by Lynsay Sands
"Have you ever made a sword?" she asked suddenly into the silence.
"What?" Scotty asked with bewilderment.
"A sword," Beth repeated, neither opening her eyes nor moving. "I've never made one myself, but I gather they stick a steel rod into fire to soften it and then hammer it and hammer it and hammer it, only to stick it back in the fire again and hammer it some more. And they do that until they've made the finest, strongest, sharpest sword they can."
Scotty waited, expression blank, not sure what this had to do with anything.
"Some years back I decided God is like a blacksmith," she announced. "And I think all these horrible experiences are just him putting us in the fire and hammering at us, and then putting us in the fire again, and hammering some more until he makes us the strongest, finest, and sharpest we can be."
Beth smiled to herself, eyes still closed, and then admitted, "It took a lot of years for me to come to that conclusion. It took a lot of time for me to come to like myself too, and accept my past as being partially responsible for forming me. But now, I wouldn't change what happened to me for anything, Scotty. Not because I enjoyed it, for I surely didn't, at least not all of it, but because I like me. I like who I've become. As a child I thought I knew everything, knew better than my mother. I was arrogant as youth is. In my life I've been stubborn and stupid and selfish by turn, but everything that happened to me made me stronger and better. And usually taught me a lesson of one sort or another. And now I like myself."
Sitting up again, Beth turned to face him, meeting his gaze directly. "So, you see, I don't want to forget. Because if all those things hadn't happened, maybe I'd be a different person. Perhaps weaker, perhaps more selfish, perhaps defenseless and dependent, or perhaps stronger and a queen," she said with a grin. "But I'd be a different person. I don't want to be a different person. I am who I am and I really do like, even love, myself now. So, if your efforts to get me to agree to a three-on-one are purely for my benefit, you can stop. I don't want that."
Beth was silent for a minute, letting that sink in, and then said, "However, I know that's not why. You were always cold and harsh with me, showing your dislike and disgust. I know it has something to do with your mother and your inability to accept my life before I was turned. And I'm sorry if the person I've become isn't good enough for you, and you feel that a three-on-one mind wipe would make me more to your liking. But the person I have become is good enough for me, and I'm the one who has to face her in the mirror every day."
"Beth, I'm no'--I just think--" he began, but she cut him off.
"It doesn't matter what you think," she interrupted, and then shook her head. "As I said, I've struggled with it this last century. It was hard work learning to accept myself for who I am. But I had got to the point where I had accepted myself. And then you came along and I started feeling not good enough again. I started hearing those taunts in my head--dirty whore, nasty slag. Who would want a dirty whore like me?"
Beth shook her head again. "I don't want to feel like that anymore, Scotty. I don't want to have to change to be acceptable to you. And I don't want to have to erase the person I've become to be good enough for anyone. The truth is . . . well, maybe the truth is you're not good enough for me. Maybe I don't want someone so small-minded and judgmental in my life. I think I'm better off without you. Because I don't want a life mate who makes me feel so small and soiled."
Leaving him sitting there, stunned, Beth stood and walked into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind her.
Scotty just sat there for the longest time, his mind in turmoil. He couldn't believe the irony of it all. Finally he came to his senses, saw who she was and was ready to accept her, and she decided he wasn't good enough for her. And the hell of it was, he couldn't blame her. He had done everything she'd said. He'd looked down on her, and considered himself above her. Christ, he'd just added to her pain and suffering and made her feel small and soiled, and the knowledge shamed him. Scotty did not consider himself better than anyone else. At least, not normally. But . . .
But nothing. That's what he'd done . . . and he might have lost her because of it. The thought scared the hell out of him. All this time he'd been so busy fretting over her past and whether he could accept her, it had never once occurred to him that she might not accept him. After all, he was a catch, wasn't he?
God, he was an arrogant prick, Scotty thought with disgust. After all she'd been through, the last thing Beth had needed was him adding to her pain, and yet that's what he'd done. He needed to fix this. He needed . . . her.
Standing abruptly, he moved to the door and then hesitated. Scotty suspected he would have only one chance at this, if he even had that one chance. He didn't want to mess up . . . again.
