Highlander's Beloved 02 - A Highlander's Passion

by Vonnie Davis

  The door to the office opened and the lock snicked closed.

  “What’s wrong, brother? Yer bear has ours upset, ready to burst forth. We’ve both had to lower our telepathic shields so they canna hear yers raging. Could ye lower yers so Paisley canna hear him either?” Creighton’s hand clasped Bryce’s shoulder. “What has ye in such pain?”

  “Shouldna ye be with yer wife?” Aye, a man should spend evenings with his wife. If Kenzie were his, he’d be with her right now, in their quarters, talking to her, wooing her, and—bloody hell. He tossed back some more Whyte & Mackay.

  “Paisley, Effie, and Mum are discussing breast pumps.” Creighton shuddered. “I had no idea.” He poured two fingers of whisky for himself and for Ronan. “I ken about breast feeding. I just had no clue you could pump…” He shook his head. “Me God, ye can freeze the stuff. What if Cook Edweena comes in to work, bleary-eyed, some morning after being out most of the night drinking with the girls and chasing down men?” He tossed back the amber liquid. “Christ, the thought curdles me gut. And pardon the feckin’ pun.”

  “I’ll buy a small freezer for the bairn’s milk. One with a lock on it,” Ronan chimed in with one of his typical reasonable answers. He slouched onto the large stone hearth. “Come, Bryce, sit and tell us what has ye torn to shreds. Remember how Da used to place us in a row on these ancient stones and stare us down when he figured we’d done something wrong?”

  Bryce poured another four fingers of whisky. “I’m too agitated to sit.”

  “And if ye keep pouring Scotch down yer throat ye will be too bloody drunk to stand in yer red plaid boxers.” Creighton, the eldest of the three brothers, pointed to the hearth. “Sit yer arse down and talk.” The oldest sat, making room for his youngest sibling between him and Ronan.

  Bryce’s arse had no sooner hit the stones than he was up and pacing the den. “Funny ye should mention breast pumps.” He was blessed with brothers he could discuss anything with.

  “Bloody hell!” Ronan slapped his forehead. “He’s gotten someone pregnant.”

  “Nay!” Bryce whirled, and the room did a little spin itself. “I had a woman pregnant.” He jabbed his thumb against his bare chest. “Me woman! Neither one of us knew it, but when I broke things off with Kenzie, she was carrying me bairn.”

  Creighton, the tallest, stood. “What happened?” Danger dripped from his short question. As an expectant father and an indulgent uncle, the laird had a soft spot for children. “Did she tell ye when she found out?”

  “Nay.” Bryce shook his head. “She has her pride as all good Scots do. I’d told her I couldna love her as much as I did the memory of Miranda. Me stupidity tore her to the core of her being.”

  Ronan stood and walked toward the alcohol cabinet. He topped off all three of their glasses before he placed the decanter within the cupboard and turned the key, slipping it into the pocket of his jeans, a silent signal the drinking for the night had stopped.

  “So her pride kept her from revealing the news to ye?” Creighton’s thick eyebrows rose. “Women can be stubborn as hell; I’m only finding that out meself. Did she try to pass the bairn off as Duncan’s?”

  Bryce drained what little tipple remained. “Nay. Ye ken Kenzie canna lie. When Duncan showed interest in her, she told him she was pregnant.” He waved an open hand through the air. “Och, he was a charmer, he was. Promised to love the child as if it were his. Then two weeks after their wedding, he got drunk and beat it from her.” Bryce hurled the empty tumbler against the paneled wall. The shattering of glass echoed about the room.

  “Me bairn! Motherfucker killed me bairn! He beat Kenzie until she hemorrhaged.”

  Both brothers muttered long, deadly curses before encircling him in a hug of muscle and brawn for a couple minutes to offer comfort. Finally they separated.

  “So, she’s had two bairns taken from her through violence?” Ronan ran his fingers through his long hair as he sat on the corner of Creighton’s massive desk. “My God, who supported her emotionally after all that? If Bryce didna know, did anyone? Did she endure it all alone?” Ronan glanced at Bryce with compassion. “Can she have any more children?”

