Between The Sheets (A Naughty Box Production Book 1)

by Carmichael, Kim;

  His eyes flew open, still glazed, but this time from the compulsion of his body, not of a god. My lust was furious, denying the pain for the hunger. In too short a time he cried out his deliverance, and collapsed upon me again.

  This time his recovery was swift. In one violent motion, he was on his feet, shouting in confusion.

  “Mother of God, what have I done?” His voice echoed across the loch, and fear stormed in his wide open eyes. His search found the drying blood on my thighs, and he reeled back, nearly falling into the water.

  “What? I… Oh God forgive me!” he screamed, and dove into the water.

  He surfaced as I sat up, swimming frantically for the opposite shore.

  Dread crept into my blood as his words permeated my confusion and disappointment. Elphane had sent a Christian man!

  There was no time to decipher Her will in this. If he returned, my life would surely be forfeit! I scrambled to my feet, dressed, and gathered my belongings. When I turned back to the spot where we had lain, the outline of my naked body was still plain in the moss. I used my shoes to bring water from the loch to the spot. The extra water would allow the moss to spring back into form. I put the shoes in my pack. With one last check of the shore, to ensure I had left no other sign of my presence, I fled, barefoot.

  * * *

  How could she, (Elspeth), allow such wanton lust to command her? I am shaking with fear. If Elspeth has put her life in danger, what does it mean to me? If we are one soul, will her death in that life mean my death here, as well? I have barely lived!

  Even as I quake with fear, I can feel the lingering desire from Elspeth. The images of her rutting with that man will not fade from my memory. They frighten me…and they arouse me. I’d arranged a discreet meeting with Hugh Mackenzie today. Now I am afraid to go, as though he might smell the lust radiating from me. Yet, if she…I?…we? live…?

  I don’t know what to do, and I am petrified of falling asleep.

  May 4, 1936

  All of my attempts to avoid sleep have failed. Nothing has come of Elspeth’s indiscretion thus far. I have claimed a headache and nausea for the past two days. Mother threatened to call a doctor if I hide in my rooms much longer, and Mr. Mackenzie slipped a note under my dinner plate last evening, asking after me. Living in fear is not living. It is time for me to accept that I cannot control what happens in Elspeth’s world, I may only observe.

  * * *

  While I have taken up hermitage, Elspeth has been calmly planning a way to protect herself. There have been some harrowing moments. For now, however, she is safe. As I left off telling the events of May Day before the end, I’ll pick up the tale here…

  * * *

  When I, (Elspeth), left the loch, I mounted the mule again and hastened toward Àrd-na-Said, the Height of Arrows. I took out the little casket I carried in a deep pocket sewn to the inside of my cloak. This was the best I had carved, yet. The outside was well-shaped and smooth, but for the small metal ornamentation. Inside, the wooden doll fit better than any of the others I had made. In the past, I had to remove an arm, or two, to make it fit the casket. This doll had taken me weeks to carve. His clothing was a little haphazard, testament to the shortage of time to fashion it due to the extra time carving. In all, I was pleased with the result. I could only pray that Elphane would be as pleased.

  I had made this journey every year since the Black Death took my parents. I was just six years of age, when I first made the trip with Keita. She was ancient before I was born. As a priestess of Elphane, she knew best how to avert the wrath of the Goddess.

  When the plague swept through Scotland in 1568, half of Penicuik had been wiped out in the first weeks. While my parents succumbed, Keita was traveling to Ben Nevis, the mountain of the Goddess, to plead for the pagan families. When she returned, I was an orphan, but not for long.

  The old witch said that Elphane had sent the plague to punish the pagans forsaking her. Many were converting to Christianity, eschewing the ancient rites. Beltane was not being kept to Her will, and the Goddess was furious. She had sent the plague before, a warning to Her priestesses that they heeded, and She had withdrawn the threat. This time, Kieta claimed, Her ire had been revived when three of Her highest priestesses abandoned the pagans, converting to Christianity in truth. Few remained, and of those Keita only had sought out the Goddess.

