She stiffened her spine, raised her chin a notch, and walked off, leaving the strawberry-blonde harridan with her mouth hanging open.
Beth needed these few minutes of fresh air, and come hell or high water, the likes of Marta wasn’t going to prevent her from enjoying them. After all, she’d had more than enough foul odors and oily individuals to contend with for one day. She’d have her five minutes of peace, and then she’d get back to work.
****
Quint yawned, wrapped his arm a little more snugly around his sleeping wife, and grinned into the darkness as he sniffed her hair. His Beth wasn’t going ta be the least bit happy come morning when she realized she still smelled of whale oil. And that was even after soaking in a tub of hot water for more than a full turning of the hourglass after he’d done her the favor of pissing on her.
He laughed out loud at the memory of the look upon her face when he’d done just that.
How, in her time, did they go about ridding themselves of the stink of whale if not with a concoction of human urine mixed with blubber ash? He’d have ta ask her in the morning. If she were talking to him again by then.
He laughed once more. He couldn’t help himself. Just the look on her face when he’d dropped his kilt and sprayed her naked body with his urine. Then he’d rubbed her down with the nasty ash while she stood bare-arsed, waiting for her bath ta arrive. It had probably been the most fun he’d had for ever so long.
She didn’t seem to share his opinion of a good time.
She’d screamed, squealed, squeaked, and even tried her best ta claw his eyes out a time or two.
But then she hadn’t really put up that much of a fuss when he asked her to reciprocate in kind. As a matter of fact, the little wench had quickly straddled the chamber pot. Before he’d even had the time to realized what was about to happen, she’d dumped a good size handful of blubber ash in with her piss, and then smeared every inch of his chest, his belly, and his groin in the warm, wet, ashy mixture. When she was done, she’d doubled over in a fit of giggles until tears streamed down her cheeks.
Quint hugged her even closer and smiled.
His Beth, his life, his verra own wife was a wonder ta behold. She’d worked side by side all the day long with every other able-bodied inhabitant of Brochel, and she’d done it without complaint. Not only had she worked as hard as everyone else, but she’d also made sure his people had been rewarded with a tasty oyster stew ta fill their bellies at the end of the day.
And it wasn’t until the verra last worker had left the processing shed for the night that she’d taken to her bath and finally ta their bed.
He worried for her, though. She was growing bigger each day with his child and looking more tired. Was it safe for her ta work so verra hard? He couldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t. Tomorrow he’d make her rest. After all, he was laird. And what would she have ta say about his dictates on morrow?
Quint chuckled. Riding out a storm at sea was simpler than preventing his Beth from doing whatever she set her mind ta. What would he do if he couldn’t curtail her enthusiasm to be so helpful? He wouldn’t have her overtaxed. It wasn’t ta be born. But then, if yesterday had been busy, it was nothing like what the morning would bring, and they really would need all the help they could get.
Yesterday, they’d barely begun the processing of the one small whale. Tomorrow, the real work would start. It would be dawn ta dusk, nonstop cutting, chopping, salting, smoking, and drying of not just whale, but of the cod, salmon, otter, and seal, too. Not to mention the continued boiling down and rendering the blubber into the much needed whale oil.
Beth had seemed so verra surprised by the whole harvesting process. But then she hadn’t yet been comfortable enough to join in and help with the first whale they’d captured earlier in the year. She’d only stood on the outer periphery, watching, with a look of abject horror on her face.
That memory brought a new question to Quint’s mind. One he’d ask her the next time they were alone and she was speaking ta him again. What did the people of her time use for light if not whale oil? And how did they preserve their food through the long winters? Were there even still such a thing as a long winter? Or had future man conquered weather as they apparently had so many other things?
He wasn’t sure he truly wanted to know.
Though he certainly enjoyed his Beth’s stories, he couldn’t imagine a world where only select men were allowed ta hunt and fish in order to provide for the many. And only if they’d first been awarded a mysterious parchment called a license. If not seeing ta the needs of one’s family, what was left for a man ta occupy his day with?