  “The doctors dinna think so, or so she confessed after she told me of the abuse she’d endured at that feckin’ bastard’s hands. I’d taken her to her apartment to help move her to Effie’s. I couldna figure out why she didna want me to come in.” He turned his back to his brothers and with his hands fisted against the wall, shook his head. “ʼTwas a depressing sight, her place was. She barely had any furniture, but there were pictures she’d painted hung at the oddest of places. When I took one down, I found a hole. A fist-sized hole. After I’d revealed all the evidence of the fighting and demanded to know why she never came to me fer help, she told me the entirety of it all.”

  Creighton pivoted toward Ronan. “Text Mum. Tell her to quietly excuse herself and come here.”

  “I’m not a mumma’s boy, dammit.” As the youngest, Bryce and his mum did share a special bond. At times, it embarrassed him.

  “Nay, but we are a family. When one of us hurts, we all hurt.” Creighton checked his watch. “It’s time to take Effie home and get me wife to bed. I’ll check in when we get back. I ken how ye hurt. I’d be no different if I were in yer spot. I’d be outta me fukin’ mind with hate.” He clapped a hand on Bryce’s back. “Ye still want Kenzie?”

  “Aye.” There was no doubt in his mind.

  “Then go get her, man. Make her part of the family.” Creighton was big on family, but then, they all were. ʼTwas how they were raised. They’d been mere lads when their da died, but och how he’d doted on them during the short time he’d lived.

  Creighton had just passed the age of ten when he’d assumed his duties as head of the family, pushing his younger brothers around and telling them what to do—and, drowning in the fear of their grief, both Bryce and Ronan had clung to Creighton like a paternal lifeline. Now, as adults, over the past few years, they worked together to renovate this drafty ancient castle into a viable lodge.

  The huge, stone building sitting on the edge of granite cliffs overlooking Mathe Bay retained the keep and battlements built in the 1200s. According to Mathe clan lore, nearly a century later the great hall and minstrels’ gallery were built. Every century or so, more rooms were added. To the Mathe clan, the structure meant permanence, fer the Vikings had tried several times to vanquish them from the land and to destroy it. To the Matheson brothers, it was home, and even as they’d planned the renovations, careful consideration was used to keep the guest quarters separate from theirs.

  Creighton, with his hotel management degree, saw to the business end of things. Ronan took care of internal maintenance of the lodge—heating, plumbing, and the like. Bryce, who loved the outdoors, kept the grounds and the moat in what everyone considered beautiful condition. He also oversaw care of the stock. Their horses were among the finest. Mum handled online reservations and managed the household help. Fer many families, working and living together wouldna work, but fer them it did. Some things in their favor were their love of teasing and their banding together when one of them needed help. Or support. Like Bryce did tonight.

  “Kenzie’s not so fond of me right now. She’s got me ranked among snakes and pond scum, so she does.”

  Creighton grunted. “I ken she might be holding a grudge, but I’ve also seen how ye can charm the ladies.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Besides, ye’ve got us. Getting her to fall in love with ye again will be a family venture.”

  Ronan shuffled his feet and looked Creighton in the eye. “I dinna ken ye can make a woman fall in love with someone. Do ye remember the love potion Una made for yer feckin’ balls and how the gnats bit the hell outta big daddy and the twins? Paisley didna take too kindly to yer trying to manipulate her feelings, if I recall correctly.”

  Creighton’s eyebrows nearly lowered to cover his brown eyes. “Kiss me Scottish arse.”

  A soft rapping sounded at the door and
he hurried to unlock it to let in their mum. “I’ll be back after Paisley and I take Effie home. And there’ll be no more mention of love potions in this house.” He stormed out.

  “Well, what in heaven’s name has him wound up?” Their mum glanced at her two remaining sons and zeroed in on Bryce. She crossed the room and cupped his cheek. “Youngest, what troubles ye? I havna seen such pain in yer eyes since we lost Miranda. And ye reek of whisky.” She reared back like a snake ready to attack. “Have ye been into the tipple again?” She pointed toward him. “Stripped out of your clothes when ye ken we’ve got guests here from London and southern Italy. Do ye plan to make a spectacle of yerself, parading half-naked through the lodge, drunk, and singing bawdy songs?”

  “Mum.” Ronan’s gentle tone captured her attention. “Ye’ve got things all wrong. Bryce’s bear needs to shift. Bryce, the man, needs the numbness only alcohol can bring. Aye, what I say is true.” He glanced at Bryce. “Would ye rather I left ye to tell her in private?”

