****
From the open doorway, Quint took in the image of his wife feeding his son. What a magical sight it was to behold. One, after what had transpired with Mairi, he’d all but given up hope of ever seeing for himself. The bairn lost his grip on the tit for a moment and started loudly smacking his lips while frantically flailing his chubby little fist.
Beth smiled down at him and quickly gave him back what he’d been searching for.
Quint chuckled. “Since we cannae come ta an agreement on a name, perhaps we should simply call him Verra Hungry MacLeod and be done with it.”
There had been an ongoing discussion as to what to name their brand new prodigy for most of the day, and this latest suggestion was met with the same scowl the previous ones. The only difference being, at least Beth laughed with him this time when she was through with her scowling.
However, she hadn’t laughed at his first suggestion of the name Bertram, after his great grandfather. As a matter of fact, she’d almost looked as if she were going to be sick. And she hadn’t liked Torquil, after the founder of the clan Macleod, any better. Nor Archibald, Ewan, Fergusson, Hamish, or any of the other strong male names he’d come up with.
So he truly had no idea what to call his son.
He’d had months to ponder the question and knew it was his responsibility. He simply hadn’t given it much thought. Though he certainly didn’t consider himself a superstitious man, he also hadn’t been willing to tempt fate, the fey, or whatever else might be out there lying in wait to snatch away his happiness by settling a name upon a child before the lad had even taken his first breath.
Not that he’d been good at naming anything ever, for he hadn’t.
Once, his father had brought home a puppy from the mainland, and he’d told Quint he could be the one to decide what it would be called. But he’d taken so long trying to come up with the perfect name, the poor creature had ended up being just plain Dog his entire life.
He’d do better this time. After all, his son couldn’t go through life being called Son. It wasn’t dignified, and it wasn’t proper.
Quint chuckled as he imagined the lad standing upon his grave and cussing as an old man after years of being laird, when people half his age, and well beneath his status, or God forbid, his own children, still addressed him as Son.
Nae, he needed, deserved, a name he could be proud of, a name worthy of the next Laird of Brochel.
“Though he does seem to have a very healthy appetite,” Beth giggled. “I’m afraid you’re simply going to have to come up with something better than Verra Hungry MacLeod.”
Quint nodded. “I thought about naming him after my da. But his name was Charles, just like our dreadful English king, and I’ll nae have my son called the same as the man who wants ta steal his birthright and murder his father.”
She shook her head. “No, perhaps Charles wouldn’t be such a wise choice.” Then she smiled. “But then he’s only a few hours old, my love. Take a day or so to think about it, and I’m sure the perfect name will present itself.” She giggled once more and snuggled the now sleeping infant close to her heart. “Until then, I think I’ll just be content to call him ours.” Suddenly, her head popped up. “So how did the announcement of his birth go downstairs?”
Quint stared at his wife, dreading this moment. His Beth knew him so well. It would be difficult to outright lie to her and tell her all were overjoyed. But then again, perhaps he could give her the gist without revealing the whole.
He forced himself to smile. “Old Annie said ta tell ye she’d be making ye a special supper ta celebrate. And our liege lord, John Iain, said ta tell ye how proud he is of ye for delivering me a son even if it was before our agreed upon date. And ye should see the wee village. There are banners hanging everywhere declaring this ta be a true day of celebration.”
He didn’t tell her Marta’s reaction or the viscount’s. There was no reason to give Beth more than she already had to worry over. But he couldn’t help but be a little more than simply concerned, especially about the state of Marta’s sanity.
The woman had risen from her seat next to Telford and sauntered to Quint’s side. When she’d reached him, she’d stood on tiptoes, wrapped an arm about his neck, and whispered close to his ear as if they’d been lovers. He almost stepped back, but in the end, his curiosity as to what she’d have to say got the better of him, and he leaned in closer.