And without a doubt, he wasn’t sure he’d even want ta live in a time where he wouldn’t be allowed ta openly carry his claymore ta protect those weaker than himself.
And what kind of horrible world did away with talking face ta face with ye fellow man? How did one man look another in the eye and determine his truth, his worth, if it wasn’t a requirement ta even be in the same room let alone the same keep or country? iPhones and Internet, as she’d called them, had ta be instruments of the devil. There was no other explanation for it.
He shuddered.
To Quinton, his Beth’s future seemed impersonal, barbaric, and he was infinitely glad she was here with him, in this time, where the world was sane and civilized and he still had his strength, his claymore, and his castle walls ta keep her safe.
But could he really keep her safe in his time if Telford arrived upon their shores with an army in tow as his Beth was certain he soon would?
Though without a doubt Quint would die to protect her, their child, and his people if it came to it, he hoped she was wrong. Just like his liege lord, John Iain, the viscount was one of the king’s men. Quint would rather not be the one to start the war coming. But he would if given no other choice. And he’d not just start the fight, but he’d do it by running his claymore straight through Telford’s black heart if the man dared threaten what was his.
He squeezed Beth closer, and the bairn within protested his overzealousness with a swift kick. That made him chuckle.
What a strong bairn his lad or lass already was.
He should hope for the son his Beth was so sure she was carrying. After all, he was laird and had need of an heir. But at the same time, he could so clearly picture a sweet, little lass with her mother’s golden curls and beautiful smile.
That didn’t mean he would mind a braw lad. Someone to teach how ta ride and hunt, ta fish and sail, ta fight and protect what was theirs. Someone ta take his place when the time came. Someone ta look after his mither and care for Brochel.
Beth’s eyes suddenly fluttered open. “I’m sturdy enough, aren’t I.”
He stared at her. Was his little wife truly awake or simply talking in her sleep as she often did?
Not wanting to take the chance of incurring her wrath again, especially after the pissing incident, he decided it really didn’t matter. She’d asked him a question, and he’d answer her anyway. “Aye, lass. Ye are verra sturdy indeed.”
Beth smiled. “Good. I thought so.” She patted the hand resting upon her belly. “You were right, you know. About taking Duncan along with you. The child literally glows with health. His cheeks are pink, and he hasn’t stopped smiling since you got home. And I swear he’s grown a foot, at least, while you were gone.”
Quint patted her tummy. “I’m glad ye are nae longer angry with me, my Beth. On the morrow, though, I want ye ta take it easy, do ye ken?”
She chuckled. “I will if you will.” She closed her eyes and slept once more.
Quint shook his head. What a fey, stubborn creature his wife was, and she thought she’d gotten the last word ta boot.
But he knew better.
He’d show her tomorrow.
Chapter Fifteen
December 1643
Beth stood upon the castle’s parapet, facing the sea wall with her cloak clutched about her shoulders, and breathed in the chill morning air
hoping for some small semblance of peace.
The preparations for winter were behind them. Stores of dried, salted, or smoked whale and fish, red deer, and mutton lined the larder, as well as baskets of kale, peas, broad beans, chard, potatoes, onions, and leeks. Not to mention, wild raspberries, apples, pears, plums, and cherries. And of course bundles of wild thyme, blocks of salt, rounds of cheese, and bins of flour for the day’s bread.
But she didn’t care about any of those things. All Beth cared about today was the fact it was truly winter and she was running out of precious time. With every rise and setting of the sun, faster and faster the days sped by. She counted them, each and every one, knowing full well that, soon, her last moments with Quinton would slip away like the grains of sand trickling through the hourglass.
She no longer wanted to leave, but neither could she stay.
Winter really was upon them, and though there was no snow to speak of upon the heather-clad moorlands, forests, or sea cliffs, she still felt the cold finality of what was about to come to pass.
