.
“I love ye.” Emotion left her voice thick and tightened its grip on Ewan’s own throat.
He pushed the gun into her lap and settled her hand fully atop it. “I love ye too, my beautiful, fiery Freya.”
A fist banged heartily at the door, and she gave a little jump. She slipped the pistol hastily into her pocket and gave a nervous glance at the door. “Please, Ewan.”
Captain Crosby strode across the room, his shoulders squared.
“I love ye,” Ewan said again, this time with more ferocity, with all the warmth swelling in his heart and the desperate hurt shattering his soul. Then he bent over her and captured her mouth with his, savoring the fullness of her bottom lip, the soft brush of their tongues, the sweet powdery scent of her embracing him.
He wanted her scent on his skin, her kiss on his lips, and her love in his heart. God help him, he needed them.
The door opened.
“We are here for Ewan Fraser.” The man's voice was familiar.
Too familiar. A finger of ice scraped up Ewan's back.
Clemmons. The bastard from the Black Watch who had always undermined Ewan’s word, who'd forever sought to destroy him.
And now Clemmons had finally won.
Ewan pulled away from Freya while he still could, before his heart could overwhelm his mind. Her hands shot up in a desperate plea to grab for him.
At the door, Captain Crosby looked to Ewan and nodded. “He's coming.”
“Nay!” Footsteps pattered from Marian's room.
Ewan jerked his head and found his mother standing there, her hair in gray wisps around her stricken face. “Dinna do this, son.” She shook her head and stepped toward him. “Dinna do this.”
Ewan sank to his knees before her and kissed her hands. “I beg yer forgiveness, Ma. I abandoned the Black Watch. I'm a traitor.” She shook her head, but he got to his feet and backed to the open door. “And now I have to meet my fate.” He swallowed thickly. “Just like da.”
“Nay, yer father wasna a traitor,” his mother cried. “The English called him that, but he was a Scotsman. He died protecting his people, his family - us. He died a hero.” Tears streamed down her face, each one a new pebble lodging in his heart. “He protected his people.”
Ewan stared at his mother. “They called him a traitor.”
“The English did. He was a traitor to them.” His mother touched his face. “But he was a hero to us.”
Ewan wished there was more time, to hear the story his mother had never told him, to cradle Freya in his arms one last time, to live the life on the hay farm with his family who loved him.
But it was time. And he would do the one thing he could to protect his family.
Just like his da.
He turned away from all of those he loved to give himself up to his enemies. To do what was right.
Clemmons accepted him with greedy hands, roughly spinning him around. Metal clinked behind Ewan and the cold, heavy weight of manacles settled tightly over his wrists. Several redcoats stood by, anticipation glittering in their moonlit stares.
“This is him,” Clemmons said.
“These people were hiding him,” one soldier said. “Show them what happens to those who hide a criminal, then burn the house down.”
Fear raked her ugly claws through Ewan’s heart. He fought against the manacles. “Nay, I gave myself up for them.”
Clemmons merely chuckled behind him. The bastard.
Captain Crosby stood in front of the doorway, blocking it with his body. “Don't do this, Patrick.”
“If you're refusing me entry, then you're a traitor too,” the other English officer said.
Ewan's heartbeat roared in his ears. This was not happening. This could not be happening. He'd turned himself in. It should be done.
Crosby squared his shoulders. “There is a woman birthing a child inside. I apologize, but I cannot allow you to enter this home.”
The other officer said nothing, but lifted his pistol and shot Captain Crosby.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
One by one the redcoats came into the house, each of the four men stepping over Captain Crosby's body with purpose. It was impossible for Freya to tell where the captain had been hit, but he had certainly been hit as was evidenced by the pool of blood spreading beneath him.
The first man approached Ewan's mother. Lily pulled something from her bodice and held it in front of her. A knife. The blade trembled with the older woman’s poor resolve.
Freya tried to edge closer to her, to protect the frail woman whose eyes had gone near white with fear. A large red chest filled Freya's vision.
“You should worry about yourself,” the man said with a contemptuous note of arrogance.