The Perfect Ten Boxed Set

by Dianna Love

  This time he kicked back—-hard.

  Ignoring her, he smiled at her companion. “Nay yet, Madame, but the chapel has been restored.”

  Rachael smiled. “How nice.”

  To Flora’s relief the Bruce’s man then emptied his tankard. He had manners enough to wipe the foam from his mouth before saying, “Talking with ye has been most pleasant, ladies, but ‘tis time for my leave taking.” He bowed to her. “’Twas a pleasure doing business with ye, Mistress Campbell.”

  She forced a smile. “Good day, sir.”

  When he disappeared Rachael murmured, “We should be finding our guards. ‘Tis past the appointed hour, non?”

  “Aye.” Flora came to her feet and noticed Richard had neglected to pay for his ale. She reluctantly dropped extra pennies on the table. Revenge was becoming more expensive by the hour. “If we hie home, we may be in time to hear what happens next to Oliver Twist.”

  “Ah, the poor wee lad.” Rachael picked up her basket and frowned at her purchases. “Can ye imagine selling a bairn? And to learn the Sassenach starve poor laddies to keep ‘em wee so they can force them down chimneys and then chase after them with lit brooms should they be slow at their task. Ack! ‘Tis abhorrent.”

  Flora readily agreed as she headed for the door. Not spying the Bruce’s man lingering on the street, she heaved a sigh.

  Chapter 24

  Hearing her husband’s call, Beth quickly ducked behind the enormous wicker baskets at Angus’s back. She held her breath and silently cursed her big mouth.

  Duncan MacDougall was a man on a mission, while Beth had never been the brunt of so many jokes in her life.

  It wasn’t that she minded her husband’s attention—Duncan was an incredibly considerate lover—but she’d been spending more time on her back than on her feet of late and things were falling apart in the keep. And Duncan’s time would be better spent at the lists rebuilding his strength readying for the tournament. If she’d explained ovulation once, she done it a dozen times and still she’d not had a moment’s peace or a solid night’s sleep since that fateful evening.

  “Have ye seen my ladywife?” Duncan asked as he approached.

  “Ye ladywife, my lord?”

  “Aye, ye twit!” Duncan paced before her hiding place. “The skinny lass with the fine arse.”

  Angus cleared his throat, no doubt in an effort to cover a chuckle. They’d all seen her carried away over Duncan’s shoulder often enough in the last two weeks to know the laird of Blackstone was intent, to the point of obsession, on making an heir. To her infinite relief Angus responded, “Um...she was in the distillery an hour ago.”

  “Well, she isna there now.”

  “Have ye checked the chapel?”

  “Why would she go...Ah ha!”

  Duncan’s heavy footsteps receded and Beth peeked out from behind the basket. “Is he gone?” she whispered.

  “Aye, but ye’d best be away. If ye linger, he’ll be wondering why the fish are still sitting here.” As she came out of hiding, he said, “Now dinna ye be forgetting the pie ye promised me.”

  “Angus, I’ll make two if you can keep him occupied for that long.”

  Angus called, “I’ll try,” to her back as she trotted across the bailey, keeping well away from the chapel and to the shadows.

  She’d almost made it to the keep’s door when she heard, “Hold ye, lass, right where ye be!”

  Damn.

  Whipping the door open, she waved over her shoulder. “Can’t dear! Something needs my urgent attention.” She then ran for her life.

  “Oh, nay, ye sweet thing!”

  Chickens scattered and men laughed as Duncan raced after her.

  ~#~

  “Ye heard nothing?”

  “I was too late, Isaac, but I feel certain the ensigns is Burgandian, not crafted by that sloth.”

  Isaac, aware she was familiar with the fashion wars raging on the continent between the powerful and wealthy Germanic princes and the French, didn’t question her opinion. He started pacing the library. “Where is Flora now?”

  “In her chamber.”

  “Mayhap she commissioned the piece in good faith and this Richard of Oban was merely taking the credit to turn a fast profit.”

  “Possible, but...” Who was she to say what was or was not possible, though she doubted Flora could be so easily tricked. Too, the man’s hands appeared coarser than those of a fine artisan. “In any event, she spoke only kind things about our lady on the way home.”