“So ye witch has given ye a son has she? Do nae be surprised I know her ta be a witch. I have eyes and ears. But that’ll be our little secret, won’t it? As long as ye keep mine, I’ll keep yours. I’d hate ta see the poor wee lad have ta grow up without his mother like our Duncan is. And ye better be watching ye back, Quinton MacLeod, or the viscount is going ta be taking what’s yours, if he hasn’t already. I’ve seen the way he looks at ye little witch of a wife, and how she looks at him.”
He’d pushed her away. “I ken well I made mistakes when it came ta Mairi and Dougal. Mistakes I regret every day of my life. I should’ve allowed them ta marry when they first asked, and I ken it well now. So do nae think for a moment I’ve forgotten any of my shortcomings or limitations. At the same time, tread verra carefully, Marta. For ye own sake, do nae make me believe ye ta be a true threat ta my wife or my child, because ye won’t like the consequences of that decision. Just because I made a promise ta look after ye ta ye sister on her death bed, does nae mean ye can do or say whatever ye please ta me either. As long as I do draw breath, I am laird.”
He cleared his throat. “And as far as the viscount planning ta take my wife, my castle, my lands, and my son, aye, I ken he means ta try. But trying and doing are two verra different things, ye ken?”
Marta laughed, and the same full, red lips he’d so loved on the face of her sister, Mairi, snarled back at him. “Only time will tell, laird. Will it nae?”
Quint groaned. Nae, he would not tell Beth anything Marta said.
And Lord Fredrick, Viscount Telford? What of his reaction to the news of the birth of a MacLeod heir? In truth, his had been even more disturbing than Marta’s. The man had simply smiled, lifted his tankard in salute, tipped it toward his mouth, and downed its contents. Then he’d slammed the receptacle back down on the table, stood, and walked out of the keep.
Oh yes, the fight of his life was about to begin, and though he well understood that fact, he also knew he wouldn’t be imparting that little piece of information to his wife, either.
****
Beth sighed as she slowly rocked the sleeping infant in her arms.
Didn’t the dratted man realize he needed to be more truthful, more forthcoming, with her? How else was she to know how to help him when the time came? And the time was coming, of that there was no doubt.
Time for the viscount to make his move.
Time to thwart Marta’s plans.
Time for her to leave.
She rocked faster.
But Quint wasn’t being truthful with her. He was lying, and she knew it. Well, not precisely lying. His story had been more one of omission than lie, for he simply hadn’t told her what the viscount or Marta had to say about the birth. She hadn’t specifically asked, but she was relatively sure both of them had plenty to say on the subject.
And Beth needed to know exactly what had been said before she dared contemplate leaving.
Time was running out.
Their relationship had always been one of saying mainly what the other wanted to hear. What they were both comfortable with. Don’t ask, don’t tell, if it wasn’t pleasant. It made everything so much easier and more congenial. He hadn’t insisted upon details about the family she’d had in her previous life, and she hadn’t prodded him for information when it came to his relationship with Mairi, his cousin Dougal’s death, or even his lesser enjoyable duties as laird.
In truth, all they’d ever really fought about was Duncan, and even in that, he hadn’t been unreasonable, usually.
But she would be leaving soon. Had no
choice but to leave, even if Fate had said she could stay. Her children were waiting for her, so she needed to know how to proceed.
God, she was so tired of the façade of their relationship. She didn’t appreciate feeling like an outsider in her own marriage. And yes, perhaps it had been Elspeth’s body who had married Quint in the first place, but it had been her words that spoke the vows and her mind that first felt a connection with him and her emotions. Oh my God, the emotional bond they’d formed over the last few months, and how she loved him with every fiber of her being.
Right this moment, postpartum as she was, she had emotions in excess, raging even. To make matters worse, those rampant emotions were playing havoc on what little was left of her sanity.
She couldn’t go, yet she couldn’t stay, and she couldn’t even discuss it with him. He wouldn’t understand. He’d be angry. He’d be hurt. Wouldn’t he?
Guilt filled her. Hadn’t she had enough of being shut out of important decisions and discussions while married to Burt? Why would she allow or do the same thing to Quint? Everything had to be Burt’s way without question. Quint wasn’t like that. Though protective, he was willing to at least listen. That was, if she could manage to come up with the courage to discuss what needed to be discussed.
