He glanced toward his man at arms. “Ye stay behind with me and greet our guests, but I want the rest of the men behind the gates of Brochel, at the ready.”
A grumble began, and Quint turned with his fists upon his hips and a scowl upon his face. “Aye, I know well there be English bearing down upon the shores of Raasay, but I’m not a stupid man and neither are any of ye. I won’t give them a reason ta attack us outright, if’n I can prevent it. We have lasses and wee bairns and weans within the walls of that castle and in the village ta protect. We must think and act carefully. We can nae afford ta be rash. But I swear ta ye this day, if there be killing that needs ta be done this fine Scottish morning, then I’ll be the first ta be doing it.”
His small army of Highlanders raised their shields and claymores in support, nodded, and slipped into the shadows as they headed back toward their posts.
****
Beth was in a tizzy, but then she had been since the moment Bronwyn awakened her with the news of the English ships approaching. It had to be Lord Fredrick, for it could be no other.
She wasn’t sure which to do first, have old Annie put on another pot of pottage or grab up a sword and go help defend her husband. Either was fine with her and both needed doing, but one thing was for certain, she’d lose her mind and the respect of her people if she didn’t stop cowering in the corner like a scared little mouse and do something.
“I am not a coward. I am not a coward. I am not a coward,” she whispered over and over to herself. “I can do this. I’m not afraid of the viscount. I won’t be afraid. I won’t.”
But the years spent at the mercy of Burt had taught her well what lengths some men would go to when defied, and Lord Fredrick was, without a doubt, one of those men. Elspeth’s memories had confirmed that fact. Not that he’d been physically cruel to Elspeth, because he, for the most part, hadn’t…yet. But then she’d given him no reason to be, either. As a matter of fact, Lady Elspeth Frasier had followed him around like a puppy most of the time. Doing whatever the viscount asked of her without question.
That wasn’t the case now, however. Beth couldn’t be the Elspeth the viscount remembered, and even if she could somehow pull it off, she didn’t want to be. Lord Fredrick wanted Quint dead. And he wanted to take possession of her—no, not hers—Quint’s son, Quint’s castle, and Quint’s lands, and for no other reason but to impress some stupid king.
Though the viscount hadn’t been physically abusive to Elspeth, the young woman who’d once occupied this body had certainly witnessed his mistreatment of others plenty of times. She’d seen more than her share of bruises and scars he left behind on those who dared defy him. If there was one thing Beth meant to do, it was defy the viscount at every turn.
She gazed at the handful of warriors standing around waiting to break their fast in the great hall. “Your laird has gone to greet ships approaching our shores. Perhaps you should all join him.”
One of the big burly Highlanders she knew only as Ralf answered for the group. “Nay, my lady. The laird has ordered us ta remain here in the keep, and ta guard ye and the other lassies with our verra lives.”
“We don’t need protecting. Your laird does.” She stomped her foot. “He’s the one who’s in danger, not us. I order you to go to him this moment.”
Ralf chuckled, and the other warriors smiled at her, as if she were a silly little child throwing a temper tantrum.
“We cannae do as ye ask, my lady. Though ye be fierce, ’tis our laird’s wrath we fear more.”
She shook her head. The big Highlander was right. No one with more than two brain cells to synapse together would dare defy an order straight from Quinton MacLeod. So instead of arguing a lost cause further and trusting her husband’s judgment, Beth forced herself to head toward the kitchens before she did something silly like take up a sword and head after Quint herself.
“Annie,” she yelled. “Put on another pot of pottage. It appears we may have guests. And have your wee granddaughters prepare the sleeping chambers in the tower opposite the rooms the MacLeod uses. It wouldn’t do to put strangers too close to the laird before we ascertain the true reason for their visit.”
Then she was off to the larder to check on the availability of meat and vegetables. She had no idea how many men a ship could hold or how many they’d be expected to feed, but she didn’t want to be caught unawares either. From there, she headed to the granary where the MacLeod ale and uisge beatha was kept fermenting and instructed a couple of the men to bring in a few casks of each. After all, this was Christmas Eve, and if by chance the ships’ arrivals warranted friends and not enemies as she hoped, ale and whiskey would both be expected.
