“So where can we go where we can be sure unwelcome ears won’t be listening?” the Macleod asked.
Grabbing a fur, Quint headed out the door. “If’n it’s privacy we be needing, then let’s go onto the parapet. Only an idiot or a man who really does nae want anyone else ta hear what he has ta say would venture out into the cold wind found upon the top of a Scottish castle in the dead of winter.”
His uncle chuckled and wrapped his own fur closer around himself. “That, my nephew, sounds like a fine idea.”
The moment they exited the door to the parapet and the northern wind hit him square in the face, Quint rubbed his hands together for warmth and pulled his fur closer about his shoulders. “Well, Uncle?” He leaned in close to be heard above the howling of the wind. “What’s so important it couldn’t wait for the morning?”
“Telford means ye harm, lad,” John Iain said. “And I’m afraid ta say, so does the king. I overheard them discussing ye imminent demise in Hampshire. If’n it’s a son ye little wife bears ye, they mean ta kill ye outright and take ye castle and lands for the crown.”
Quint chuckled. “Aye, I know. I’ve known for some time now, Uncle.”
If the shock on John Iain’s face hadn’t been so sincere, Quint might have laughed. Instead, he did his best to explain. “My Beth warned me long ago.”
The MacLeod’s mouth gaped open. “She told ya? So she’s nae in league with the viscount like he thinks she is?”
Quint shook his head. “Nae, she isn’t. My wife is loyal ta me.”
John Iain scratched his head. “I’m glad ta be hearing that. I ken ye care for the lass. But what are we going ta do about Lord Fredrick. We cannae let him kill ye. Not even for the king. I may be a royalist at heart, Nephew, but even I don’t care ta have the king for a neighbor. I sure don’t want him setting up a household right between the Isles of Skye and Lewis. And do nae forget I am still the MacLeod and ye uncle. My loyalty is ta ye first, nephew, before king or country.”
A weight Quint hadn’t even been aware of lifted off his chest, and for the first time all day, he took a real deep breath. “Well then, I suppose we’ll simply have to find a way to prevent him from succeeding.”
The MacLeod nodded. “The bairn could be a lass, ye ken. If it is, that’d solve all our problems. At least, until the next time ye got ye wife with child.”
Quint shook his head. “It’s a lad. Beth swears it is, and I believe her.”
“Damn,” John Iain said. “And they usually know. My wife did, anyway, every single time, without fail.” Suddenly, a smile broke across his face. “Maybe we can outwait him. I heard the king tell Lord Fredrick his ships have ta be back in London by the middle of next month. If ye can just keep her from delivering until then, it’ll at least buy us a little more time ta come up with a solution ta this problem.”
Quint shook his head again. “Beth’s due anytime now, Uncle. Within the next sennight, during the time of Hogmanay at the verra latest. And it’s not as if I or anyone else can stop that process once it’s started. Bairns come when bairns come. Ye know that better than most.”
“Aye,” the MacLeod answered. “I suppose I do. So then, if you’ve known about the threat for a while, ye must have a plan?”
Quint nodded. “I mean ta kill the viscount before he can kill me.”
John Iain shook his head. “Ye cannae just go about killing a viscount, especially one so close ta the king. Trust me, Charles would nae take it well. And those two English warships out in ye channel…they’ve orders ta flatten Brochel ta nothing but a pile of rubble if anything happens ta Lord Fredrick.”
The MacLeod took a deep breath of his own. “What ye need, Nephew, is friends at ye back and a reason for those English ships not ta fire upon ye. I have one ship sitting out there and ready ta fight, but we need at least one more ta help balance the odds. Would the Mackenzie come ta ye aid if’n we could find a way ta get word ta him in time?”
Quint thought for a moment. The last thing he wanted to do was involve his friend in his troubles let alone possibly put him right in the middle of a war. But the Mackenzie was more than just a friend. He’d always been like a brother, and in his heart, Quint knew he’d do the same if asked. “How do ye suggest we get word ta the Mackenzie? He’s at his castle on the Isle of Lewis for the holidays, and it’s not likely those warships out there will simply let one of my boats slip past them with a message.”
