Free A Promise of Love by Karen Ranney Page B

which seemed to measure each breath she took. When they halted, her breath stopped, only to resume when the footsteps began again.
    Yet, he had not once attempted liberties.
    Still, there was something about him to inspire caution. A fluttering in her belly when he smiled, a trembling of her limbs when he grew too near. No, Malcolm was wrong. There was ample reason to fear the MacLeod.
    She had only a short time left until she could experience true freedom. In two months and a week, her heart would no longer lurch at the thud of boots echoing on a wooden floor; she needn’t cringe at the slam of a door. A man’s booming voice would not induce anxiety or his anger a paralyzing fear. Her life would be of her making, not lived because of the sudden and changeable whims of a husband. But to tell Malcolm these things would be to expose too many other, darker, secrets. It was better, in the end, to simply remain silent.
    They passed at least forty of the small crofter’s huts. Their roofs of thatch and heather merged with the rolling hills so well they blended into the landscape. Only their rock walls declared their man-made construction. Judith was surprised at the number and the tidiness of the community, but noticed that several of the cottages were empty.
    "Emigrated," Malcolm said shortly when she asked about their inhabitants, "or didn't survive the last few years. “'Twas the bairns, mostly, who didn't make it. Only two bairns born since the '45, but one is my own wee Douglas."
    "Your son?"
    "Bless you, lass," he said, smiling, "my grandson. I'm surprised ye haven't seen him yet, Fiona fair dotes on the lad, she does. Would ye like ta see him now?"
    Judith nodded, following Malcolm down the track to where it veered left towards the cultivated fields. She wanted to stop him, to say she changed her mind, but it was too late. The MacLeod had already seen them.
    "Does he work all the time?" she asked, not realizing how much her question betrayed her growing curiosity about him.
    "Aye," Malcolm said, "but then he's always been a demon for work, the MacLeod. There's work aplenty for all here in the Highlands, lass."
    The MacLeod was standing at the end of one field, removing his shirt. His bronzed back was wide and glistening with sweat. A feminine hand smoothed down the droplets on his spine, curved around and grasped him firmly by the waist. They made a handsome pair. The woman's head barely reached his chin, making him appear larger and more formidable. She had not relinquished her grip around his waist, and as he bent and whispered something to her, her smile broadened. Her eyes had not left Judith since she spotted her following Malcolm.
    Fiona reached up and pulled his head down for an unsolicited kiss. It was damned bad timing, Alisdair thought, pushing his clanswoman gently away. The flush on Judith's face disappeared, to be replaced by a stark whiteness.
    At Malcolm’s request, Fiona fetched her son, returning with a wide hipped walk that appeared deliberately saucy, Judith thought.
    And the MacLeod did not have the grace to look ashamed.
    Fiona's son had the dark amber eyes of the MacLeod, lit by golden flecks. It was plain that Fiona was not the only one who doted on the child. Malcolm oohed and aahed over the baby, who was proudly displayed by his mother. Proudly and with a challenging smile.
    It was the MacLeod Douglas reached for, however, and he took him easily from Fiona's arms, cradling him against his bare chest. Judith was not the least bit interested in his paternal leanings. Nor was she concerned that his face softened or the light in his eyes was a glow of love. He was so gentle with the child, as if an errant movement would hurt him, holding the baby easily in the crook of one arm, a stance that denoted much practice.
    It was, after all, none of her concern.
    Fiona took the baby back to his basket, not resisting a backward glance at the still, stiff figure of the English woman as she did so. Judith did