And then it was up the stairs to the rooms the viscount would be granted. Though she’d spent little time in this tower, she had to insure herself there were no short cuts between the two. When Quinton MacLeod next laid his head down to sleep, it wouldn’t be with the fear of a sneak attack from the other side of his very own castle.
Next, she stopped by their own rooms to make sure, just in case it wasn’t the viscount, that she didn’t embarrass her husband by showing up in a wrinkled skirt or a smudged tunic. And while she was at it, she ran a comb though her sleep-tousled curls, and added a ribbon for good measure. After all, it could be Lady Lydia and her brother, the Mackenzie, come to spend the Christmas with them just as easily as it could be the viscount. Though no Mackenzie worth his mettle would ever be caught flying an English flag, and she knew it.
With a swish of her skirts, Beth was off and onto her next task, and by the time she heard the castle doors swing open and saw her husband, the viscount, and another Highlander she’d never seen before saunter through them, she was ready to face whatever Lord Fredrick or anyone else thought to throw her way. At least, she hoped she was ready.
But when she met his eyes, she knew she was not.
The viscount was exactly as she remembered him from their brief encounters and from her nightmares. The same cruel beady gaze, the same twitchy little moustache, the same arrogant, malicious smile upon his face.
Quint’s voice reverberated off the stone walls of the great room. “Look who has come ta break their fast and ta celebrate Christ’s Mass and the Yule with us.” He gestured toward Beth. “Ye remember his Lordship the Viscount Telford, don’t ye, wife?”
Beth nodded.
Quint gestured toward the other man. “And this, my Beth, is our liege, John Iain, chieftain of the MacLeod clan. We’ve certainly been blessed this year, haven’t we?”
Beth forced herself to smile at John Iain. Quint had told her he was a king’s man and not to expect any help from that direction. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not force herself to smile at Lord Fredrick.
Not only could she not smile at him, but it was almost impossible not to pull her hand back in disgust as he kissed the very tips of her fingers and winked at her while almost crowing.
“My, my, just look at how you’ve blossomed, Lady Elspeth. When we left the king’s side, we had no idea we were in for such a wonderfully anticipated event as what’s apparently about to take place here at Brochel.” He turned toward Quint. “Good show, laird. Oh yes, a jolly good show indeed.”
He smiled so widely at her that Beth had no trouble counting the yellowed stains upon his teeth, and her ire boiled over. The creepy viscount was in for a very big surprise when he came to realize the Elspeth Frasier he left behind really wasn’t the same Elspeth MacLeod he’d now be required to deal with. And though she did find herself tamping down a few skittish nerves, and though she’d really had no choice but to compel a breath or two to calm herself, and even though she’d finally given in to the temptation to swipe her sweaty palms upon the brocade of her shirts, she’d at least won the first of what could be many battles to come.
She hadn’t cowered.
After all, she was a MacLeod.
She hadn’t so much as blinked an eye when the viscount turned his wicked gaze upon her. She wouldn�
��t give him the satisfaction. For Bethany Ann Anderson-Lady Elspeth Frasier had become a MacLeod through and through, and in the words of Quinton MacLeod, Laird of Brochel and the man she’d love through whatever time she found herself in, A MacLeod does nae cower. A MacLeod does nae show fear. A MacLeod always and forever, Holds Fast.
And hold fast she would—today, tomorrow, and as long as it took to see Quint and his son safe.
Chapter Seventeen
Beth wanted to punch him right in the mouth. Not just once, but at least twice. Maybe then he’d shut up for at least a freaking minute. The viscount was giving her a headache on top of the rampant case of nerves she’d neither been prepared for nor desired to endure this day. She was very pregnant, she was very hormonal, and she was already on edge.
Wasn’t that enough to deal with?