  Even in Her rage, Elphane showed compassion. The journey to Beinne Nevis was gruelling for Kieta, and the Goddess was pleased at her diligence. In return, She granted the witch a boon: in future, Kieta and her successors would be permitted to make the much easier trip to Àrd-na-Said. This, and the other instructions she’d collected, began our annual pilgrimage. Now the covenant was mine to fulfill.

  * * *

  The climb had always been mine to make. Kieta’s frail old body could not have accomplished it.

  The North-West brae was usually avoided in favor of the paths further North and South. On Beltane and May Day, the Christians avoided the beinne altogether, for fear of the evil spirits the pagans may have summoned there. The pagans were often lounging still, at dawn, or recovering from the night’s revelry. This late in the morning, I was at greater risk of discovery, but the sacrifice had to be offered.

  The first part of the climb was simple. The slope was gentle here, more like a hill. I reached the base of the cliff I needed, three-quarters of the way to the peak. It was a short climb to the toll, from there. When I was young, my small hands and feet could cling to the rock face better. That first year, I dug the toll to Keita’s exact instructions, placed the first casket on the lowest shelf and waved to signal her to begin the incantation.

  My hands and feet were much larger now. It was nearly all I could do to cling to the rock face, and remove the stone blocking the entrance, without falling. This year’s casket filled the second row of the three I’d made. If I could evade King James’ witch hunters for eight more years, I would have to find, or dig, a new toll.

  With the casket in place and the incantation made, I could only pray that Elphane would once more keep the Black Death from Her faithful people. I had fulfilled the covenant for another year, but I could not help but wonder how Elphane would receive, and make use of, the Christian spirit I had collected for Her.

  * * *

  The trip back to my wood was arduous, as I had rested little these last two days. In my weariness I forgot to circle around the village. I could feel eyes on me as I rode through. A few townspeople whisked their children inside as I passed, and one of the Christian men spit on the ground before me. I ignored them, though inside I was quaking in fear. Soon they would tell the new pastor about the witch of the wood, and my life might be in danger.

  I had taken some precautions already. My herbs were now in a shed I’d erected deep in the wood. It was inconvenient to not have them in my hut, but I would be safer. My tools were buried nearby in a small casket. Anyone digging would assume it was the crude grave of a small child, and fear would have them cover it again, without further inspection. My mentor, Keita, had made a special compartment in her pallet, where I now hid all of my potions, medicines and ointments. Finally, I hung my mother’s wooden cross on the wall, directly across from the door. It was cleverly crafted, with Celtic scrollwork that hid the pagan symbols well. If the Protestants came, they would see it and assume I was a Catholic, gone into hermitage to avoid persecution. Catholics were rarely tortured and executed as witches.

  I could hope that the man who had come to the loch was from Edinburgh, or some other town farther away. Perhaps his shame would keep him silent. Even if he did notify the authorities, there was small chance they would find me in my little wood so far south. I could not risk it, even so. The sense that something momentus was coming had intensified, threefold, after I left the loch. That did not bode well. I fell into my pallet without even washing the dust of the road from my face, and fell into deep sleep before I could formulate any more plans.

  * * *

  The nex
t day, I sought out Arailt, to assure him the sacrifice had been made, then to ask after any lads looking to wife. The question startled the boy.

  “Why do you ask, Elspeth? Do you intend to heed my advice?” He stared at the ground as he spoke.

  “Is it your advice, then?” I teased gently.

  “Nay. It was my da who said it. I am but a messenger.” He looked up then, and his beard didn’t hide the shy smile. “It is good advice, though. You have no father, nor brother to make you a match. Would you have me stand in their stead to find your equal? May I ask the advice of Da?”

  “Aye, Arailt. I would be grateful for your help, both of you, though I would make my own match in the end. I won’t trouble you to make arrangements, if you can find a good man I can consider.” I hoped my meaning was clear. If I let the men make the match for me, I could find myself hastily wed to a man I had never met.

  “So, not direct, then?”

  “Not direct.” I nodded, smiling back. “If you find a man you think could marry a witch without fear, perhaps I will ask you to bargain for me, then.”

