His words still echoed through her mind. “Lay still, and take it, bitch. I couldn’t be certain that first time in the back seat of my car, but I’m going to make damn sure I’m the first to get there now, before you go and get yourself knocked up again. I won’t be raising some other man’s brats.”
The two small stitches the obstetrician had placed during her episiotomy broke that night, and though walking and especially peeing had been horribly painful for quite a while, she hadn’t told anyone what happened. She’d been too ashamed.
A soft knock upon her door drew Beth out of the disturbing memories of her past, and she darted toward the bed. It wouldn’t do for Bronwyn to catch her up and about before that fifth day. She settled and smoothed the firs about her. “Enter.”
She’d been expecting Bronwyn for a while, for the old maid had been trying her best to wrest the baby out of Beth’s arms and take him to the nursery with her almost from the moment of his birth. But as of yet, Beth had avoided giving in. She’d be gone soon, and her time with Quint’s son would forever be gone. She meant to cherish each moment.
But as the door opened, Beth couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t Bronwyn at all, but a little tow-headed strawberry-blond who stuck only his foot and nose completely through her door and waited.
“Duncan,” she sighed. “I’m so glad ye are home safe and sound. Come in.”
The boy smiled shyly as he made his way into the room with his ever present sword clutched tightly in his little hand. “I’m nae bothering ye, am I, my lady? I was told the bairn had been born, and I wanted ta see my new cousin for meself. I went ta the nursery first, but old Bronwyn told me he was in here with ye.”
Beth gestured toward the small cradle nestled beside the bed. “Come see for yourself.”
Slowly, Duncan tiptoed in Duncan fashion until he stood directly before the cradle staring down in wonder. “My, but he’s a wee one, isn’t he, my lady? What’s he called?”
She chuckled. “Aye, Duncan, I suppose he does look very little to you now, but he’ll grow fast. And I don’t know yet what his name will be. Quint hasn’t made up his mind. For the moment, we simply call him Verra Hungry MacLeod because he has quite the appetite.” She sighed with contentment. “But you just wait and see. In no time at all, he’ll be big enough to follow you all over the great hall.”
Her voice caught, and her heart suddenly ached. If she chose not to take Fate up on his offer, she wouldn’t be here to see them play together. Or to watch either one of them grow into men. Or even to give them words of comfort when their hearts or heads or arms were broken. Let alone rejoice with them when they both found true love and married. And she certainly wouldn’t be around to bounce their bairns upon her knee or grow old with the man she loved.
But she’d made a promise so she’d be leaving soon. Time was running out.
Duncan’s lip suddenly trembled. “I’m glad he’s so little. At least, he did nae kill his mither like I did.”
Beth shook her head. “You did not kill your mother, Duncan MacLeod. Sometimes things beyond our control simply happen.”
The child shook his head back at her. “Nae, I ken I killed me mither. Aunt Marta told me so. She said it was cause I was ta big and my crooked foot got caught up ta long and Mairi bled ta death.”
His voice caught on a sob. “I did nae mean ta kill her, though, ye ken. I think I would’ve liked ta have had a mither, especially if she’d been nice like ye are to me. But nae if she’d been mean like Aunt Marta. She hates me, ye ken? She told me so. But I do nae blame her. She says I am the spawn of the devil and should never have been made in the first place. And I deserve ta drag my foot along behind me like a wounded animal. It’s my just punishment for what I did.”
Beth bristled as she grabbed up the little boy into a tight hug and placed him on the bed beside her. “I don’t care what Marta says or thinks. You are not the spawn of the devil, and your foot is not a—a punishment. You haven’t done anything to be punished for, do you hear me?”
Duncan looked solemnly into her eyes and slowly nodded.
“You are kind,” she continued. “You are brave and strong, and Quint and I both love you very much. Never forget that.”
She gasped as she realized what she’d just said aloud. Yes, she did love the child, but then, who wouldn’t love a little boy who worked so diligently at every task put before him? One who did his best to swing his too big sword in an attempt to protect others, and at the tender age of seven. He practiced every day to become a MacLeod guardsman, and then did his lessons every single evening without complaint in hopes of someday becoming the steward of Brochel.