It had been going on all day long, too—his veiled threats, his cruel little whispered innuendos, like, “Oh my, Lady Elspeth, but don’t you simply look ravishing, and in such a late stage of pregnancy. I’m so glad to see you’ve been quick to do my bidding. And to think impending motherhood tends to wash so many out, but not you, my dear.”
He’d said that as he leaned in close and kissed her cheek when he returned to the great hall after being shown his rooms. When they’d made their way to the board in order to partake of the eve of the Christ’s Mass meal, he had the audacity to actually pinch her ass…hard. She’d almost tripped over the hem of her skirt. If it hadn’t been for the steadying hand of Quint, she probably would have.
The moment they’d been seated, he leaned across the table and whispered again, but this time just a little louder. “You, my dear, literally glow with good health. Not at all like the Lady Elspeth Frasier I knew so well back in England. That girl, if I remember correctly, was quite sickly at times.”
Then he’d sneered. “Perhaps it’s the Scottish air that’s been so good for your constitution? Or is it by chance that big Scottish laird who has you glowing? Pray tell, my dear. Do be kind enough to impart upon us mere mortals the secret of your sudden good health. You haven’t gone and done something stupid like fall in love with the wretch, though, have you? That would be unfortunate. After all, we have an understanding. And if by chance you have, you better get over it quick, Beth. I mean, my Lady Elspeth.”
Then he winked, and Beth shivered as he continued. “On second thought, keep your tender feelings for the oaf for the time being. It can only further our cause if Quinton MacLeod doesn’t see what’s coming. It’ll be our little secret, Beth. And it’s been my experience that deceitful women like we both know you to be, whoever you really are, wherever and whenever you truly came from, do so love to keep their surreptitious little morsels of information close to their devious little hearts.”
He chuckled from his place across from her at the evening meal as he lifted his tankard in a salute, and downed MacLeod ale.
Had he really guessed she wasn’t the Lady Elspeth Frasier he thought he left behind to do his bidding? Or was he simply fishing for information? He’d certainly had plenty of time to ponder the differences he undoubtedly noticed while on the Isle of Lewis for Elspeth and Quint’s wedding.
But was he really smart enough to have put the clues together and correctly guessed she, in fact, wasn’t Elspeth Frasier? Or that she could possibly be from another time, another place? Had he convinced himself that Beth and Lady Elspeth Frasier were two completely different people? Only witchcraft could explain that. Was he, in his own scheming way, threatening to expose her as a witch if she failed to further cooperate with him?
The thought of burning at the stake had shudders skittering along her spine, and whatever food she’d managed to swallow, formed a rock-hard ball in the pit of her stomach. She had no way of knowing without coming right out and asking Lord Fredrick what he meant, and that she certainly wasn’t prepared to do. She couldn’t, especially not in front of the MacLeod, John Iain, who was looking at her as if he had a few questions of his own to ask.
But then again, she really and truly was a MacLeod now, and the reality of the beady-eyed Lord Fredrick didn’t scare her half as much as Elspeth’s memories of him had. The man sitting across from her was obviously desperate. He needed her cooperation in order to complete his mission, and he was going out on a limb by attempting to use the same scare tactics he’d used on Elspeth in the past.
Well, he was right. She wasn’t Elspeth, and this time the viscount’s tactics wouldn’t work. She was Bethany Ann MacLeod, wife of Laird Quinton MacLeod of Brochel, and if her ex-husband had taught her anything, it was, if she kept her cool, if she didn’t show fear, if she played the game well, she could not only outlast the viscount, but she could win. Lord Fredrick might very well think himself a master at manipulation, but compared to Burt Anderson, he was simply a novice.
She’d beaten Burt at his own game, and with Quinton MacLeod at her side, she’d best Viscount Telford, too.
Beth forced herself to smile as she lifted her tankard of ale to her lips. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?” She chuckled. “What understanding do you speak of? I’m afraid I barely remember you or anything we may have spoken of before my fall on the eve of my wedding.” She sighed deeply. “You do remember my nasty fall, don’t you? As for my husband, of course I love him. Isn’t that a wife’s duty? And there’s no need for petty little secrets of any kind when one has the truth on one’s side.”