Sighing, he took a breath, lowered his head and then knocked softly.
Sixteen
"Beth?"
Lifting her head, she peered at the door, but didn't respond. She couldn't. She was seated with her back against the wall between the toilet and the vanity, her arms wrapped around her knees and her heart breaking. Beth couldn't believe she'd done it, that she'd actually said what she had and walked away from Scotty, but it was really for the best. She had to take care of herself. That was something life had taught her--that ultimately you had to take care of yourself, because you couldn't always trust that someone else would do it for you.
"Beth, I know ye're upset," Scotty said now, his voice pained. "And ye've every right to be. I've been an arrogant and thoughtless prick. But please, ye do no' ha'e to let me in, but please just listen to what I'm going to say?"
Silence followed the plea, and Beth supposed he was waiting for a response, but she didn't give one. She simply waited, and after a moment he began to speak.
"First, if I was cold and distant with ye over the decades, it was no' because I did no' like ye, lass. I might ha'e had trouble accepting yer past, but I never disliked ye," he said firmly. "I acted like that around ye because I was fighting the desire to drag ye into me arms and bed. Kenning, as I did, that ye were me life mate, it was a mighty struggle no' to do so, but I kenned ye were no' ready fer that."
There was silence for a minute, as if he was waiting for a response. When she didn't give one, he continued, "But ye're right. I've spent the last century or more being small-minded and judging ye when I had no right to. I did no' even know ye, lass. I just made judgments based on the little bit I did ken. I knew that ye'd been a prostitute as a mortal, and made me judgments based on that, because I've always had a certain belief about what kind o' woman would trade her body fer coin. But ye're no' that woman, lass. I ken that now."
Scotty paused again, but Beth remained silent. Waiting.
"And it's no' just because o' all ye told me. I'd come to that conclusion meself while we were healing from the fire, and I meant to tell ye soon as we rested, but when I woke ye were gone and . . ."
She heard his sigh through the door.
"Forgive me, lass, fer no' seeing ye clearly all these years. Ye've shown me the kind o' woman ye are in so many ways over this last century. I just was no' looking.
"Beth, ye're smart, and ye're brave, lass. Ye run into trouble to aid others without concern fer yer own well-being. I kenned that even ere this trip, though I don't think I admitted it even to meself then. But that first day here, I knew instinctively ye'd run into trouble to save that woman Walter Simpson had, despite knowing help was twenty minutes out. Ye could ha'e been beheaded and killed ere help arrived, and ye kenned it and rushed in anyway.
"And then there was Kira. Ye were so kind with her. Ye could ha'e just passed on the message Mortimer said to give her, and left it at that. But ye saw she was in pain and suicidal and ye made sure to give her a reason to live and convinced her to come here to Toronto.
"And the mortal at the dance club? She had nothing to do with ye. Ye could ha'e just walked back to the dance floor and left her to her own sorrows, but ye followed her to try to help.
"And then th
ere's me. Lass, ye took on me pain to help me sleep and heal, and that was some terrible pain. Most women would ha'e run from it, but ye bore it to ease me suffering.
"Beth, the kind o' woman I decided ye were would ne'er ha'e done any o' those things . . . Me mother ne'er would ha'e done any o' those things."
Beth had lowered her head as Scotty spoke, but lifted it sharply and stared at the door at the mention of his mother.
"Magnus told me I had issues with me mother," he said solemnly. "He said that I was mixing ye up with her. I told him he was wrong, but now I see he was right. I was sure I had just learned well the lessons she'd taught me. But the truth is I was painting ye with the same brush as her because she was a cold heartless whore who traded her body for coin and anything else she wanted, and I thought any woman who was a prostitute must be the same. But ye're no' heartless, and . . . I was wrong," he said helplessly.
"And I swear, when ye finished telling me everything, I . . . this time I did no' suggest the three-on-one because I can no' accept yer past. That's no' true anymore. The truth is . . . it fair crushed me heart to hear all ye've gone through. I felt so helpless, kenning ye were on yer own through all that, and that I could no' help ye. I wanted to take away the pain I had no' been there to prevent.
