Freya’s lips thinned. “What of them?”
Part of Ewan withered inside with what he needed to say. He clenched his fist against the rise of nausea. “It would be a shame if they somehow found themselves in trouble.”
Freya's demeanor remained rigid, but her face had gone pale. “Are ye threatening my family?” She pulled the blade from the unseen pocket of her gown.
“I’m ensuring the safety of my own family.” He lifted his jaw. “And if I dinna come back, there will be inquiries. A member of the Black Watch canna just disappear.” It was a lie. He’d told no one of her family. She didn’t know that, of course, which was a good thing, or she might well kill him. The rage flashing like murder in her eyes told him as much.
Her lip curled. “I do not like being extorted, Captain.” She practically spat the last word.
“I only want confirmation my mother is safe.”
She remained quiet for long enough that he figured she was most likely planning his demise.
“I’ll do this on one condition,” she said at last.
He didn’t say anything and let the silence between them press her to continue.
“After I meet with ye to tell ye of how she is, I willna ever see ye again.” She looked down at her blade. “Because if ye can threaten my family, I can just as easily threaten yers. Am I clear?”
He nodded. “Bring me a note from my mother. So I know ye went.”
She smirked. “Ye dinna believe me?”
“I know these are no’ the best circumstances for this arrangement,” he said.
She scoffed.
“Thank ye.” He inclined his head. “From the bottom of my heart – thank ye.”
She glared at him. “Get out.”
He complied without complaint. After all, he would have confirmation of his mother’s safety soon.
Why then did he have such an ominous darkness clouding his awareness?
CHAPTER THREE
Damn Captain Ewan Fraser.
Were it not for him, Freya wouldn't be crammed into the boxy carriage, bouncing her way through the countryside, two days from the refinement of Edinburgh. She ought to visit her own family while she was out this way.
The idea entered her head with all the delight of a prod to a fresh wound. No, going home was far too difficult to stomach. The farm she couldn't man herself, a mother whose ailments only worsened despite medicine and care, a sister whose weak body grew large with the child of a man who took what she had not been willing to give.
Damn the captain, and damn the English too.
Freya stared out the window at the trees flicking rapidly by. Her lids grew heavy and sleep tugged at her, playing a game of cat-and-mouse with her consciousness.
Suddenly her body slammed backward and her head smacked sharply into the wall behind her seat. The carriage had come to a very abrupt stop.
“Stay inside.” Edward's voice was low, dangerous.
“Like hell I will.” Freya pulled the knife from her waist and put a hand to the flimsy door.
“Wait.” Edward's voice held an edge to it.
She’d initially hired the aging driver the first time when she had newly arrived in Edinburgh. He’d always treated her with respect and loyalty. She'd hardly leave a man so faithful and considerate at the mercy of highwaymen.
She pushed through the door, jumped from the carriage - and stopped short. The knife she'd pulled back to strike lowered slowly and the breath fled her lungs.
“Is this his home?” she asked softly.
The trees cleared away on either side, and the path they were on continued onward for a long stretch - an opulent entrance to what must have once been a grand manor. What had been there now lay in charred remains. Several beams jutted up from the ruin like the bones of something dead, blackened with the trauma of destruction.
A stone structure remained at the rear - an old tower home, simple and square and strong enough to have survived the devastation of fire.
Edward leapt from his driver's seat in a nimble move Freya had thought him no longer capable of. He held his pistol cocked back beside his ear, keeping it from being pointed at her, but ready in case it needed to be aimed and fired. He observed the surrounding trees with sharp scrutiny.
“Get inside the carriage until I know it's safe,” he said.
“Is this his house?” Freya asked again. “Captain Fraser's.”
“It is. Now get inside the damn carriage.”
Freya cut her gaze to him. “I can handle myself.”
Edward scowled at her and muttered something about ladies being too tough for their own good, or something of its like. Freya strode toward the ruin of Captain Fraser's home, the knife held tightly at her side.
Perhaps next time she came to the country she'd bring a pistol, like Edward. Her father's knife was plenty for breaking up a rabble at Molly's, but wouldn't do much of anything against a band of redcoats. Outside Edinburgh, she was just another Highland wench to rape.
She was not far from the destroyed home when she saw the first body. The smell hit her before she caught the bright yellow of a dress nestled among the high grass. Her heart clenched and bile burned a path up the back of her throat.
Was that Ewan's mother?
Flies hummed greedily over their fare and scattered in a dark, lifting cloud when she approached. A splash of black rust stained the yellow cotton bodice, just over the heart. Blood. At least her death would have been quick.
Freya swallowed thickly and tried to command her frantic heart to calm. Sometimes even her will was not enough though, and her pulse practically vibrated beneath her skin.
She forced her gaze to the woman's face and gave a choked cry. The woman was young, her cheeks sunken in with death and her eyes closed against the ugliness of her own fate.
This was not Ewan's mother, but she was young enough to be Freya's own sister. This could have been the fate of her family. Except they'd left them alive. Alive, but broken, destroyed by their brutal rape of Marian.
“Lady Freya, I—” Edward stopped beside her. “Those damn redcoats.” His features hardened. “Get yerself back into the carriage. Leave this to me to tend to.”
Freya shook her head and backed away from the woman. “I have to find Lily Fraser.”
She’d expected Edward to argue, but the fight visibly drained from his body and he regarded the dead young woman with quiet mourning.
Heart pounding, knees weak, Freya shuffled to what was left of the manor on legs no longer seeming her own. The wet odor of charred remains hit her nostrils along with the sickly-sweet stink of more death.
And more death was found. Several men, and the body of an older lady.
Captain Ewan Fraser's mother was dead.
Freya turned her back on his ruined life and staggered away blindly, her vision blurred with tears for people she'd never met, who’d had dreams and hopes and families and love. A deep place in her heart splintered open for so much loss, so much death.