Tides of Fortune (Jacobite Chronicles Book 6)

by Julia Brannan

  Once inside the house Beth turned to her husband, her face earnest.

  “Alex,” she said, “I’m sor—” He placed a finger gently on her lips, silencing her.

  “No’ the now,” he said softly. “No need for words. For today, let’s just be together.”

  She nodded agreement, and they looked at each other and smiled. Then they undressed each other very slowly, neither of them speaking, focussing completely on the moment, every sense heightened.

  As he disrobed her he felt the roughness of her woollen dress, the hardness of the boned stays, and the crisp feel of her shift as he pulled it over her head. He looked with curiosity at the amulet which nestled between her breasts, then lifted it gently over her head, placing it carefully on the table. Then, without touching her skin, he stood back, indicating that it was her turn.

  She carefully undid the buckle of his leather belt, then watched as the soft worn wool of the feileadh mòr, that he looked so good when wearing but so much better without, fell to the ground. She reached for his linen shirt, standing on tiptoes to lift it over his head; but he was still too tall and had to bend forward to help her.

  Then they stood facing each other for a moment, committing each other to memory, glorying in the sheer beauty of each other’s bodies, the scars incurred through their battles whilst apart only adding to that beauty, because those battles had, finally, led to this day. This perfect, perfect day.

  Then, still without speaking, he picked up the hairbrush from the small table near the bed and moving behind her brushed her hair, removing the bits of leaf and twig carefully, relishing the soft silky feel of the brown waves, that in his mind were still purest silver-gilt. When he had finished, he knelt and very carefully feathered a series of soft kisses up the side of her neck.

  She sighed then and would have melted into his embrace, but forced herself to hold back, instead taking the brush from him and performing the same service for him, until the burnished chestnut waves rippled over his broad shoulders, gleaming and lit with coppery fire. And then she gently moved his hair to the side and kissed his neck until he turned and with one smooth movement stood and lifted her, moving to the bed, where he sat down with her across his lap and buried his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet feminine scent of her, a scent he’d thought never to smell again. Now she clung to him, running her hands softly up and down the muscles of his back, feeling him shiver deliciously at her touch.

  They had an unspoken agreement to be gentle and slow after the violence of their reconciliation, in which both of them had been bruised, not just by the fall into the heather but by the fierceness with which they’d clung to each other, sobbing and laughing, and muttering incoherent words of endearment.

  But then he lifted his head and their eyes met, and suddenly his lips were on hers, fierce, demanding, and she answered his need with her own. He fell backwards onto the bed, taking her with him, rolling so that she was under him. She reached up to pull him down to her, but he braced himself on his elbows and resisted, although his eyes were dark and smoky with desire for her.

  “It’s been so long,” he said breathlessly. “I want to be gentle, but—”

  “Don’t be gentle,” she said. “I don’t want you to be gentle. I want you inside me, now.”

  “But I dinna want to hurt—”

  “Now,” she repeated desperately, wrapping her legs around his waist and reaching down with her hand to find him and guide him into her. He gave in, to her need and his own, sheathing himself inside her soft warm flesh in one smooth movement, making her gasp. And then he stopped for a second and looked at her, and they both smiled.

  “Tha gràdh agam ort, mo leannan,” he said softly.

  “I love you too, so very much,” she replied.

  Then he started to move inside her, very slowly at first, while she clung to him, tightening her legs around his waist, pulling him into her, their bodies melding as one as they moved in perfect synchronicity, building up speed as the blind passion overtook them both. He drove into her while she arched against him, throwing her head back and screaming with the ecstasy which overtook her, driving everything else from her mind. Even so she felt the liquid heat of his release, heard his incoherent moan as he climaxed, and laughed from sheer joy, a joy she had not felt for over two years and had thought she would never feel again.

  She was come home. They were come home. And they would never be separated again, in life.

  Afterwards he rolled over onto his side, taking her with him so they were still joined, and she lay, her head against his chest, listening to the thundering of his heart quieten to a steady, comforting beat. She nestled into him and his arm closed around her, heavy, protective, and they both slept for a while, limbs entwined.

  When they awoke it was almost dark. Very gently he disentangled himself from her, ignoring her sleepy moan of protest, and got out of bed. He made up the fire and lit candles until the room was bathed in a soft golden light. Beth, awake now, leaned up on one elbow, watching him as he moved about the room.

  “Why are you lighting so many candles?” she asked.

  He looked across at her and smiled.

  “Aye, well, I’ve grown accustomed to ye now,” he said. “I thought I’d read a wee while until it’s time to sleep properly.”

  She reached back lazily with one arm and launched a pillow at him, which he caught neatly in one hand, while picking up a bottle of wine that someone had thoughtfully placed on the table with the other and returning to bed. He sat up, plumping the pillow behind him, and she sat with him, his arm round her shoulder while they passed the bottle back and forth. He bent his head and dropped a kiss on top of hers, and she snuggled closer in to him.

  “D’ye mind the first time we made love, and I made to snuff the candle?” he asked. “Ye tellt me that ye wanted to see me, to know it was me with ye.”