  “Hmm. Do you think she might be dissembling?”

  Rachael shrugged. “Mayhap she now finds our lady’s odd ways more acceptable since Beth saved her life.”

  “A strong possibility given Flora is nothing, if not self-serving.” He took her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Then we can do little but watch and wait.”

  Her beloved appeared none too happy about the prospect.

  “Nay, husband. We pray, and while I continue my vigil, you can keep Duncan occupied and away from poor Beth.”

  Isaac grinned. “Did she tell you what has set him on his current course?”

  She shook her head. “Did Duncan tell you?”

  “Aye.” He studied her for a moment. “Ye were right, my dear. She is a reborn, a spirit from a distant place and time made flesh again.”

  “Oh my.” When she’d mentioned the possibility, she’d been thinking on a philosophical plane, never truly believing it could be reality. Wide-eyed, she asked, “How has he taken this?”

  “He’d slit my throat if he heard me say this, but he’s frightened she may leave him, for she has the ability. I’ve no doubt he loves her, but with the possibility of her deserting him hanging over his head he’ll never acknowledge it to himself nor to her.”

  How stupid could men be? “Saying he loves her might well meld her to him.”

  “He believes a child will do that.”

  She sighed. Some men were apparently more foolish than she surmised.

  ~#~

  James the Bruce smirked as he read Flora Campbell’s missive. Her plan for kidnapping Lady MacDougall could be arranged— not easily for the MacDougall had placed his sentries well—but guards had never deterred him before and would not now. He had too much to gain.

  And who would have ever thought Duncan the Black’s Achilles heel would prove to be a wife?

  He tossed Flora’s missive, with her plea that no permanent harm come to Lady Beth, into the fire. He marveled at the woman’s stupidity. He would, as always, do what suited his purposes and clan. And he had other plans for Lady Beth.

  Once captured and placed in his dungeon, ‘twould take but a week, mayhap less, for Lady Beth to die. He would then order her body tossed over one of the many crags that bordered Bruce-MacDougall land so ‘twould appear she fell. The carrion crows will, nay doubt, lead a MacDougall clansman to her, but by then ‘twill be too late. For Lady Beth and the MacDougall.

  Looking at the missive’s ashes, he shook his head. God, spare me from a woman bent on revenge.

  ~#~

  Tears crept into Tom Silverstein’s eyes as he looked upon his ebony-headed son sucking and gurgling at Margaret’s full breast. ‘Twas the loveliest, most heart-warming thing he’d ever witnessed.

  His perfect son, just five days old, had already taken over the household. Everything turned topsy-turvy on his slightest whim. But how long would his self-determination last?

  Despite Margaret’s coaxing, Tom had yet to garner the courage to reread the laird of Blackstone’s diary, to look for changes, for Isaac’s predictions.

  Too, he still worried about Beth, regardless of his wife’s assessment of her tenacious spirit. Fifteenth century Scotland had been a brutal place, where pestilence, constant squabbling between chieftains and religious fervor made everyone’s life a misery. Assuming she had survived her arrival, how was she faring under those circumstances? Could she survive long enough to fulfill the prophecy?

  He’d tried but couldn�
��t squelch the deep-seated fear that all he’d been led to believe, to hope for, would prove to be only lore. That nothing would come to pass, nothing would ever change.

  “Tom? Are you all right, love?”

  He smiled and took his sleeping son from his exhausted wife’s arms. “Aye. Is there anything I can do to help ye get ready?” Today their son would be officially welcomed into their temple, named, and circumcised.

  His wife’s lovely china blue eyes had sunk deep into darkened sockets since his son had set himself to feeding every two hours around the clock, but she smiled and shook her head. “All but yours truly is ready. Can ye keep an eye on him while I change?”

  “My pleasure.”

  As he rocked his son, Tom tried to put away his worry. He wanted nothing to overshadow the joy he should be feeling on this blessed event of his son’s naming, yet worry he did, and he picked up the diary. With a shaking hand he then put it down. “Nay, I canna look. Not on this day.”