The gauntlet had been dropped, and she saluted him back. “Don’t you agree?”
For a moment, confusion clouded the viscount’s eyes. She’d caught him off guard. That obviously wasn’t the response he’d been expecting. He thought she’d show fear. He thought she’d grovel. He thought she’d crumble and cry like the old Elspeth would’ve done. Or at the least, he thought she’d ensure him she was still in his corner. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d confused him, challenged him, dared him to disbelieve or attempt to expose her even.
She had the viscount right where she wanted him, perplexed and unsure of himself.
Marta ruined the moment as she sauntered into the room with her strawberry-blonde hair hanging loose and curling about her hips and her lips smiling wide, especially in the direction of the viscount. She walked up to the high-board and boldly took a seat right beside him, as if it were her right by birth.
“Forgive my lateness, my lords and my lady,” she practically sang. “I’ve been ever so busy seeing ta the comforts of our guests. I do so hope I’ve nae missed anything of real interest?”
Lord Fredrick literally beamed at her. “Not at all, my dear lady. As a matter of fact, now that you’ve arrived, in truth, the feast and the festivities can begin.”
****
Quint stared out into the darkness of his bedchamber and pondered the day. Though his Beth slept, even if it was fretfully, no sleep, in any form, would come his way.
What were his guests really up to, and what should he do first to ensure the safety of his wife, his child, and his people? He would’ve liked to talk it over with Beth. She always seemed to have a way of putting things in the proper perspective. But he hadn’t had the heart to wake her. She’d looked so tired when she excused herself a couple of hours ago and retired to their bed.
From the moment John Iain and Lord Fredrick had stepped out of the small boat and onto the shores of Raasay, Quint had known he was being lied to. He’d so wanted to believe his uncle’s reason for visiting was the holidays and the wish to see how his grandson, Duncan, fared. Yet, he couldn’t. And the same could be said for Telford’s excuse of wanting to look in on his ex-ward Elspeth.
Both men insisted the English warships were simply escorting John Iain back to the Isle of Skye after being in Hampshire at the request of the king. And since they were already so close, they’d decide to simply stop by.
John Iain, Quint’s liege lord, his chieftain, and the man he’d respected all his life, almost as much as his own father, hadn’t even blinked when explaining why he was at the foot of Brochel ca
stle, in the dead of winter, with two English ships of war and a viscount in tow.
Quint had no choice but to welcome the MacLeod and the viscount into his home, but he sure as hell didn’t have to trust either one of them. All through the evening meal, well into the night, and even after both men were well into their cups, they still continued to insist their visit was a matter of simply being in the right place at the right time.
A coincidence so to speak.
Quint didn’t believe in coincidences any more than he believed the men of Beth’s stories had really walked upon the surface of the moon. John Iain had told him many times he was a king’s man and always would be. So, if they weren’t here to openly try to take Brochel away from him, then what other king’s business might they be about?
He was so deep in thought, he almost missed the soft rap, but still he managed to make his away across the room with his claymore fisted before the door’s hinges had a chance to creak.
From the candle light illuminating the hallway, he could just make out the sober face of his uncle, and for a moment, he wondered if he should do them all a favor and just kill the lying bastard right now, before being forced to endure any more of his lies.
With a sigh, he lowered his claymore. Good or bad, king’s man or nae, John Iain MacLeod was still his liege lord and had the right to be heard.
“Follow me, nephew.” John Iain beckoned.
Quint shook his head. “Nae, ’tis late. Whatever ye have ta say, ye can say ta me on the morrow.”
The Macleod bristled. “Do nae be obstinate with me, lad. What I have ta say must be said tonight and will take a while in the doing.”
John Iain gestured toward Beth. “But nae here. I’ll nae be responsible for waking ye little wife. I have one of me own, ye kin? I know what it is ta arouse the ire of a female, especially one that far along inta her carrying.”
Quint looked back a Beth and sighed. “Ye are right about that. She needs all the rest she can get.”
Time For A Highlander (Real Men Wear Kilts) Page 19