How could she simply go away with so much unsettled?
Quint was still in danger from the threat of the viscount. His son was still in danger of being used as a pawn. And poor, little Duncan was still in danger from the likes of his crazy aunt.
No, she didn’t want to leave before the situation with Lord Fredrick was seen to its fruition and Brochel and all who resided within its walls were safe. Yet how could she not? And what was the freaking viscount waiting on anyway?
She’d thought he would’ve shown up on their shores by now, but he hadn’t. And it was all but too late. He wouldn’t dare attempt to traverse the tempestuous winter seas this late in the year. Surely, he’d be forced to wait for the spring.
By then she’d be gone, and who’d be here to watch Quint’s back?
She’d lost her chance to be helpful. The cowardly viscount would bide his time and wait for the optimum opportunity. From Elspeth’s memories of the man, memories quickly fading into oblivion, she knew that, though Lord Fredrick was greedy, selfish, devious, and conniving, he certainly wasn’t stupid.
Which meant, when the viscount did finally arrive, there’d be no one other than old Bronwyn, the cook Annie, and Duncan close enough to keep Quinton safe. His men wouldn’t give the English viscount a single second look. They thought their laird to be invincible. She’d seen the truth of that written all over their faces every time they looked his way, every time they sparred with him in the bailey.
What of Marta? Who’d be watching her? Would she and the viscount work together to kill Quint and Duncan both?
And the baby. Who’d take care of Quint’s son if neither of them were here to raise him? Would Marta take her place as his mother, and the viscount take Quint’s as his father? That couldn’t be allowed to happen. It simply couldn’t.
Beth shuddered.
God, what a coward she must be to even be contemplating leaving those she cared for while they were still in danger. How could she walk away from the man she loved with all her heart, let alone a helpless newborn, and a crippled boy while she went traipsing off into her happily-ever-after afterlife with Ben and Brian?
She couldn’t. Yet, she must.
She was so confused.
Hogmanay was only a couple of weeks away, and with the beginning of the new year would come the birth of Quinton’s son. And just as Fate had promised, she’d be with her children.
Then why wasn’t she happier about the situation? She was getting exactly what she’d asked for, wasn’t she? So what was her problem?
In her heart, Beth knew exactly why she was troubled. Brochel hadn’t originally been meant for her. The people residing within its walls were technically not hers. Quint wasn’t truly her husband, and the child she carried wasn’t really hers to claim and could never be. Still, she longed for what rightfully belonged to another woman.
Beth longed for a full lifetime of years with Quint, and she longed to watch his son grow into a good man like his father. Though, in truth, it was probably for the best she didn’t. There was no telling what mistakes she’d make this time around, and she wouldn’t see another child harmed, or worse, because of her incompetence.
Burt’s words came rushing back to haunt her. Stupid fucking cunt. You let them die and did nothing to stop it. You laid your fat, lazy ass on that road waiting for someone else to come along and rescue you while you watched my children burn to death. A real mother would’ve found a way to save them. Or at least a real mother would’ve died trying. They’re better off dead, you know, than they ever were with you.
Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks.
She’d always believed the old adage, It’s better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all, but she didn’t anymore. Life had taught Beth her share of hard lessons. The hardest of all being that some wounds never do completely heal. They simply fester, scab over, and kill their victims slowly. Just a little bit more every day, they’re forced to endure the pain.
Being separated from her children was pure, unending agony. Ripping herself from Quinton’s loving embrace was going to shred the very last vestiges of her already tattered-beyond-recognition heart.
She should’ve remained aloof.
She shouldn’t have fallen in love with him, and she really shouldn’t have begun to wonder what his son’s tiny body would feel like snuggled in her arms, feeding at her breast, and cooing for her ears alone while, at the same time, wrapping his little fingers securely around her heart.