  “Yes,” she replied softly. “I remember that.”

  “’The dark can lead to imaginings’, ye said,” he continued. “If I wake in the night, I want to see ye there beside me. I still can hardly believe ye’re real. I dinna want the imaginings the dark might bring.”

  She closed her eyes tightly at that, but even so a single tear squeezed out through her lashes, rolling down her cheek. She kept her head averted, hoping he wouldn’t notice, but then she felt his finger lightly brush the teardrop away and remembered that he had always been able to read her mind.

  “I’ll always be here beside you,” she said, “for as long as you want me to be.”

  “Forever, then,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  She leaned further into his warmth, running her fingernail down the middle of his chest, down his hard, flat stomach and into the soft chestnut curls below.

  He grunted and stirred and she giggled with delight, carrying the movement along the hard velvety length of him. He reached down, imprisoning her roaming small hand in his large one.

  “Dinna be so eager,” he murmured. “Slowly this time. Verra slowly.”

  He bent his lips to hers and, with infinite tenderness, proceeded to show his wife, by actions rather than words, just how wonderful forever was going to be.

  Having spent the whole night making love, they both slept very late into the next day, waking sometime in mid-afternoon.

  They lay there drowsily for a while, limbs entwined, listening to the sounds of the clansfolk who, judging by the number of times someone said “Isd!” fiercely, were attempting to go about their duties quietly so as not to disturb the chieftain and his wife.

  Finally Alex turned on his side, raising himself onto one elbow and wincing slightly as he did.

  “Are you hurt?” Beth asked.

  “No,” he replied. “Well, aye, a wee bit. I hit it on a rock yesterday when we fell. It was either that or land on top of ye, and I didna think ye’d thank me if ye’d walked all that way only to have me squash you flat.”

  She laughed.

  “You could have broken your neck, chargin
g down the hill like that,” she said, half-joking.

  “Aye, well, if my last sight had been your face, I’d have died happy,” he replied, reaching out and stroking the hair back from her face before leaning down and kissing the tip of her nose.

  “I wouldn’t have been happy if you’d killed yourself, you bloody fool,” Beth said. “For so long I thought you were—” She stopped herself from finishing, but the word hung between them.

  Dead.

  Alex sighed, and lay back down.

  “If anyone but Angus had tellt me,” he said softly, “I wouldna have believed them. I would have come looking for ye anyway. I’m sorry—” Now it was her turn to place a finger on his lips, silencing him. When she removed it, he said, “It’s tomorrow.”

  “It is,” she agreed. “And we need to get up, to go and tell everyone some of what’s happened to me in the last two years. But you mustn’t ever apologise to me for believing Angus. It was the right thing to do, and I’d have done the same in your position.”

  He nodded.

  “I agree, if you agree no’ to apologise for adding yourself to the list of dead,” he said. “It was the right thing to do too, and it means you’re safer now for it. We’ve both suffered badly through thinking the other to be dead.”

  “We have. But now we’re together again, and I don’t want our future to be blighted by our past. Life is so short, let’s enjoy it.”

  They kissed, and then they lay for a while longer, revelling in the simple joy of just being together. And then they got up, dressed, smiled at each other, and hand in hand walked out of the house to face the late afternoon sunshine, and the rest of their lives together.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Swiss Confederation, September 1748

  The man and woman stood in the graveyard of a small church nestled on a slope on the outskirts of Geneva, while down below on the road the postilion waited with their hired carriage. Monsieur Dubois had made his money from the clothing business, he said; and certainly the couple were dressed expensively, if not ostentatiously. They were from Normandy, although Madame Dubois had a strange accent. When the postilion had commented on this she told him that she had spent some time in the West Indies, but the climate had not suited her and she was very glad to be home.

  They were a pleasant couple, and clearly very much in love, which made the elderly postilion smile, remembering his own youth and a red-haired beauty, long dead, who had once captured his heart. He settled back to reminisce and took out his pipe and a pouch of tobacco to while away the time until his services were required again.

  In the graveyard M. and Mme Dubois were standing looking down at a gravestone. Being out of earshot, they were no longer speaking French.

  “He’s done it, then,” Alex murmured. “I confess I didna think he would.”

  Beth reached down and pulled away a strand of ivy, revealing the lettering beneath:

  Erected in Loving Memory of

  Anna Clarissa

  widow of Sir John Anthony Peters

  who departed this life on 7th February 1740

  in the 45th year of her life.

  Also in memory of their three daughters

  Anna Mary

  3rd June 1715 – 10th February 1740

  Caroline Anne

  12th December 1716 – 6th February 1740

  Beatrice Elizabeth

  25th March 1719 – 25th February 1740

  May they rest in the eternal peace of our Lord Jesus Christ.

  Also

  their dearly beloved son

  Anthony John Peters

  12th February 1713 – 23rd September 1720

  “Suffer little children to come unto me, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven”

  “You mean Highbury?” Beth said, looking at the lettering. The last lines looked new, and must have been carved very recently.

