Time For A Highlander (Real Men Wear Kilts)

by Maxine Mansfield

  He nuzzled her warm neck. “I’ve a question, wife.”

  Though she remained silent, her muscles stiffened, ever so slightly, beneath his touch.

  “Do nae pretend sleep, my Beth. I ken better.”

  She sighed. “I’m not pretending anything. I’m simply tired.” She yawned. “Go on, then. Ask whatever it is you feel you simply must know in the middle of the night and get it over with.”

  He chuckled. “I was wondering about Christmas. Is it still celebrated in your time much as it is now? I ken well I shouldn’t take such pleasure in one day above another since I and my people are Protestant and the church has ruled the Yule time as a pagan practice to be shunned for the most part. I cannae seem ta help myself. I do enjoy the frivolity.”

  She turned in his embrace, and the flickering candlelight illuminated her glare. “Quinton MacLeod, I am huge with child and barely sleep as it is, and you woke me to ask about Christmas?”

  Quint chuckled once more. “We both ken ye were nae asleep.” He swatted her playfully on the rump. “So quit dallying, my Beth, and answer the question.”

  She huffed. “Yes, there is still Christmas in the time I came from.”

  He waited, and waited some more, until it became painfully clear she wasn’t going to offer anything else. “Well, lass, what is the Christ’s Mass like in ye time, because ye certainly don’t seem happy with ours?”

  Her eyes misted over a heartbeat before she answered. “Christmas in this time, here with you, is fine with me, Quint. I’m just tired, very tired, because I can’t seem to get comfortable anymore.”

  He placed a hand on her taut belly, leaned down to kiss it, and was rewarded with a swift kick to the jaw. That made Beth giggle, and it was the prettiest sound he’d heard from her in days.

  Then she sighed. “You really wouldn’t like Christmas much in my time. People actually go into debt to outgift each other. In the time I came from, the real reason for the holiday has all but been forgotten, and in its place is a make-believe fat old man in a red suit who flies through the sky in a sled driven by magical reindeer. He brings toys to little children while eating their cookies and drinking their milk.

  Quint shuddered. “Really?”

  She sighed once more. “Yes. But like in this time, as far as most adults go anyway, Christmas is a good reason to throw a party and get rip roaring drunk.”

  He ran a finger along her cheek. “And what of family, my Beth? How did ye family celebrate Christ’s Mass? Did ye husband light the Yule log, and did ye children sing songs and dance happily around the fire? I would nae be jealous if ye’d had a family ta love before me. After all, in ye time, ye had already lived a much longer life than ye have with me. Is there someone in the far future waiting and hoping and wishing for ye ta come back ta him? Someone ye miss? Is that why ye seem so sad?”

  She closed her eyes, but not before a single tear escaped and ran unheeded down her cheek. Her bottom lip quivered. “There is not one single, living, breathing soul waiting for me in any time period anywhere, my laird. Of that, I can promise you.”

  “But ye did have a family once, didn’t ye?” he asked. “Or at least, I hope ye did. No one should be alone, my Beth, especially not at Christmas.”

  Her throat bobbed as she swallowed and shook her head. “No. I no longer had a family when I traveled back in time. At least, not one I want to talk about.”

  Quint nodded and hugged her closer. So be it. He was a patient man. He could wait. After all, they had a lifetime together stretching out before them. His Beth would eventually tell him whatever it was hurting her, but like everything else about her, she’d do it in her own time.

  ****

  Christmas?

  Quint wanted to know about her past Christmases of all things? How could she tell a man who obviously loved Christmas that she felt nothing but dread for the holiday?

  Not that she’d always disliked Christmas or any other holiday, for that matter. It had just been since the death of her children. Before that horrible day on a wet Miami highway, she’d been the queen of Christmas, and Ben and Brian her little elves.

  She could still hear Brian’s little voice singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” It was his favorite holiday song and one that, after his death, she could no longer stand to listen to.