  “Nay. Stay.” He leaned against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms and stocking feet. Slowly he told his mum about the bairn, halting at times when the pain in his heart tore apart his words.

  She didna say a thing, although a phenomenon Bryce had seen only a couple times in his life occurred. A beet red blush began at her collarbone and slowly crept upward until it reached her graying red hair. When he finally finished the telling of the whole wretched mess, he wiped cheeks he didna realize had moistened. His bear moaned with grief as if he were dying of it.

  Quiet filled the office for well over a minute, while his mum blinked and repeatedly ran her hands down the front of her red floral skirt, her fingers making pleats with each pass. “Someone pour me a stiff drink, and none of your piddling two fingers, either. I want a whole glassful.”

  Ronan unlocked the cabinet and poured his mum a generous amount of Scotch.

  She snatched the glass from his grasp and drank as if she’d just crossed the Sahara. When the container was empty, she ran the back of her hand across her lips. “Pour me another.”

  Ronan glanced at Bryce, who nodded. Mum rarely tied one on. Much more whisky and she’d pass out. Unease did prickle up his spine, though. How had his mum downed a whole tumbler of their finest Scotch without so much as a cough? Hell, she hadna even gasped, nor had her eyes watered.

  No sooner had his brother filled her glass again than she’d guzzled it like one would lemonade on a hot summer’s day. She inhaled and exhaled a deep breath. “Now that I’m suitably fortified, Ronan, go get me my gardening boots and a shovel.”

  Ronan stopped dead in his tracks. “Why the shovel and boots?”

  “I’m going to that bastard’s grave tonight and digging him up. Then I’m going to beat his remains to dust with me shovel and spit on his fukin’ face for killing me grandchild.” She glared at her two sons and reared back to her full five-foot-two height. “And I just dare either of ye to try to stop me. There’s nothing worse than one pissed-off Irishwoman. I’ve lived in Scotland for nearly thirty-two years, but the blood flowing through me veins is Irish. That evil son of a bitch will pay fer killing our wee sweet bairn before it had a chance to draw its first breath or…or have his grandma kiss his beloved sweet head.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “Now get me my damn boots and a shovel!”

  Mum was a gentle, loving soul who ran the lodge with one eye on the clock. Mealtimes were never late. Her strict standards were always adhered to, and everyone kent not to cross her. Ronan looked at Bryce and lifted his hands in a helpless gesture before aiming wide eyes at her. “Mum, ya canna.”

  Her finger shook under his ear. She blinked, made a slight hand adjustment, and then beat his nose with her finger. “Dinna be telling yer mum what she can and canna do. He has to pay. I dinna care what he went through in the war. How he saw his buddies blown up.” The tears flowed faster, and she wiped her cheeks. “That poor, poor Kenzie. What she’s endured in silwence…sibence…” Mum hiccuped once and her eyes rolled back into her head as she collapsed in Bryce’s arms.

  Chapter 5

  “I just wanted ye to know I got the job working fer the American and moved into my quarters at Iverson Hall.” Kenzie cradled the cell phone between her shoulder and ear while she unpacked her suitcase. “I didna want ye to go by me old apartment and find it empty.”

  Her aunt Una grunted. “She’ll be good fer ye, child.” Kenzie smiled at her aunt’s habitual use of this term of affection. “I read it in me tea leaves this morning. I also read a man from yer past has reentered yer life.”

  “Bryce. He helped me move.” She ran her hand across the back of her neck, massaging muscles cramped with tension. Erasing the agonized expression on his face from her mind had been impossible. She couldna forget his voice, roughened from the sandpaper of pain; or his movements, rigid with the tautness of anger, or his eyes, shadowed with shock over all she’d voiced. Dear God, she hadna meant to hurt him.

  “Ye told him of the bairn. I can sense it.”

  “Aye, and it did not go well.” Her aunt had been the one to proclaim the pregnancy, before Kenzie even noticed any signs, and the one to rock Kenzie in her arms as she cried fer Bryce’s lost child.

  “But he didna strike ye like that bastard, Duncan, and he never will. He’s too much like his sainted da. He loves deeply. All the Mathesons do.”

  Her suitcase unpacked, Kenzie moved to the boxes of art supplies in her sitting room. “I’m not sure he can ever forgive me fer keeping his bairn a secret. And I ken he may be right that I handled the situation all wrong.”