"Lass," Scotty said solemnly, "Matias said that he wondered if ye would still be me life mate were yer memory wiped. That question has plagued me since he mentioned it. It still does. It bothered me then because, as much as I did no' feel I could claim ye, I could no' seem to let ye go either. But Beth, by the time ye finished talking, I thought if the mind wipe would give ye some measure o' freedom from the torments ye'd suffered, I'd risk it. Because I think I love ye, lass. And I'd rather spend the rest o' me life unmated and miserable, but kenning ye were happy and--"
Scotty stopped speaking abruptly and blinked in surprise when Beth suddenly opened the door. She hadn't been able to stop herself after the part about his thinking he loved her. She'd leapt up from the floor and opened the door and now faced him solemnly.
"I don't need my memories wiped," Beth said firmly. "My past doesn't torment me anymore. I like myself."
"No, I ken that now," Scotty assured her, looking relieved that she'd relented enough to open the door. "And I like ye too. I was just telling ye that. But I'm grateful ye do no' want it, lass, because I love ye, Beth, just the way ye are, and it truly would break me heart to lose ye now."
Beth almost threw herself into his arms right then, but made herself hold back and asked, "Will ye tell me about yer mother?"
Scotty closed his eyes briefly and sighed, but then nodded solemnly. "If ye wish it. Aye." He hesitated briefly and then said, "Did ye want to sit down while I do, or--"
"No," Beth interrupted. "I want to rest on the bed."
His eyebrows rose in surprise and then lowered with concern. "Are ye no' feeling well, lass? Rachel said ye were fully healed, but if ye're no' feelin'--"
"It isn't that," Beth said, stepping forward. She slipped her arms around his waist, but then leaned back to meet his gaze and said, "It's just . . . as stubborn, stupid and arrogant as ye can be, I think I love ye too," she admitted solemnly. "And I--"
That was as far as she got before Scotty closed his arms around her and ended her words by covering her mouth with his. Breathing a sigh into his mouth, Beth relaxed into his arms and kissed him back with all she had in her, hardly able to believe that it might work out. That he actually might love her and she him, and--
Her thoughts died and she gasped into his mouth when he suddenly scooped her up and carried her to the bed. He broke their kiss to set her on it, and then crawled onto it next to her, but when he reached for her again, she placed a hand on his chest. "Your mother?"
Scotty stilled, and then sighed and nodded. "Right . . . me mother."
Grimacing, he settled on the bed next to her to sit with his back against the headboard, and then waited for her to sit up beside him. Once she had, he raised his arm and put it around her, drawing her to rest against his chest. After a pause, though, he asked, "Do ye really want to hear this, lass? I ken ye're nothing like her."
"I want to hear it," she assured him solemnly. "Ye know my past. Let me know yours."
Scotty nodded, and then leaned his head back and said, "Well, to start off, I should give ye some history on me da first."
"Okay," she murmured, settling in against him and waiting patiently.
"Me da was married before he met me mother. His first wife was the love o' his life, and they were married for fifteen years ere she died. They were very happy together but for one thing--in all those years there was no hint o' a bairn fer them."
"How sad," Beth murmured.
"Aye." Scotty nodded. "And then there was me mother. She was a whore. No' professionally. At least, she did no' have a pimp or live in a brothel. However, she traded sexual favors for--" he shrugged helplessly, his chest moving under her "--basically for whatever she wanted. She slept with the king to gain favor for her father, and boost his--and by extension her--position at court. She slept with high-ranking officials, lairds . . . basically anyone who could do something for her that she wanted. And then she slept with me father."
"What did she want from him?" Beth asked with curiosity.
Pausing, Scotty frowned. "As I recall, the story went, she wanted some bit o' property he owned, for--" Scotty hesitated and then shook his head. "--for something. I'm no' sure I was ever told what she wanted the property for, or what it meant to her. All I ken is a bit o' land is the only reason I exist."
Beth raised her eyebrows dubiously at that, and Scotty smiled.