To him, she needn’t be a fraud. He’d never known the real Elspeth Frasier MacLeod. She could actually be his mother in truth if she dared, and he’d never know the difference.
But then again, she couldn’t. She really couldn’t. Ben and Brian were waiting for her, and it was to them she owed her loyalty.
What was she going to do? She couldn’t stay. Yet, she couldn’t imagine leaving, either.
Beth wrapped her cloak closer about her body and shivered. Why on earth was she standing out in the cold when she could be in the warmth of her solar, in the sleeping chamber she shared with Quint, or in the great hall, overseeing the running of Brochel?
She’d simply been so very restless this morning— big, fat, very pregnant, and…and emotional.
Just a couple more weeks by her calculations. Two more weeks, and the Yule log would be burning brightly as a brand new MacLeod made his entrance into the world.
Tears threatened once more. Yes, two more weeks of waking content in Quint’s arms each morning, of making slow, tender love with him each night, of talking for long hours, of laughter, of joy, of feeling loved, of being loved.
God, how she was going to miss him. And not just him, but the baby she carried, Duncan, Bronwyn, Annie, Brochel, and the whole frigging seventeenth century, stinky whale oil and all.
As if thinking about Quint conjured him to her side, she heard his voice. “What are ye doing out here in the cold, my Beth?”
She turned to face him, swiping tears from her eyes. It wouldn’t do to let him see she’d been crying. He’d only ask questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.
She took one deep cleansing breath, and then another. “I suppose I was feeling—oh, I don’t know—in need of more air than the inside of the castle holds today.” Patting her huge belly, she smiled. “Your bairn is getting quite big, my laird, and there are times it’s hard to breathe around him.”
Quint placed his big, warm hands over hers. “I cannae wait ta see him and hold him.” He suddenly blushed. “Or her. I’d nae mind a lass, either, ye ken? Whatever ye give me, my Beth, as long as I have ye by my side, will be fine.”
“It’s a boy,” she whispered. “You’ll have your son, your heir, Quinton MacLeod.”
“How do ye ken?” he asked.
Beth smiled and shrugged. “It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve told you he’s a boy. I just know, and perhaps this time, you’ll believe me.”
****
&
nbsp; Quint held his wife close in the night and groped for something, anything to say. Since their short conversation on the parapet the previous sennight, his Beth had become even more withdrawn, to the point of being deathly silent.
She hadn’t once joined in the festivities of the hanging of the holly, the baking of the mince pies, or the decorating of the hall with rosemary and ivy. She most assuredly hadn’t participated in any of the dancing, singing, or the games, and she certainly hadn’t been anywhere in sight for the consuming of great amounts of uisge beatha that literally screamed tomorrow was the eve of Christ’s Mass.
Was his little wife a puritan at heart? Did she despise the frivolity of the holidays as the English Protestants did? He hoped not.
Though he and all of his people were Presbyterians, they did still enjoy the twelve days of banqueting, feasting, and drinking, not to mention the exchanging of gifts and distributing of boxes to the servants, tradesmen, and the poor. It was a fine way to end the old year and begin the new.
Christ’s Mass was a tradition he very much liked, and one he wished to share with his wife. But the closer it got to the new year and the lighting of the Yule log, the further away from him Beth seemed to slip.
Perhaps it was the weight of carrying the bairn taking its toll, and she’d be her old self once more after the birth of their child. But then again, perhaps not.
Were the holidays so much different in her time? Mayhap that was the problem. Perhaps the lass had no idea how to celebrate Christmas, because there was no Christ’s Mass to celebrate where she’d come from.
Or perhaps something had happened in her old life to make her not like this time of the year? There were many times he wondered what his Beth’s life had been like. Though she willingly talked about machines, wars, buildings, and other such marvels, she confided little if nothing about her own day ta day life.
He shouldn’t ask. Her life before him wasn’t his business. Still, he had ta know.
Time For A Highlander (Real Men Wear Kilts) Page 17