For yes, she did need to tell Quint she planned on leaving and why. It was only fair. But there were also questions she deserved the answers to. Quint should have truthfully told her what had been said by the viscount and by Marta. And he hadn’t.
But then how did she come clean herself and start a conversation that began with “By the way, I plan to leave you, Verra Hungry, and Duncan all alone here in the seventeenth century as soon as the viscount has been dealt with. Because what I’ve neglected to tell you is, Fate himself is going to come get me and take me to be with my children, my very dead children, who are patiently awaiting my arrival in Heaven.”
Even without voicing the words out loud, they sounded insane to her ears. So how was she supposed to say them to Quint and expect him to understand?
Chapter Twenty
For the last turn of the hourglass, Quint had stood upon the parapet of his castle with John Iain by his side and watched as his friend, Alec Mackenzie, made his way toward the shore. It had been three days since the birth if his still unnamed son. Three verra long days of constantly watching his back and waiting for the viscount to slip a knife between his ribs while at the same time, trying ta make sure his wife did nae have cause ta worry and fret as she had a tendency ta do.
But the laird of the Isle of Lewis had arrived and his ship flanked one of the English warships while the MacLeod’s flanked the other.
Quint sighed with relief.
Not that Alec himself could prevent whatever was to come to pass, but at least he would be another set of eyes, just like John Iain. Even better, he’d have Duncan with him in that little boat he rowed toward shore. Thank God for that. Now perhaps his Beth would cease her worrying about the lad.
The waves brought the skiff the last couple of feet onto the shore, and Quint smiled as his old friend quickly disembarked with Duncan on his heels. They made their way toward the castle, but after just a few moments, the lad could no longer keep up with the Mackenzie’s long strides and began to lag behind.
Alec stopped in his tracks and waited patiently for the child. When he caught up, the Mackenzie hefted him up upon his shoulders. Duncan’s laughter could be heard echoing upon the wind, and his wide smile could be seen even all the way up to the top of the parapet.
Quint smiled, turned, and headed toward the stairs.
“I already like ye friend,” John Iain said. “A man who is Highlander enough ta lead a clan the size the Mackenzies are rumored ta be, yet knows when and how ta be gentle and see ta the needs of a little crippled lad, is a good man indeed. His father was a friend of mine, and he would’ve been proud of how his son turned out. But I myself have nae laid eyes on the lad since he was no bigger than Duncan himself.”
“Aye,” Quint nodded. “Alec Mackenzie is a good man and a good friend. But do nae be thinking ye grandson that weak or crippled, my laird. Duncan’s been working every day with his sword, just like ye tasked him ta do. And he can match any lad his age when it comes ta rock piling and peat cutting.” He smiled at his liege lord. “Duncan MacLeod does a fine job at whatever he sets his mind ta. And it seems we can add messaging ta that growing list. Though my Beth isn’t apt ta like it one bit.”
John Iain chuckled. “Aye, I can see Duncan is well received here at Brochel, even if he does have a foot that does nae work quite right. I ken he’s especially well liked by ye wee wife.”
Quint chuckled again. “I thought the lass was going ta flay the skin right off my arse when she found out we’d sent Duncan off ta give a missive ta the Mackenzie. She mothers him, and that’s a good thing. He needs one.”
The MacLeod suddenly got a faraway look in his eye. “I’d hoped me own wife would’ve done the same for Dougal once she got ta know him, but it had been ta much ta ask of her.”
Quint couldn’t stop himself; his eyes automatically darted toward the spot on the parapet where Dougal’s broken body had been found on the rocky ground below. “Why did ye nae come when he died, Uncle?”
John Iain seemed to age right before his eyes. His uncle had always been so strong, so vibrant, so verra sure of himself, but now, he just looked tired.