His lip trembled once again. “Ye and the laird love me?”
Beth nodded.
“No one has ever said that ta me before.” He smiled. “Old Annie and her granddaughters tell me they like me sometimes, especially that little red-haired one, but ye are the first ta say ye love me. It’s nay mushy or girly at all. Nae like the other lads say it ’tis. And even if it ’tis, I still think I like it.”
He jumped off the bed and grabbed up a discarded fur from a nearby chair and proceeded to make himself a pallet directly between the cradle and the door.
“What are you doing, Duncan?” Beth asked.
The usually solemn boy giggled, and it was like music to her ears. “Guarding my cousin, Verra Hungry, just as ye and the laird tasked me ta do. I gave ye my word, my lady, and a MacLeod always keeps his word and holds fast, ye ken?”
Within moments, Duncan MacLeod was fast asleep upon his pallet with his sword clutched tightly to his chest, and Beth realized that somewhere along the way, little boys sleeping with very sharp objects had become a perfectly normal occurrence.
****
Quint rubbed at his temples in an attempt to lessen the throbbing in his head, let alone the grumbling in his stomach. He wasn’t exactly sure what was causing this particular headache. Or the one he’d had all day yesterday, for that matter, or the one the day before that, or the day before that. But there were certainly enough reasons, of late, to be experiencing both headaches and stomach troubles, so he didn’t give the whys of the matter much thought.
But it was hard to put his discomfort very far from his mind when one of the biggest reasons, Lord Fredrick, Viscount Telford, sat at the high board in the great hall, immediately to his left, where his good friend Alec Mackenzie should’ve been sitting. The English viscount was doing so, as if it were his God-given right. Just as if he were a most loved and valued guest here at Brochel, instead of being the sneaky, murdering, little weasel he truly was. The man even had the audacity ta wear that self-same smug, condescending smile he’d been wearing for days on end. The same hateful smirk Quint longed to wipe right off of his face with his fists.
But he couldn’t. He was Laird of Brochel, not a simple serf. He wasn’t free to do as he wished. At least, he couldn’t do what he wished yet. Lairds were held to a higher standard than others, as they should be. Without solid proof of treachery on the part of Lord Fredrick, Quint’s hands, and especially his fists, were tied.
John Iain was right when he’d said the viscount was a favorite of the king and beyond reproach. Beyond reproach or nae, Quint still wanted to kill him now and be done with it. He was tired of waiting for the man to strike, tired of watching his back, and tired of expecting a knife to slide between his ribs at any moment.
He took another gulp of the too sweet, off-tasting uisge beatha and grimaced. It wasn’t bad enough he’d had to put up with unwelcome guests and treachery in his hall, but now he was being served an almost undrinkable tankard of whiskey ta boot? MacLeod uisge beatha was known far and wide for being smooth as velvet and as strong as steel, but never sweet. And what he’d been served all week long, he wouldn’t place in front of his worst enemy, even if Lord Fredrick hadn’t been inclined toward the isle’s stout ale instead.
It was his own fault this particular batch hadn’t been up to the normal quality, however. He’d
been so busy this past year with a brand new wife and more young Highlanders to train than ever before. But with the coming of the next year, he’d make sure to personally oversee the preparations of Brochel’s fine Scots whiskey. The recipe had been handed down for generations, through his father’s fathers, and this batch definitely left much to be desired.
No Scot worth his kilt would willingly settle for the likes of this pigswill. And he was ashamed to be serving it to his guests.
It was on the tip of his tongue to demand a new barrel be brought forth when Alec’s words reached his ears. Though the man was seated half way down the huge table, his voice resonated throughout the great hall and Quint couldn’t help but chuckle.
The Mackenzie had yet to be at Brochel a quarter of an hour, and the man was already poking at the wasp’s nest with a sharp, pointy stick. “I did nae say I was here ta outright attack ye two little ships, Telford. What I said was, according ta the Solemn League and Covenant promises recently set forth, I should attack ye ships since the Scots army is duty bound ta aid ye English parliament, against ye English king. Ye ken there’s a difference, aye?” He smiled broadly. “But seeing as ye are a guest of my good friend, Quinton MacLeod, I’m willing ta overlook the fact there be English warships in our channel, for the time being, and ta let ye and ye men live another day or so.”