John Iain MacLeod chuckled. “Nae, they’d never allow such a thing, but I bet they wouldn’t look twice at a skinny, little lad just out fishing?”
Quint shook his head once, then shook it again. “Ye can’t mean Duncan? I have nae doubt he can do it. I taught the lad ta sail myself. But I cannae allow it. Lord Fredrick won’t have need ta kill me. My Beth will do it for him if anything should happen ta that child.”
This time John Iain laughed out loud. “Aye, Duncan’s exactly who I mean. He’s perfect. Who’d even pay a passing glance to a poor crippled lad in a tiny, little fishing boat? My grandson may not be able ta do some things as well as others can, but he’s a MacLeod just the same. The sea’s in his blood. And I’m betting the lad can sail a fishing boat across the channel ta the Isle of Lewis and get a message ta the Mackenzie without batting an eye or drawing suspicion.”
Quint hung his head. Not Duncan, anyone but Duncan.
God help him. He’d rather face the wrath of Lord Fredrick, Viscount of Telford, the King of England, and the two ships of war out in his channel a hundred times a day than be anywhere in the vicinity of his Beth when she got wind of this latest plan.
****
Beth couldn’t believe it. She simply couldn’t. There had to be a mistake. What she’d been told when awakened by Bronwyn a few moments ago couldn’t possibly be true. And the dire reality of the situation certainly wasn’t anything like she’d envisioned her Christmas morning to be.
Quinton MacLeod, the man she thought she knew, the man she respected above all others, the father of the babe she carried, the husband of her heart was a monster. For only a real, true monster would encourage a little crippled six-year-old boy to go out upon a treacherous, winter sea, in a tiny boat, all by himself. For that was exactly where Bronwyn had told her Duncan was when she’d asked after the child.
Quint knew how she felt about Duncan. And she’d always thought he felt the same. Yes, she understood MacLeods were men of the sea and that the sea was in their blood, blaa, blah, blah, blah, blah.
But not at six years old and not all by himself. It couldn’t be true. It simply couldn’t be.
The moment he entered their chamber with his liege lord, John Iain, in tow, she knew it was. Quint couldn’t even look her in the eye and neither could the MacLeod.
“What have you done?” she cried.
Quint finally looked at her and raised a hand for silence. “Do nae question my decisions, wife. I am laird and have my reasons.”
“Reasons?” Beth scoffed. “What insane reason would have you for endangering the life of a little six-year-old boy?”
“Seven,” Quint said.
Beth shook her head. “What?”
Quinton crossed his arms. “He’s seven today. He was a Christ’s Mass bairn. The boat and the fishing trip, all on his own, mind ye, was a present I’ve been waiting ta give him. Duncan’s a MacLeod.” He gestured toward the man standing beside him. “And John Iain’s grandson ta boot. Do ye really think I’d put the MacLeod’s own flesh and blood in danger if I thought he really would be? The lad can sail as well as any MacLeod and swim like a fish now. I worked with him all summer. Ye cannae keep him a bairn forever, my Beth. Ye must let him grow inta the man he’ll someday be.”
She stomped her foot. “I am not simply being overprotective, and you know it. And birthday or not, he’s still too young.” Tears filled her eyes, and though she strove to prevent them from falling, they did, wetting her cheeks.
Quint wrapped his big, strong arms around her, and Beth couldn’t help but s
nuggle into his embrace. She knew in her heart he wouldn’t purposefully put Duncan in danger. It was simply the stupid alpha male in him that made him think all MacLeods were invincible, even the little ones.
But then Quint had never lost a child.
She had, and she wouldn’t stand by and watch it happen again.
“Go after him, please,” she cried. “Bring him back, Quint, bring him back now.”
Quint sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “I cannae, my Beth. And I cannae be untruthful with ye any longer either. Ye are my heart, and ye will have the truth of the matter from me always. Duncan is nae on a fishing trip. I sent him on a mission.”
