Last night?
He slid a glance around the unfamiliar room. Light from the rising sun slanted into the large space. A fine blue silk carpet covered the entire floor, and a massive wardrobe stood in the corner, the one from which Freya had drawn her shift. He didn't remember having ever seen such a room before, let alone the prior night. And certainly he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings when he woke to the allure of a bonny naked woman.
Then, the whisper of a memory. Trying to wake, his eyelids heavy as lead, and Freya’s warning of being near home. Of redcoats.
Fear edged him into consciousness. “Where am I? What's happened?”
“My house.” Freya put a cool hand on his. “There's an officer billeting here, a Captain Crosby.” She paused, and he realized she was waiting for him to offer recognition.
He shook his head.
“I'd hoped ye wouldna know him.” Her shoulders visibly relaxed. “I gave ye a bit too much medicine in the carriage and it left ye...addled.”
“Addled?” He frowned. Addled was never a good thing.
“People needed to know what was wrong with ye.” Freya was speaking with surprising patience and gentleness.
Ewan eyed her warily.
“I came up with the first thing I could think of,” she said. “That ye were drunk.”
He stiffened and was rewarded with a hot stab in the side where the bullet had torn into him. “I dinna drink - no' like that. Never.”
She curled her hand around his now. “I know,” she said. “I also needed an explanation of why ye were traveling with me in addition to why yer ma is staying with us. I said we were married.”
“Married.” He repeated the word slowly, the frown returning.
She let go of his hand and pushed at the shoulder on his good side in mock chastisement. “Dinna say it like it's the worst thing imaginable.”
So now he was a drunkard and a shite of a husband. “Anything else ye'd like to tell me?” he ground out.
“Aye, ye're no longer Ewan Fraser, but Ewan MacDonald.” She said it as if it were a small thing, as if it didn't matter that he no longer had his own name. Perhaps she saw the horror on his face, for she quickly continued. “Yer mother was cautious of the redcoat when he arrived and gave him a fake name. Fortunate for her quick thinking, as it has saved yer arse from being known to a redcoat as a man wanted for desertion.”
Desertion.
The word hit him in the gut. The same as every other time he’d heard it, the effect no less painful.
Freya leaned toward him. Her hair swept forward in a red curtain and framed her face. “Are ye all right?” she asked carefully.
Ewan scoffed. He couldn't help it any more than he could keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice. “I'm a deserter who's lost his home, his servants, his wealth, and now his name and good moral character.” He swallowed around something hard in the back of his throat. “After everything I've worked so hard for my entire life, I've no' anything left.”
Freya's brow puckered, and he immediately regretted having spoken aloud what resonated with such soul-sucking pain in his heart.
He shook his head. “I shouldna have said that.”
“Ye have yer ma here, who is so overjoyed to have ye with her and safe. And...” She paused. “Ye have me.” She gave a tentative smile. “Yer wife.”
Ewan couldn't help the small chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all.
“I canna promise to mind my tongue,” Freya said. “And I canna promise to no' cause problems, because by the saints, it seems to follow me, but I promise to help ye in any way I can.”
He nodded. “Thank ye, and I promise to be as helpful here as I can and stay out of yer way.”
Freya smirked. “These are starting to sound like real vows. Come, let's get yer medicine and get downstairs. Apparently my mother has coordinated a morning tea in light of the redcoat bastard's presence.”
Ewan shook his head. “Nay - I dinna want any medicine. No' again.”
“I won't give ye as much this time.”
He shook his head resolutely. He'd not have his wits lost in this scheme. Besides, last time he was out of sorts, he woke to find his name changed on account of him living in the same house as his enemy who sought his death, and ended up married.
What would possibly happen a second time?
Freya patted his arm playfully. “Up with ye then, sweeting. We have a tea to attend and a marriage to fake.”
Ewan allowed himself to be pulled upright despite the pain in his side, ready to play the part of a dutiful husband.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nothing paired with a morning tea like uncomfortable silence. Freya sat stiffly beside Ewan in the stark quiet of the room where they received guests. Not only was it large enough to accommodate several chairs, but also the windows faced the sun, which meant it was typically warmer than the other rooms.
The only interruption to the silence was the steady, vibrating tick of her mother's cup rattling against the saucer where she held it in her trembling hands.
Freya held her dainty tea cup and stared into the amber liquid to the leaves at the bottom. It was better than having to look at the redcoat taking her home, or noticing how Lily sat as far from the man as possible, her blue eyes wide with barely restrained fear.
She looked a far cry better than when Freya had last seen her, but then anyone would after donning a fresh gown and having some time to heal.
“Marian,” Ma said. “Will ye please plate the pastries?”
Freya shot her mother an incredulous glare. “I can do it.”
But Marian was already up, hands upon her swollen belly. She shook her head at Freya. “Dinna worry, sister. I'm fine to do this.”
“She is,” Lily agreed with a terse nod. “She's been doing it this whole time.” She flicked a nervous glance at Captain Crosby, like a mouse eyeing a hawk.
“Even though some of us would rather do it in her stead,” the Englishman said crisply and offered an understanding smile to Freya.
She stared at him for a long moment before taking a swallow of her tea to avoid having to reply.
Marian pulled the linen off a wide plate on the table to reveal six small rounds of dough brushed with glossy honey and a pat of bright red jam at its center. One had tipped somehow, lying on its side, damaged. Half of the flaky dough had crumbled and the jam was a sticky, smeared mess.
The redcoat's gaze fell first on the pastries, then on Ewan where it hovered. The man's sharp brown eyes saw more than the Englishman said. It was disconcerting. Freya set her cup on the table and took Ewan's hand in hers. Let the pretending begin.
If Ewan was surprised by the gesture, he did not show it. Instead he regarded Freya with a shy, quiet look, and it was her who went still.
He didn't look at her like a man feigning being married to the saucy owner of a bawdyhouse. He looked at her like he respected her, like he adored her. Like he loved her.