  And the tree… Oh, my God, how he loved to decorate the tree. He’d sing and dance the entire time he hung lights and bulbs, his cheeks glowing a healthy little boy pink while the words of that song lisped through a gap where he’d recently lost a tooth. And he’d sing it over and over and over.

  Ben couldn’t care less about the tree or the songs but couldn’t wait for his mother to open whatever treasure he’d found for her that year. He didn’t seem to care about what he himself received, but the look on his face when she or Burt opened their gifts and smiled and hugged him was beyond price.

  One year, when he’d been about five or six, Ben had found a small framed, canvas picture of a pair of ducks flying past a bare branch in the neighbors trash bin. The edges were scuffed in a couple of places and mold discolored one side. The thing was hideous, but he’d thought it beautiful. So he’d wrapped it up for her and squealed with glee and pride as she opened it.

  That precious beyond words picture still graced the wall of her small condo bedroom. Where she could glance at it each morning when she first opened her eyes. Or at least it had graced her bedroom wall until her death. There was no way her sister or brothers would’ve known what that old, beat-up picture meant to her. They’d probably thrown it right back into the trash, and hopefully some other little boy had rescued it for his mom.

  Even Burt hadn’t been so horrible during the holidays. He’d always taken pleasure in putting the boys’ toys together, in the wrapping and the stuffing of the stockings. The only real problem he’d had was with her cooking. No matter how hard she tried, the turkey was never quite as good as his mother’s, the potatoes as creamy, the stuffing as moist, the pies as sweet, or the cranberries as fresh.

  It didn’t matter, however. The boys seemed to like her cooking fine, especially the cookies they helped bake for Santa.

  But then the wet Miami road and the drunk driver did happen, and Ben and Brian were no longer there. Christmas, along with every other holiday, became a nightmare.

  She dreaded the weeks of school not being in session from right before Christmas until after New Year’s, for that meant more time spent at home with Burt. Time he’d spend drinking most days and yelling at her most nights…or worse.

  After she’d moved to Alaska and far away from Burt, she’d never again decorated her home for the holidays. Though she still owned a box of ornaments, like the Popsicle stick squares with the boy’s pictures on them, she didn’t open the container. It sat in the storage area of her condo, sealed, in the dark, safe and sound, but never again used.

  She couldn’t help herself. Though she treasured every piece, she couldn’t put any of it out for display. The sight hurt too much. But she couldn’t stand to part with a single piece either. Just like the cards she’d received over the years with Happy Birthday Mom or Happy Mother’s Day scribbled in smudged crayon or the hand print turkeys for Thanksgiving or the cotton ball Easter rabbits. She’d kept them all.

  And soon, very soon, she’d be with Ben and Brian once more. It simply meant leaving Quint and his son behind, in danger, and all alone in the seventeenth century.

  God, how she hated Christmas.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Beth smiled up at Burt as he handed her a cup of eggnog. It wasn’t often, even in a dream such as this, that he was remotely nice to her. And though it seemed odd, she extended her hand to accept the gift anyway.

  Just as she’d almost grasped it, he snatched the cup away. “Lying, cheating, murdering bitches don’t deserve anything for Christmas.” He laughed. “Not even a lousy cup of nog.”

  For good measure, he slapped her across the face.

  “Hey,” Quint yelled.
“Ye’ll nae be hitting my wife. Who do ye think ye are, anyhow?

  Burt laughed again, but this time, it sounded more like a snarl. “She was my wife long before she was ever yours, so I’m entitled to the first discipline of the day. But you’re welcome to slap the cunt around a few times if you want. She’s a useless piece of shit. Bet she didn’t tell ya she couldn’t manage to keep my kids alive long enough to grow them into men.” He pointed to her huge stomach. “I hope she does a better job with your son than she did with mine. But then again, it’s not as if she could do any worse, now, is it?”

  “Ye really were her husband?” Quint asked. “And ye had bairns with her? She never said a word about ye ta me in all the time I’ve known her.”

  Beth tried to speak, to explain, but no words came out of her mouth.

  “Oh, I was her husband, all right.” Burt chuckled. “But considering you’re four hundred years older than I am, and she went back into the past in order to marry the likes of you, that probably makes her your wife first.”