  “I might know a lad or two, already. You’re a bonnie lady, Elspeth. It will not be a chore. You have my word on it. We will find you a good man to wed, one who will keep you safe.”

  * * *

  I returned to my wood, stopping to check on families who had sought my help recently. I trusted Arailt to come to me with prospective suitors, if any were to be had. He was a smart lad, and with the advice of his father, a wise man, would ensure my safety and contentment, for the good of their people. By the time I reached my little hut, the sun was sinking.

  A delegation was waiting on my return. Not a delegation of pagans, though. This was a band of Christians. Few of the faces were familiar, or friendly. All of my courage was required to keep me from checking my pace.

  “Welcome to my humble home.” I greeted, careful to keep my eyes cast down. “How may I serve?”

  A man stepped forward, bearing himself stiffly, with his shoulders pulled back. As he did, another man behind him was revealed, the man from the loch. My heart pounded, but with my head down, I did not reveal my fear.

  “Where is your father, or your husband?” the first man demanded.

  I opened my mouth to answer, when a familiar voice sounded behind me. “This lass is an orphan, and soon to be my wife.” Arailt boomed, coming to stand behind me.

  “And I stand in stead for her father.” another voice announced. The chief of Clan Fraser, himself, Simon, the sixth Lord Lovat, had come to visit his kinsmen, and Arailt must have confided in him.

  The Christian narrowed his eyes at the chief, wrinkling his nose at the highlander’s unkempt beard and traditional clothing, but they widened as he recognized the man behind him. There, in his rich livery, the Earl of Caithness, George of Rosslyn stood with his shoulders squared and a hand on his sword.

  “What is the issue at hand?” the Earl asked with calm authority, and the clergyman took a step back.

  “These good Christian men tell me there is a witch in these woods.” The pastor, for that is who he was, glared at me.

  “This lass?” The Earl laughed, throwing back his noble head. “You need twenty men to confront a slip of a girl?”

  “My son says he was seduced by a witch at Dudiston Loch, on the morn of May Day.” The pastor was using his sermon voice, speaking as much to the men behind him as those before him. “He nearly drowned escaping her clutches and lay insensible on the shore for some time. He meant to report her in Edinburgh, but as he came to Arthur’s Seat, he saw the identical witch climbing the North-West cliff, and fled here to me, in fear for his life. She wore a grey, wool mantle much like this “slip of a girl” wears now.”

  “Because she wears a grey cloak, she is a witch now?” Lord Lovat scoffed. “Be careful, Pastor, or you will be forced to burn half of your flock. Many women wear grey, woolen cloaks. Can your son identify this supposed witch?” the chief asked.

  The clergyman waved his son forward. He was the man from the loch, as I had feared. I could feel my stomach twist in upon itself. He stepped in front of me, and reached up to remove my hood and reveal my face. A moment passed, and another, but he said nothing. I ventured a look, and found him waiting. He stared into my eyes for several heartbeats and then bowed his head.

  “It is not her.” he said. He was lying. I saw the recognition before he looked away.

  Before I could recover from the confusion and relief, he turned back to me and bowed. “Ewan of MacCoinnich, at your service.” He straightened and boldly looked into my eyes again. “Please accept my apologies and my father’s, Dubhglas of —.”

  “Forgive us, child.” His father interrupted, but he did not seem satisfied. “May we ask how you live, alone in this wood? How do you provide for yourself?”

  “I have a garden, hens, and a cock.” I replied. “I help the women of the village with some small tasks in exchange for the other things I require. ‘He who will not work or act, will ne’er find food on any track.’”

  “Your industry does you credit.” His eyes took a cunning glimmer, “A roasting hen would be a fine tithe to the Kirk.”

  “I can nae spare the hen, good sir, but you are welcome to some fresh eggs.”

  “Splendid!” he exclaimed. “Let us fetch them.”

  When I entered my hut to fetch a basket, the pastor followed me, as I’d expected. Of course, his eye fell on the cross at once. “You are Catholic?” His lip curled as he spoke, and he surveyed my home with a keen, but disappointed eye. There was nothing here to give me away as anything more.