  “Give him a chance, child. He needs time to come to terms with it all. Och, my potion is boiling. I need to say good night and keep an eye on the pot. Ye canna overboil newt’s eyeballs. Love ye. And thanks fer letting me know where yer at.”

  “Love ye too.” Kenzie laid the phone on the desk and spun it once with her finger. Her aunt was a different kind of witch than she was. Aunt Una dealt in potions and poultices, chants and curses, and charms to ward off evil spirits. Her coven reminded Kenzie of the opening scene of Macbeth.

  Emptying her paintings from a box, she unwrapped the towels and clothes she’d had around them fer protection. Finding the perfect spot to hang each one shoulda taken her mind off of Bryce, but it didna.

  A soft rapping sounded at the door to Kenzie’s private quarters. She glanced up from a row of built-in cabinets beneath a wall of bookshelves in the sitting room, where she was putting away her paints and brushes. “Yes?”

  “It’s just me, Sparrow. I wanted to check to make sure you were okay. Creighton acted so strangely when he brought me home. He said Bryce got you moved in, but he sounded tense, as if something awful had happened. My dear, do you need me? I sense such sadness. Deep heartache.”

  Kenzie leaned her head against the open door of the cabinet and sighed. Living with this American witch mightna be as convenient as she’d hoped. Fer sure it would be different from living with Aunt Una, who never intruded on her life other than to boil tea leaves fer her and inform Kenzie of what she saw in them.

  “Come in. I’m still putting away me things.” She placed two palettes on a shelf alongside a jar of brushes and reached into a packing box fer a hand-woven basket filled with tubes of oil paints.

  The door to the room opened and a cloud of pink floated in. Effie’s blue-eyed gaze danced about the room. “I see you’re getting settled in. The room bears your mark already. Is that a picture of you and your mother on the desk? You have her coloring and sweet smile.” Her hands reached for another frame. “Is this you and Bryce as kids, wading in the water’s edge of Mathe Bay?”

  “Yer right on both accounts. The photo of me and me mum is before the cancer struck her. Bryce and I were twelve in that picture. We did everything together back then.”

  “I see.” Effie walked from the desk over to Kenzie’s meager supply of books. “Are you a reader?” She trailed her pink fingernail along the spines. “You study art. Impressionis
ts. Surrealism. Cubism, which I could never get.” She winked. “My mind so often looks that way from the inside and I can’t figure it out then either. Oh, you’ve got a book on Degas and one on Salvador Dalí. I just love his melting clocks. No romance books, I see.” She aimed a finely plucked arched eyebrow at Kenzie.

  “I don’t really believe in romance, so why read about it?” True love, the forever kind, simply didna exist. No matter how she felt about Bryce. That came under the title of hormonal insanity.

  “Oh my!” Effie’s wrinkled hand went to her throat as she stepped in front of the large painting now hanging over a decorative half-table made of rosewood. Both of her hands reached out as if to scan it without making contact. “This is your handiwork. It breathes of you. A location you’ve loved and painted, yet the artwork emits vibrations of sadness.” She turned to Kenzie as if to await confirmation.

  She didna think she could go through the emotional gut wrenching of telling it all again. Not tonight. Not after the way she’d hurt Bryce. Perhaps she could share just enough to satisfy the American.

  She stood and stretched, rubbing the muscles at the small of her back. “I call it Endless Heather Mist.” Once she was beside Effie, she linked arms with the old woman. “As a moody teenager, it was one of me favorite places, two hills behind Aunt Una’s house. Every time I go there to paint, the picture turns out different. Whatever mood I’m in brings me focus to different things.” She lifted a shoulder in silent explanation. “Perhaps a rabbit hiding in the brush, or the blooms of a flower, or the rays of the sun shifting through the foliage above. Even droplets of rain on a large leaf can catch me eye and beg me to paint them.”

  “I didn’t know you were an artist.” Effie peered closer at the painting. “And quite talented, too. Strong brush strokes, yet they’re so delicate they call to me. I love how you’ve captured the rays of sunlight hugging the morning mist, as if greeting the day with warm affection.” She tilted her head and then leaned closer. “I also see the tiny baby hidden within the haze, embraced by three sunbeams.” Her hands went to her chest, and she studied Kenzie. “This isn’t the babe you’ve recently lost. I feel…I sense…” Effie shook her head. “This is a secret you must trust me enough to share. I will not pry.”