The viscount sputtered. “You’re willing to let us live? I’d put my money on the Royal Navy against your bunch of uncivilized barbarians any day of the week.”
Alec Mackenzie held up a hand and smiled again. “Aye, I’ll let ye live, as long as ye can learn ta be civil. It goes against our sacred Scottish rule of hospitality ta be the one ta take any other course first. And I for one, would nae ever do something so underhanded as ta take the life of a man who’s done nae harm ta me or my friends. After all, I’m all Scot. There’s nae a drop of coward’s English blood ta be found flowing through my veins.”
Quint chuckled out loud this time and belched loudly. He couldn’t help himself.
Telford didn’t seem to see the humor in the Mackenzie’s statements in the least. He puffed out his chest, and his face turned a bright, angry red. “Friend of Quinton MacLeod’s or not, how dare you sit there and smugly insult not just any peer of the realm, but a close confidant and friend of your king. And yes, like it or not, Covenant or not, he is still your king, and your words, sir, are treason. For do not think, for a moment, Charles does not still sit securely upon the throne of both England and Scotland, as God himself divined it to be, for he does and will until the day he dies.”
John Iain raised his tankard. “Long live the king.” He winked at Quint.
Quint couldn’t help but raise his tankard in salute and chuckle once more. After all, it was an appropriate use for such poor uisge beatha.
The viscount glared right at Quint when he paused, as if searching for the exact right words. “And as far as your sacred rule of hospitality is concerned, look first to your good friend Quinton MacLeod here, for the man has already shattered that myth. I traveled a great distance to simply ensure myself of the well-being of my young ward, Elspeth Frasier, and to see with my own eyes she is being treated well. And yet have I been allowed close enough to even lay eyes upon the lady in question for the past three days?”
He took a deep breath. “No, I haven’t. She could’ve died giving birth for all I know. Even her child could be dead and buried, and I wouldn’t be the wiser, because your friend here, refuses to allow anyone who isn’t her old hag of a maid to see either of them. And he has caused further damage to English-Scottish relations and insult by allowing you, a common thief and an unlawful reaver no less, to speak to me, a viscount, as you have. And by threatening the king’s ships with the hostile presence of your own.”
The Mackenzie only laughed. “I’ll have ye know reaving is still a time-honored tradition amongst us Highlanders, especially when it comes ta the MacDonalds. Unlike ye thieving English, we do nae steal anything we aren’t willing ta have stolen back from us. It’s all in good, clean fun.”
God, how his head pounded and his stomach rolled, but Quint managed to lift his voice loud enough to be heard over Alec and the viscount’s bickering. “Gentlemen, enough.” He raised his tankard once again. “Now is nae the time or place for talk of deceit, threats, politics, insults, reiving, or even why my bonny, little wife and bairn remain above stairs and are nae at my side. All those things can be addressed later.
“Right now, let us drink this, umm, fine Scot’s whiskey and be merry. My good friend Alec Mackenzie has traveled here ta simply congratulate me upon the birth of the first of what I hope ta be many fine sons. And, of course, ta spend the Hogmanay amongst friends and help welcome the coming year.” He made direct eye contact with the viscount. “This be a time of cheer and goodwill, and nae else will be tolerated.”
The chief of the MacLeods, John Iain, and the laird of the Mackenzie’s, Alec, raised their tankards and downed their drinks in agreement, but Quint couldn’t manage more than another tiny sip of his own to flow down his throat, even though he was thirsty beyond reason and had been for quite some time. He gagged.
Telford, however, did nae toast at all. He stood and stomped from the hall with his handful of men following in his wake.
Quint gestured toward his guardsman, Ralf. “Follow him and report back ta me.”
The man nodded, and the laird of Brochel watched as his warrior headed out the front doors of the castle. That was the last thing Quint saw clearly before blackness descended.