  Chapter 25

  The moment Beth keened and collapsed to his chest, Duncan halted the mind games he’d been playing for restraint and exploded deep within the warm confines of his wife’s lithe body.

  Holding her close, he inhaled the fresh scent of her hair as it veiled his face. He grinned. His ladywife would no doubt deny it with her dying breath, but the poor wee thing was verra easy to arouse.

  He only had to hold her close and stroke the side of her breast, nibble at the junction of her neck and shoulder, or kiss her softly while playing small circles on her lower back to capture her interest, to make her groan.

  That’s all he need do, but then he did have to catch her first, which was becoming a bit of a problem.

  He stroked her small, firm buttocks. “Did ye enjoy?”

  “Uh huh.” She nuzzled his neck.

  “Good, then can ye kindly explain why I’m having to chase ye to ground every time I want ye?”

  He felt rather than heard her laugh. She rose up onto her elbows and ran a hand through her hair to get it off her face.

  The way she tipped her head as she did it sent his blood racing.

  “I’ve already explained I’m either already with child or not. And all the tupping in the world at this point will not change that.”

  Duncan snorted. He knew for a fact that some women took a good deal of attention to get with child. Others ye merely had to look at crossways and they were with get. Since he had no idea what kind of woman he had, he intended to be thorough. Verra.

  “Besides,”—she crawled off his chest and motioned for him to roll over so she could examine his shoulder—“you should be working the lists, and I should be in the kitchen.” Prodding his new flesh, she murmured, “You’re truly amazing. It’s almost completely healed. Is your shoulder stiff?”

  He flexed. “A wee bit.”

  She kissed his back. “You can roll back now.” She cuddled into his side. “What will you do should you lose the tournament?”

  “I’ll not.” Even the suggestion made his blood run cold.

  “Yes, I’ve no doubt. But, God forbid you should lose, what will you do for money—-coins?”

  He had hoped she’d not put the two together. “Then I will go to France for a short while.”

  “France?” She came up on her elbows to examine his face.

  “Aye, I will sell my arm to Louie.”

  She blanched lily white. “You’d become a mercenary again, after everything you’ve seen and done?”

  “‘Tis nay need to shout.” He brushed the hair from her lovely face. He’d forgotten she’d read part of his diary. He sighed. ‘Twas odd, knowing his writings were of such import they’d been translated. Twice. When she settled on his chest again, he wrapped his arms around her.

  “Ye ken I dinna like it, but will do it again if need be to keep what is mine.”

  He felt something warm and wet on his chest and lifted her chin to see her tears. “Hush, ‘twould not be so bad. Ye’d have a free hand here and nay need to fret over me chasing ye with a gleam in my eye.”

  She slapped his stomach. “Do not joke about war, Duncan Angus MacDougall. You could die or be maimed—”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “I’ll not do it again if it upsets ye.”

  She settled onto his chest again. “Damn straight, it upsets me.”

  It came as a bit of a shock to realize his wife truly cared for him. Mayhap she’d not leave him after all, even if she couldn’t have a child.

  “Beth, what do ye want most in the world?”

  She studied his face for a long moment as fresh tears filled her eyes. In answer she kissed him gently on the lips but said no more.

  ~

  The next morning, unlike the rest of the clan who cheered and hooted as Duncan and Angus went at each other on the lists, sending the sounds of crashing wood on steel echoing around the bailey, Beth grimaced and silently bit her nails. She sorely regretted suggesting Duncan practice for the tournament. How the men could still laugh and call out obscene taunts as they tried to decapitate each other was beyond her.

  “Dinna fash, my lady,” Flora whispered at her elbow. “Yer man is well-skilled at this. See, he has not been unseated, and Angus is verra strong and wily.”

  Making room for Flora at her side, Beth smiled for the first time in hours. “Good morn, Flora.”

  “Good morn.”

  Beth’s smile faded into a cringe as Angus’s lance struck her husband’s shield with an ungodly thud and the wood shattered. “Just the thought of him falling and getting trampled by that enormous beast...”