  “Aye. I tellt him that one day, if I could, I’d add Anthony’s name to the stone, to let the world know that this wee bairn and his family were in no way connected to the Jacobite spy. He said that if I couldna for any reason, that he would if a way could be found.”

  “He believes you to be dead, then,” Beth said.

  “Aye. It’s maybe better that way. He’s a good man, and there’s a bond of trust between us. He took a risk to do this only for a whim of mine.”

  “No,” Beth said. “It was more than a whim, I think. It was a pledge of honour, and Highbury is an honourable man, as are you.”

  Alex smiled, and kneeling down placed the small bouquet of flowers they’d brought with them on the grave. He ran his fingers lightly over the lettering, then looked up at his wife.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I brought you all this way for nothing.”

  “Not for nothing,” she replied. “You wouldn’t have known otherwise. And it’s been nice to see a little of France without having to wear uncomfortable gowns and make small talk with dull people while thinking about every word I said. But I’m ready to go home now. I miss our house, and the loch, and the mountains. I’m even missing Angus! And I owe him a debt for throwing me in the loch,” she added, referring to her brother-in-law’s successful attempt to sober her up after the joint celebration party for her and Simon, which had taken place shortly after her return. Since Angus had learned that he no longer had to accept the burden of chieftainship, at least not on a permanent basis, he had regained much of his former humour and boyishness, although the carefree recklessness had gone forever.

  “Ye’ll no’ be duelling wi’ my brother for a good few months yet,” Alex said warningly.

  He turned, still kneeling, clasped his wife about the waist and placed a kiss on the soft swell of her stomach, a roundness still small enough to be concealed beneath the folds of her skirts, but which was nevertheless on the minds of the two lovers constantly.

  Beth placed a hand on his head, and they remained this way for a moment, during which the postilion looked up the slope, and seeing the gesture, recognised the significance and smiled to himself. They were a lovely couple; kind, generous and devoted to each other. Their child would have a good start in life with such loving parents, he thought.

  Alex stood, and turning, they started to make their way back down the slope, holding hands.

  “I was thinking about names for the bairn, if it’s a boy,” he said.

  “You want to call him William?” she asked. “After Highbury?”

  “Would you like that?” He answered her question with another.

  “No,” she answered candidly. “Although I wouldn’t object if he didn’t have the same first name as Cumberland. I don’t want our son to be named after that bastard, or for anyone to think it.”

  “Good,” Alex said. “I wasna thinking of William. I ken it’s customary to name the first child after his grandfather, but Angus has done that already and I’d like to name ours Duncan, if ye dinna mind.”

  “Mind? No, I think that’s a wonderful idea!” Beth said. “And if he grows up to be like Duncan, I’d be very happy. I miss him.”

  “Aye, so do I, every day.”

  “I wish Sarah had told me about Màiri,” Beth said. “I’d love to have met her.” They had talked about Sarah and Duncan’s ill-fated love and the result, as they’d talked about many things in the past months.

  “Maybe we can find a way to do that, one day. But no’ for a good while, I’m thinking.”

  “No,” Beth said. “It’s too risky. Thank you for allowing me to write, though, and tell her I’m alive. Or rather that her cousin Adam has discovered his sweetheart hadn’t died of the fever after all, and that she’s to be an auntie in February.”

  “Ye’d have done it anyway, an I’d allowed it or no’,” Alex replied drily.

  Wisely, she didn’t answer this, not least because it was true. She, or rather Adam, had asked Sarah to pass on the good news to Sir Edwin and Lady Caroline, and to thank them for their kindness.

  “If the baby’s a girl, could we call her Marga
ret, then?” she asked instead.

  Surprised, Alex stopped, bringing her to a halt too.

  “Margaret? I thought ye wanted to name her after your mother, ye being so close and all.”

  “I did. But talking about Duncan and how we miss him made me think of Maggie. I’d like to name a daughter after her, and I’d like Iain to be the godfather too. I think it would please him, maybe make him smile again.”

  Alex smiled. And then he embraced his wife, lifting her off her feet and swinging her round until she giggled.

  “That’s a wonderful idea. And ye’re right. I’ve wondered for a long time how to bring Iain back to us. That might do it, having a stake in our bairn.”

  He set her down carefully on her feet.

  “Only if it’s a girl though,” she said. “I don’t think calling a boy Maggie would have the same result.”

  “Well, if it’s a boy, we’ll just have to keep on trying till we have a wee Maggie to make Iain smile again,” he observed.

  “Only to make Iain smile? The sacrifices you make for your clan,” Beth said, smiling.

  “Aye. I take my responsibilities as chieftain verra seriously.”

  “We’d best be getting home straight away, in that case,” she said. They carried on down the hill to the smiling postilion.

  Above them the late summer breeze coming down from the mountain moved through the churchyard, ruffling the brightly coloured petals of the little bouquet of flowers on the grave, and rustling the leaves of the tree which grew by the cemetery wall.

  Then it continued down the mountain to gently lift the chestnut hair of the tall handsome man currently handing his wife up into the carriage, leaving the tree, the graveyard and its occupants in tranquil silence once more.