  “Aye. Which is why I have yet to set foot in the Kirk, Pastor. I know I would not be welcomed.” I formed a shy smile, enjoying his discomfiture, but careful not to show it. “But hens know nothing from Catholic or Protestant, and their eggs are fine sustenance to both.”

  He frowned at my quip, but didn’t argue. The men he’d brought waited impatiently while he, Arailt, and the noblemen followed me to the small coup. I found six, lovely, brown eggs, and put them in the basket before I handed it to the Pastor.

  “Aha!” A sly grin took over his mouth. “How do you know these are good for the eating? You did not check!”

  I was ready with the answer, knowing he would ask. This man wanted to find a witch today, and he would leave no opportunity untried. “I have no need to check. These hens have never been bred. The cock and breeding hens are in the other coup. I gestured to the second coup, tucked away behind the first.

  The Earl of Caithness laughed aloud at my answer. The pastor’s face reddened, with embarrassment or anger, perhaps both. Ewan MacCoinnich, who had followed, bowed his head to hide a smile.

  The Protestant delegation left with a basket of eggs, but no witch. I was not certain what to make of Ewan MacCoinnich, but I had no leisure to consider it. For now, I was safe, favoured by an Earl, and promised to a pagan lad I had no intention of wedding. That pagan was staring at me, now, in open admiration.

  * * *

  I, (Beth), will have to leave off here, for now. The morning has flown by, and luncheon is at hand. I should dress for it, and make an appearance, before Mother comes knocking. Perhaps today I will search out Mr. Mackenzie. Father plans to go sailing with his cronies again, but I think I can beg off, if I claim to be still weak from my passing illness.

  May 9, 1936

  I have had a most delightful time these few days since my last entry! As Beth, at least. As Elspeth I have been living quietly and discreetly, other than the trouble of deflecting Arailt’s affection. The poor lad is smitten, unfortunately. He seems determined to secure the sham marriage in reality. At least his father agrees that he is not the man for it, and is keeping him at bay.

  * * *

  Here in the Hamptons, another man takes much of my attention. Hugh Mackenzie has declared his intent to win over my father! Though we have been meeting secretly every day, he wants to proceed honorably, with Father’s blessing. Did I not say he was keen?
>
  I want this man more than I have ever wanted anything. Every time he is within touching distance, I want to put my hands on him. The craving, the need to feel his touch is agony, and yet every moment of anticipation is sweeter than the last. The first time he ventured to caress my face with his newly calloused hands, the thrill that shot through me stole my breath and turned my knees to water. It is the closest thing I have felt to being Elspeth with that Christian man. The images, the sensations of that, are with me still, a hunger that grows more each day. Several times these past few days, when I was alone, I caught myself touching or stroking my womanhood while I daydreamed of Hugh. While I am afraid of the pain to come, I also crave it. If he begins to make love to me, I do not think I can hold it back. I am not certain I want to.

  Sneaking out to meet him only seems to fuel the burning. I finally understand why they call being in love, being ‘goofy’. No effort seems wasted or childish, if it means one more smile, one more touch from him.

  Mother knows about us. She caught us laughing together in the garden, and she knew right away. I worried that she would forbid me to see him, but Hugh won her over in short order. She has even agreed to help with Father!

  See, Hugh is no four-flusher. In fact, before the Wall Street Crash, his family was quite wealthy. Their fortune was nothing to shrug at. Andrew Mackenzie, Hugh told me, had suspected the crash would come, and had quietly shifted his investments in preparation. Unfortunately, he had underestimated just how titanic the crash would be. If not for their real estate holdings, and the money he’d invested in, of all things, lumber and cigarettes, they would now be destitute.

  The only reason Hugh’s father works for mine is that he did lose so much in the crash. Andrew Mackenzie is not afraid of hard work, and he knows his onions. By living in, he has been able to sell off their penthouse on Fifth Avenue, as well as their small estate at Newport. He held the estate until land values began to rise again, and then sold it in smaller parcels, at a better profit than he would have made with one large sale. He believes that with careful investing, he can rebuild their fortune in less than five more years, and retire as Father’s personal secretary. It is quite brilliant of him, really.