  Quint shook his head. “I suppose ye are right. And though I hate ta admit it, ye are probably right about her being a useless piece of shit, too. At least, our Beth had the decency ta stick with ye for a while after she killed ye bairns. She’s leaving me the moment my son is born. And she doesn’t care that the viscount means ta kill me as soon as she’s gone. It’s pretty obvious, all Bethany Ann Anderson ever cared about in any time period was herself.”

  Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t bother to swipe them away. What was the use?

  Quint shook his head once more. “And here I thought she wasn’t anything like the real Lady Elspeth Frasier when, all along, they were exactly the same.”

  Burt cackled. “Like I said, stupid cunt. Stupid, stupid cunt, that’s what our Beth is. Always was. Always will be.”

  Quint nodded. “Aye, I’m afraid ye might be right about that.”

  Beth sat straight up in the bed, sweat beading her brow and her breaths coming in short little pants. Oh, my God. Now, both her husbands were talking to each other in her nightmares? And agreeing as to what a horrible person she was? Hadn’t the one-sided night terrors with Burt been bad enough?

  Quint wrapped his big strong arms around her and pulled her down into his embrace. “What’s got ye so upset tonight, lass?”

  What was she going to say? It wasn’t as if she could tell him about Burt and the boys. Not now, not after so much time had passed. Could she?

  “Just a bad dream,” she whispered.

  “Ye can’t keep shutting me out, my Beth. I have a right ta know what’s troubling ye.”

  She closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into his embrace. Perhaps she could tell him part without revealing the whole. “You asked me if in my time I had a—a husband, and…and yes, I did.”

  She shivered, and Quint held her tighter.

  “He…he wasn’t a nice man, and there are times, like tonight, that I have nightmares about him. But then I wake up with you right beside me, and I feel safe once more.”

  Quint rocked her gently. “And bairns, my Beth? Did ye have a family with this man who wasn’t nice ta ye?”

  A sob caught in her throat, and all she could do was nod.

  “I’ll not press ye ta say anymore, lass,” Quint whispered into her hair. “I ken ye are hurting, and ye’ll tell me in ye own time what ye wish me ta know.”

  She nodded once again. “Quint, would you make love to me, please?”

  He patted her bottom. “Ye are so far gone with child, I fear I’ll do ye harm.”

  She shook her head. “You won’t. I know you won’t, and I need—I so need you inside me tonight.

  Quint sighed against her skin. “Aye, lass,” he whispered once more. “I’ll make love with ye, slow and careful, mind ye, and while I’m at it, I’ll do my verra best ta replace some of those unpleasant recollections with brand new good memories of us.”

  His hands were gentle as they caressed her back, her sides, her breasts, and her ass. When he lifted her hair out of the way and nuzzled her neck and nipped her earlobe, she sucked in a breath and gloried in the shivers of excitement racing down her spine.

  She loved this man, honestly loved him with every fiber of her being, and the thought that she soon must leave him was tearing her apart. But then he kissed her, and the warmth of his lips and the force of his tongue invading her mouth drove away almost all coherent thought.

  But a single leftover tear escaped.

  Perhaps she did have to leave him soon and perhaps there really wasn’t anything she could do to stop time, to postpone her fate. But for tonight, for this one glorious night, she could still know what it meant to be loved by this man and to make sure he knew he was loved by her.

  He deepened the kiss, and the reason for the single tear was forgotten. All that was left in the wake of her grief, her guilt, was absolute, wonderful sensation.

  Feather-like wispy tingles of pleasure flowed over her, landing deep in the pit of her belly as Quint positioned her onto her side and slowly entered her. He was big, but she was wet and ready, and a moan of pleasure escaped her partially opened lips.

  “Are ye all right then, lass?” he rasped.

  She ran her fingers up the side of his thigh and laughed. “Aye, my laird, I am verra well.”

  He wrapped an arm about her big belly and the baby kicked as he quickened the pace, thrusting in and out, over and splendidly over. Within moments, she adjusted to his tempo and met his driving force with a momentum of her own.