Chapter Twenty-One
As Beth was putting the just fed, now sleeping infant back in his cradle, the door of the chamber she shared with her husband burst wide open. In staggered John Iain and Alec Mackenzie, dragging her seemingly unconscious husband between them.
“Oh, my God,” Beth cried. “Has Quint been injured? Is the viscount responsible for this?”
“We do nae yet know for sure what has happened, if anything, my lady,” John Iain said. “One moment, he was giving a toast, and the next, he was face down in his trencher. Perhaps he has simply overimbibed and needs ta sleep it off.”
She ushered the two men toward the bed and helped them gently lay Quint upon it.
“My husband rarely, if ever, overimbibes,” she huffed. “He knows I do not tolerate a drunkard very well.” She shook her head. “Did either of you at least check to make sure he isn’t bleeding or otherwise wounded?”
They both looked sheepish as they shook their heads.
Quickly, she gave his body the once-over, and then laid one hand upon his forehead to assure herself that, yes, he was still warm to the touch. She placed the other upon his chest to make sure he still breathed. It was only after she felt the slow, steady up and down movements that she was able to draw her own next breath.
In the commotion, Duncan stirred and the baby woke with a loud squall. She ignored them both, and after a moment, Verra Hungry once more settled, but the little boy did not.
“What’s happened ta the laird, my lady?” he asked.
Beth placed her hands upon her hips “I’m not yet sure, Duncan, but I’m about to find out.”
She took a deep calming breath and faced Quint’s good friend and his uncle as she impatiently tapped her foot. “Well, out with it, both of you. What really happened here? Are you two by chance responsible for the condition of my husband? Or know who is?”
John Iain and Alec looked back and worth at each other and shrugged.
“I do nae think he’s simply blootered,” the Mackenzie finally said. “I’ve had many occasions ta enjoy a pint or two with Quinton, and it’s almost always I who finds himself carted off ta bed, not our friend here. He has a gut of stone and can outdrink almost any man standing. I do admit, though, we did all have a wee dram or two or three during the evening meal, but nae enough ta even make wee Duncan fall flat on his face, let alone Quinton MacLeod. I be thinking there’s something else causing him ta nae wake.”
He opene
d his mouth to say more, but out of the corner of her eye, Beth caught the shake of John Iain’s head, and Alec immediately clamped his mouth and simply shrugged.
She glared directly at her husband’s liege lord and chieftain. “Out with it, and this time tell me the truth. I am no child to be coddled and protected. What do you really think happened, and why is Quint in this state?”
John Iain hung his head. “We do nae ken for sure, lass, but we fear he may have been poisoned.”
She almost tripped over Duncan as she hurried toward the door, but the little boy was quick enough to get out of her way. Throwing the door wide open, she yelled down the hallway toward the nursery. “Bronwyn.”
She turned back to Duncan. “Hurry to the kitchen and bring Annie back to me. Don’t say a single word to anyone about the laird’s condition or about anything you’ve heard within these walls. Understand?”
The child glanced back at the unconscious Quint, and then up at his grandfather before once more facing Beth and nodding. “Aye, my lady, I understand.”
As Duncan shuffled out the door, Bronwyn came through it yelling, “Ye should nae be out of bed, my lady, and ye well ken it. How many times must I tell ye ’tis bad luck before—” She stopped speaking the moment she saw Beth and the bairn weren’t the only ones in the room.
“It’s Quint,” Beth cried. “He won’t wake, and the MacLeod and the Mackenzie fear he’s been poisoned. What can we do to help him?”
The old maid went immediately to the bed. She placed her ear against Quint’s chest, and then after a few moments, she sniffed his breath. “Aye, his heart is pounding verra fast, as if he’s run all the way across the Isle of Raasay without stopping ta catch his breath, and he smells of tomatoes, but ones that be ta sweet and unpleasant, as if they rotted on the vine before they ever had the chance ta ripen.”
She glanced at Beth and shook her head. “I fear they may be right, my lady. Our laird has been poisoned, I do believe, and with deadly nightshade, ta boot. And if that be the case, there’s little we can do but wait, watch, pray, and hope for the best.”
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