At first, his words didn’t sink in or make sense. Sending a little boy out in a boat to go fishing in the middle of winter had been bad enough, but a mission? What kind of mission did one send a child on?
She pushed herself out of Quint’s embrace, and though the hurt on his face broke her heart, still she had to know. “Tell me about this mission.”
“It was my idea, lass,” John Iain spoke up. “Ye know all ta well the viscount means Quint harm as soon as that bairn ye carry is born, and so do those two warships waiting out in the channel. We sent Duncan ta take a message ta the Mackenzie. Not one single sailor aboard either one of those ships will pay any mind ta a scrawny lad in a fishing boat. It was the only way. And if ye could just do us the favor of keeping that bairn where he is for a few more days, a sennight or two at the most, all will be well. You’ll see.”
The weight of all of their welfares upon the shoulders of a crippled little boy? It wasn’t fair. Yet, Beth could see the wisdom of Quint’s and John Iain’s plan. She might not like it and she certainly wasn’t ready to be happy about it, but she could understand it.
That didn’t mean she was ready to forgive Quint for lying to her in the first place and for sending Duncan anywhere for any reason in the second. She turned her back on him and crossed her arms. “I’ll do my best to do my part and keep this bairn inside. But God help you Quinton MacLeod, and you, too, John Iain, if anything happens to that little boy.”
Beth didn’t need to turn around to realize the two men had left the room without another word. She heard the door open, and she heard it close. Then she heard nothing but the silence of her tears.
God, how she hated Christmas.
Chapter Eighteen
The first contraction hit as the evening sun was setting, and with a gasp, Beth woke from a fitful nap and sat straight up in bed. Pain clutched at her back and radiated low in her belly. Though this particular contraction didn’t really last very long, she had a good idea things were about to get much worse.
She took a deep breath and tried not to panic. Perhaps it was simply one of those false contractions, the Braxton-Hicks variety. The kind that stretched things out and made the body ready for real labor but in themselves usually didn’t last very long or hurt that badly.
Another one started in the middle of her back and worked its way around to the front. Still, she told herself, it might not be true labor. After all, with both Ben and Brian hadn’t she had Braxton-Hicks contractions for weeks before either one of them had been born?
Then she remembered. Oh yeah, this wasn’t the same sturdy, boxy body that had born her children. This was Elspeth’s body. So there was no way of telling if this particular, smaller, daintier, slimmer body was truly in labor or not.
Only time would tell that tale.
As soon as the pain completely subsided, Beth lay back, took a deep breath, and tried her best to relax. It wouldn’t do to put herself into real labor by worrying.
A few minutes later, another hit, this one just a little bit harder, and lasting a heartbeat longer.
She wished Quint were here. But she hadn’t seen even a glimpse of him since their…conversation earlier.
Not that he hadn’t tried to see her, for he had, twice. Once for the Christmas morning breaking of the fast, and then again for the official afternoon Christ’s Mass. But she’d told Bronwyn to bar the door and not admit him to their room unless he had Duncan with him.
She was being unreasonable about the entire situation, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. So instead of being at her side, where a husband and expectant father should be at a time like this, Quinton was no doubt in the great hall with his uncle and Viscount Telford, getting rip-roaring drunk.
And it was all her fault.
To make matters worse, she’d already dismissed Bronwyn for the evening. Just because she was in no mood to celebrate Christmas, didn’t mean the old maid should miss out.
But that also meant no one would be coming to check on her anytime soon. Probably not before morning. She could die giving birth right here in this bed, and no one would be the wiser.
Tears stung her eyes, and she swiped them away, refusing to give in to the panic. She was being silly. If she really was in labor or had need of assistance, all she need do was yell out. Someone would hear her. Someone would come. Surely, they would.
The next pain hit. This one all but took her breath away with its intensity.
Beth sighed as her frustration grew. Well, hell. Since they were already coming one after the other and gathering in intensity, the pains probably weren’t Braxton-Hicks, after all. And it looked like she was about to break her word to her husband and to the MacLeod. Because like it or not, it seemed Quint’s son, just like Duncan, had determined Christmas was a right fine time to be born.