"Truly," he assured her, and then continued, "She showed up at the keep, in the midst o' a winter storm. Da later learned she stayed at a neighboring keep for weeks ere the storm hit, and the minute it set in, she left and traveled to our castle." Glancing down at her, he explained, "Hospitality was important in the Highlands, and turning her away would no' have been hospitable, so it was pretty much guaranteed she'd no' be turned away."
Leaning his head back, he continued, "She promptly set about what she did best and seduced me father. Afterward, she simply expected him to sign over the deed of the land she wanted to her. Just like that," he said with disgust.
"Thought that much of herself, did she?" Beth asked with dry amusement.
Scotty shrugged. "It had worked for her in the past. She was a beautiful woman, and apparently she was very skilled in bed."
"But it didn't work with your father?" Beth guessed.
"Me father was no' a stupid man. He knew if he gave her what she wanted, she'd be on her merry way. It was, he told me, an especially bitterly cold winter with little to do, so he hemmed and hawed, and said he'd think about it and such. Well, my mother simply saw that as a challenge. She was so vain she did no' for a minute believe she would no' get her way. This went on until the spring, by which point Father was growing bored with her, and as the mountain pass thawed, he was growing more and more eager to send her on her way sans the deed. But then he began to suspect she was pregnant."
"With you," Beth said with a grin.
"Aye." He smiled at her expression and squeezed her tighter briefly, then said, "Well, Da had always wanted children, or at least an heir. So to him, this was a blessed miracle."
"And to your mother?" she asked.
"A bargaining chip," Scotty said dryly. "In fact, to this day I do no' ken for sure that MacDonald was me father, or if she was sleepin' with one or several o' his men to get pregnant, and claiming it was his to have that bargaining chip. However, he believed I was his and that was all that mattered . . . to both o' us. He was a good father," he assured her.
Beth nodded solemnly.
"At any rate," Scotty continued, "once he realized she was pregnant, me da insisted she marry him. She refused, but said that if he signed that bit o' property o'er to her, she'd give me to him when I was born. But Father did no' trust her. He feared the moment he signed the deed o' pro
perty over to her, she'd find a way to be rid o' me."
Glancing down at her again, he explained, "She'd been pregnant a time or two before, ye see. And none o' those bairns had survived. Actually, I learned later that she had been pregnant many more times than even me father suspected. She was very fertile, but according to her maid, only three bairns survived to birth. Apparently she had a concoction that included wild carrot and I do no' ken what else that she would drink to rid herself o' unwanted babes. When that did no' work, she got rid o' the bairns by other methods after birth. One she apparently gave, along with some coin, to some peasants on her father's estate to raise. I gather she was fond o' the father o' that child," he said with a shrug. "Another she drowned at birth, and another she simply abandoned out in the cold on a winter night. She never knew if it froze to death, was rescued by someone or was killed by wolves. She didn't bother to check.
"So, me father kenned about the other bairns and did no' trust her," Scotty said, returning to the tale. "There was no way he was going to sign o'er the property ere she gave birth. He suggested she carry the baby to term, give it over to him, and then he'd sign the deed. She refused that offer and insisted he do it now, or the bairn, me, would no' make it to birth. A rather stupid threat to make if ye think about it," he pointed out. "I mean, she was alone with naught but her maid, who was no' very loyal, in someone else's castle."
"Yes, that does seem stupid," Beth agreed.
"Aye, but me mother was no' a stupid woman," he assured her. "I can only think that she was so frustrated that she was no' getting her way fer once in her life, that she lost her temper and ran off at the mouth." Scotty shrugged. "Whatever the case, me father's response was to lock her in the tower and ensure she was watched at all times so that she could no' concoct or take anything that might end the pregnancy, or otherwise rid herself of it. And then he waited, and on the day that she went into labor, he sent for the priest, and had him wait in the Great Hall while he went up to her room. He told her she was having the baby. Not only that, but he was ensuring it would survive by taking it away from her the moment it was born. He said he'd then announce my birth to the world and present me to the king as his child by her. She would be ruined . . . unless she married him and made me legitimately his heir."