His voice was no more than a whisper when he finally spoke. “I wanted ta. But I was never the father ta Dougal I should’ve been. Ye da did a much better job of raising him than I. So since I had nae been there often while he was alive, I did nae feel I had the right once he was nae longer. And I did nae think Dougal would’ve wanted me at his wake anyway. When I last saw him, we did nae part on good terms.”
The MacLeod shook his head. “But I did nae think him ta be so weak as ta take his own life and over a lass, ta boot. That did surprise me. I kenned well ye both wanted Mairi, and I kenned she was carrying Dougal’s child and ye would nae allow them ta marry when he asked. But ye and he would’ve hashed it out eventually. Ye loved each other like brithers.”
Quint gulped down the lump forming in his throat.
“But ta take ye own life is a mortal sin, Nephew.” The chief of clan MacLeod sighed. “And I do nae like ta think of my son burning in hell for all of eternity.”
Quint cleared his throat. “I wish I could remember what really happened, uncle, so I could set your mind at ease. I do nae think Dougal threw himself off this parapet, any more than I would throw myself off. But we were both so deep inta our cups that night, anything may have happened. Neither one of us was thinking straight. All I can figure is he got ta close ta the edge and lost his balance, because the alternative is ta horrible ta contemplate. We were the only two up here. And though I do nae hope he took his own life, either, I pray it wasn’t me who did.”
John Iain scoffed. “Do nae fash yeself. Whatever happened, ye did nae kill ye cousin, and especially not over a lass. Of this I know. Perhaps someday we’ll both find the truth, and be able ta put Dougal’s soul ta rest, even if it is in Hell.” He gulped, and once more headed toward the stairs.
Quint took two deep breaths and then two more before following his uncle. “I suppose we had better make it ta the great hall before the Mackenzie does. I would nae want ta keep Alec waiting, and I cannae wait myself ta see the look on Telford’s face when he gets a glimpse of our latest guest.”
****
Where was Duncan? What was taking him so long to come see her?
Beth glanced toward her chamber door, then out her window for at least the tenth time in as many minutes. She’d seen the child follow the Mackenzie right through the castle gates, but she hadn’t caught another glimpse of him since, or heard any small footsteps approaching her door.
She’d thought he would’ve come straight away. She thought he’d be eager to meet his brand new cousin and see her once again, too, as much as she wanted to see him.
What was she thinking, and what had she allowed to happen?
Beth sighed.
How could she have permitted one small boy to weasel his way so deeply into her heart that she longed to see him? Especially since she planned on leaving him, on leaving all of them, and very soon. But she obviously had, and there was nothing she could do to undo it. Weaseled into her heart or not, she still desperately needed to simply look him over, ruffle his hair, listen to every detail of his adventure, and ensure herself he was whole and well and truly back home where he belonged.
But he hadn’t come to her yet, and she couldn’t go to him. She wasn’t allowed to step even one stupid toe outside her chamber doors for at least two more very long days.
Curses on the seventeenth century and their superstitious customs.
Quinton MacLeod’s son had been born three full days ago, and she had yet to see the outside of this room. She was going just a little bit stir crazy. Something about the scent of freshly birthed woman’s blood flow or some such rot inviting bad luck and the fey to enter and harm the newborn child or even steal him away.
According to both Bronwyn and old Annie, she didn’t dare venture out before sundown on the fifth day after his birth, when supposedly, the smell of the blood or the bleeding itself would be all but gone, and the child would once more be safe.
Whatever.
But then she smiled. What would she have given to have been so pampered after delivering Ben, or especially Brian since his birth had been a C-section? But Burt Anderson had never been one to coddle or indulge, and with her first born, she’d only stayed the one day in the hospital before being discharged home and back to her duties.
Even now, she shuddered at the memory of that first night home.
One of Burt’s old high school buddies had dropped by with a couple of six-packs of beer to offer his congratulations, and after he’d left, her ex-husband had lost his mind. He accused her of being attracted to his friend. He’d thrown her across their bed and raped her.
Time For A Highlander (Real Men Wear Kilts) Page 22