  The massive white Percheron Duncan rode weighed a ton.

  Flora shook her head. “Ransom is fond of his master so he willna stomp upon our liege should he be unseated.”

  “I pray you’re right.”

  Duncan had told her he’d acquired the animal in France six years ago and swore the stallion was intelligent and the best he’d ever had.

  “I see ye wear thy broach,” Flora whispered.

  “Yes, it’s lovely, Flora. I thank ye again.”

  “Ye are most welcome. I’ve come to ask if ye would like to see the new woolens Sean’s wife has been weaving. So soft and fine, ‘tis wondrous.”

  “I would love to see it.” Beth had been dying to see what home industries Duncan had at his disposal. Surely, with her twenty-first century perspective, she could come up with something lucrative that would keep him home, keep him from becoming a mercenary again.

  “Then let us go after the men are finished here, my lady. Sean’s wife and the loom are just above the village, there.” Flora pointed toward the hill just to the right of Drasmoor.

  “Yes, and thank you.”

  Flora’s attitude toward her had changed since the banquet. This last week, she’d been pleasant and the first in the hall to assist in readying the mid-day meals. Pleased that Flora had extended her hand in friendship in yet another way, Beth said, “I’ve always wanted to see how a loom works.”

  “Grand. We can cross to Drasmoor with one of the fishermen and be back by mid-day meal.”

  As she watched her husband dismount, Beth said, “Thank you for offering to take me.”

  “‘Tis my pleasure.”

  “Ah, my ladywife!” Duncan pulled his helmet off. His hair was plastered to his head with sweat. “What say ye? Am I fit enough to carry yer token into battle?”

  He was obviously so pleased with his performance she answered, “Aye, my lord. You are a splendiferous example of manhood, if ever I saw one.” And he truly was, gleaming and clanking in armor as he bore down on her in the morning sunlight.

  He pulled off his gauntlets and scooped her into his arms.

  In a whisper, he asked, “Have I allayed yer fears, woman mine?”

  “Aye.” She kissed him soundly, knowing he wouldn’t mind her confirming his prowess before one and all. The clan’s very livelihood and security depended on his ability. Yet she worried. As strong an opponent as Angus was, the Bru
ce was bigger still.

  Lowering her to the ground, he called to Rachael’s son, “Squire, fetch yer weary knight a drink.”

  The skinny lad, twelve, all joints and ears, preened. “Aye, my lord!”

  “You ken Rachael will have your skin,” Beth murmured, “if you continue to encourage the boy’s ambitions to knighthood.”

  Duncan laughed. “The lad needs learn how to defend himself and Isaac agrees.”

  Seeing Rachael’s dour expression out of the corner of her eye, Beth muttered, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Ye fash too much, dear lady.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Someone around here has to.”

  He laughed as Jacob handed him a flagon of ale. After downing it, he called, “Angus, ye sorry excuse for a man, are ye ready for a wee bit of sword play?”

  “’Fore ye pick up yon claymore again,” Angus called, “ye’d best go fetch a few brawny men, ye braggart. Ye’ll be needing help walking off the field.”

  Duncan laughed and kissed her nose. “Later, wife. I need put that heathen on his back.”

  ~#~

  Beth and Flora had just taken their seats at the bow of the long boat when they heard, “Halt! Wait!”

  Beth wondered why Flora swore under her breath seeing Rachael, flushed scarlet, racing along the quay with a man close on her heels.

  “Thank ye,” Rachael gasped as one of the oarsmen helped her in. She tossed her satchel onto the floor. “I feared ye had already left. ‘Tis wee Mary, my lady. Her birthing isna goin’ well.” Pointing to the man at her back, she said, “’Tis her husband, Alex.” The man, unlike Rachael, was deathly pale and obviously close to tears.

  Beth nodded to the man. “Hello. What is wrong?”

  “I dinna ken, my lady. The midwife wouldna tell me. She just said to summon ye soonest.” As his tears began coursing down his cheeks, Flora blanched.

  The oarsmen needed no coaxing to put their backs into every stroke.

  Totally out of her element, Beth whispered, “Do either of you know what to do?”