Glancing around at the room’s four cold stone walls, the remnants of a smoky peat fire, and the rush covered floor that hid God only knew what creepy-crawly creatures, Beth shuddered. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t do this, she couldn’t have a baby today, especially not here and certainly not in the frigging seventeenth century.
She didn’t even have a stupid watch to count down the contractions. How was she to know if they were getting closer together or farther apart? And what had been the stupid rule anyway? Head to the hospital when the contractions got to be five minutes apart? Right? It had been so long ago since she’d given birth to Ben and Brian, she’d forgotten.
Beth laughed, but even she recognized the edge of hysteria in her voice. There would be no trip to the hospital with her carefully packed little bag this time. God, what wouldn’t she give right this minute for a sterile delivery room, a competent obstetrician, and an epidural?
Another pain hit. For a moment, this one took her breath away. Then she remembered her old Lamaze classes and forced herself to close her eyes, relax, and slowly breathe through the pain.
When the contraction finally subsided, she chuckled. Oh, my God. After Brian’s traumatic birth, she’d never thought she’d ever have need of Lamaze again. She’d had an emergency C-section and a hysterectomy because a big part of the placenta had detached from her uterus and the doctors couldn’t control the bleeding. Though she hadn’t felt a thing other than pressure, it had been the strangest sensation to hear the cry of a new life beginning while her own slowly seeped from her body.
Tears that had nothing to do with labor pains stung her eyes as she remembered Burt’s reaction to the fact she’d never again bear him a child.
“Can’t you do anything right?” he’d asked when she woke. “Cook a decent meal and give me four kids like my mom gave my dad. That’s all I’ve ever asked of you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to have another big, healthy boy, but I wouldn’t have cared if the other three kids had been girls. At least I would’ve had my four. Just like my brother and both my sisters. You know how important grandchildren are to my mother.”
He’d ran his fingers through his hair. “But no, you couldn’t do it, could you? One little complication, and you let those quacks rip out your whole fucking uterus. And you did it without having the decency of making sure they’d asked me first.”
“I didn’t have a choice, Burt, and neither did they,” she’d said. “They couldn’t stop the bleeding, and they were afraid they’d lose me.”
> He’d turned and walked away. “I wish they had.”
He’d mumbled the words under his breath, but she’d heard every one of them just as if they’d been shouted.
Beth took a deep breath as yet another contraction hit. Well, there was one thing for certain, this time, whether she was bleeding to death or not, this was 1643 and there would be no C-section performed this day.
****
Quint sat in the shadows of the great hall wishing he were anywhere but where he was. And especially wishing he could climb the stairs and celebrate the Christ’s Mass with his wife instead of sitting here watching a bunch of sloppy-ass blootered men get themselves even more blootered.
Not that he was stupid enough ta think for a minute he’d be welcomed with open arms inta his own chamber, even though it was well past midnight. Beth had made it more than plain the last time he’d tried that she didnae wish ta endure his presence today. And it wasn’t likely she’d be in the state of mind ta forgive him before Hogmanay, either.
But here in the great hall, Telford had been sneering at him all evening. As if Quint were purposefully keeping Beth from him and as if he knew for a fact it was the Laird of Brochel’s fault his wife had not descended the stairs even once during this day and graced the stupid count with her presence. But then again, Quint didn’t care if Lord Fredrick was right or not. It was his fault, and he’d pay the price.
Then he chuckled.
Considering Beth’s mood of the moment, the viscount should probably count his lucky stars she had remained above stairs. Because in her present foul temper, she just might give in ta the temptation of doing in Lord Fredrick herself…when she was done doing bodily damage ta her husband, that was.
Duncan. Quint sighed. Why couldn’t he make her see she was being completely unreasonable when it came ta the lad?
In the time where she’d come from, were young, strapping males coddled like bairns until they were full grown?
He shuddered, thankful his father hadn’t been one ta pamper anyone, especially his son, and hadn’t allowed his wife ta do any cosseting either.
Time For A Highlander (Real Men Wear Kilts) Page 20