  Her toes curled, the roof of her mouth tingled, icy heat streaked, down her thighs, and the muscles of her pussy contracted about his girth as stars formed before her eyes.

  Still, he didn’t slow.

  “I love ye, my Beth,” he shouted. “With my body, my soul, and all I am and will ever be.”

  “I love you, too, Quinton MacLeod, so much it hurts. And no amount of time, distance, or even fate can ever change that.”

  With another shout, this one of pleasure, he found his release, too.

  Beth closed her eyes with a smile on her face and slept. This time, no bad memories and no nightmares invaded her dreams.

  ****

  Quint opened his eyes in the early dawn to the sound of soft rapping upon his door. The very first rays of the eve of the Christ’s Mass morning sun graced the wooden opening of the slit in his outer wall as he called, “Enter.” At the same moment, he made sure his sleeping, naked wife was well covered.

  “My laird,” his man at arms said in a hushed tone. “I did nae wish ta wake our lady, but ships ha’ been sighted a ways off shore, and they be a flying an English flag. What would ye have us do?”

  “How many?” Quint asked.

  “Three, my laird.”

  Quint glanced at his wife and sighed. He would not wake her with this news. She looked so tired these days, so fragile. She needed her rest. Without the need of seeing it in her eyes, he knew well her fears of what was to come, for three ships flying English flags could mean only one thing. Telford was about to land upon the shores of Raasay and with a force at his back. And he was doing it now, in the middle of winter, when least expected.

  Quint might respect the man a little for having the ballocks to at least try and wrestle a Scottish castle from a Scot, but that didn’t mean Lord Fredrick had any chance of succeeding. Though Quint might admire his adversary for his show of courage, he wouldn’t let it cloud his judgment. He’d protect what was his, and he’d not give over his legacy, his son’s birthright, and his people’s home without a fight to the death. But then Brochel wouldn’t be that easy ta take herself, either. Her high sea walls were all but impenetrable when need be.

  That was, if the ships came to start a war at all. There was always the possibility, though slim, they were about other business. Quint wouldn’t be the one to fire the first shot. He wouldn’t give the viscount that kind of leverage to use against him and his people later. But he’d sure as hell fire the second if need be, a
nd almost hoped it was an obvious fight coming his way and not a cloaked intrigue as his Beth feared.

  “Alert the men,” he ordered as he rose and quickly put on his kilt and boots. “Let us go greet our English guests, and see if they be calling themselves friend or foe this day.”

  As quickly as he could, he made his way down to the sea. Though the gray winter morning was crisp and mist laden, he easily made out the ships on the horizon, growing ever closer with every ebb and flow of the tide.

  “Didn’t I tell ye, laird?” The man at arms gestured toward the looming sight. “Three English ships of war heading straight for us.”

  Quint squinted his eyes. His man at arms was right about the first two ships, anyway. They both flew the king’s colors, a red, white, and blue Union flag with Saint George’s cross plainly placed over the Scottish cross of Saint Andrew. In other words, two ships of the Royal English Navy.

  The third and last ship, however, was harder to make out from this distance, and when it finally came clearly into view, the sight of the Scottish white cross upon a field of blue, and a second flag below with a black bull’s head dead in the middle with staves at each side upon a blood-red background was like a punch straight to his gut.

  So his liege lord and chieftain, John Iain MacLeod, was personally accompanying the viscount to Brochel? Why? John Iain hadn’t even bothered to visit Brochel and pay his respects when his bastard son, Dougal, died. What then could be so important as to bring him to the shores of Raasay on this day? Quint hoped he was wrong about his own guess as to the answer to that question.

  But only one thing kept pounding through his mind, over and over.

  The MacLeod was a king’s man through and through, always had been. And whenever the need arose, it was the king’s business John Iain saw to. So the only pertinent question left to ponder was, in the end, which loyalty would win out, that to his king or that to his blood? For whether out right or by deception, a fight was coming, and God knew no man could serve two masters. Only time would tell how this day’s beginnings would eventually end.