by Jessica Loft
Lizbeth looked around anxiously. “Who were tey?”
Merida’s face grew dark, and Lizbeth knew the answer before her mother said a word. Her stomach dropped. “They were wit te O’Cleary clan. Thankfully, they were too stupid to realize that our clan belonged te Rob McFarland, otherwise we mighta been a lot worse off. But tey were too busy lookin’ for Alan O’Cleary’s son, Beaste.”
“What?” Lizbeth answered, suddenly feeling sick.
“Aye, he went missin’ after te last battle aboot three weeks ago. They’re lookin’ fer him. Or at least te body of him. I’d say more likely than not he’s probably-Lizbeth, what’s wrong?”
Lizbeth had gone pale, and she had begun to tremble. Beaste O’Cleary. Her father’s sworn enemy. The O’Cleary’s had been the sole Scots to turn their back on their countrymen and sell them like cattle to King James. Her father was one of the rebel leaders trying to reclaim the country for the Scots themselves. Very likely, her father was the one that delivered the blade to Beaste’s side; the very wound that had lead him straight to her.
She felt her mother’s arms go around her once again and this time she heard her words. “Lizbeth? Lizbeth, are ye all right? What’s te matter lass?”
She looked up at her mother with wide, unblinking eyes. She felt the tears threatening to well up in them for a third time tonight. But she knew if she cried it would reveal her dirty little secret; that she had fallen in love and given her chastity to their clan’s sworn enemy.
“I, I don’t feel very well, mum,” she rasped, forcing a cough out. “I think I’ve been outside too long, caught a chill.”
Her mother nodded her head. “Of course, of course, come inside,” she said, ushering her daughter inside. It wasn’t often that her little girl got sick, or looked frightened at all. It had been quite a while since Merida had had to take care of her little girl, and she all but jumped at the opportunity.
Inside, she helped her daughter out of cloak and tucked her into the covers of her small bed. It was late, but Merida insisted on making her a cup of tea sweetened with honey. As soon as the curtain closed behind her mother, Lizbeth buried her head into her pillow and cried as quietly as she could. How could she have been so stupid? So naïve? When her mother had told her who the party was looking for all of the pieces fell in place. Lizbeth had no idea how she hadn’t seen it before. Of course Beaste had been with the O’Cleary’s. How could she not have figured it out?
Because you trusted him, a small voice answered. Because he was kind, and showed neither you nor your clan ill will.
And he hadn’t. Stories of the cruel O’Cleary clan were spread far and wide, and based on what was said, Beaste had been nothing at all like an O’Cleary. He had been something quite different all together.
CHAPTER 2
Beaste knew he didn’t have much time, the search party was practically on his heels. He raced through the falling snow to get as far away from Lizbeth’s clan as possible. He didn’t want his father to think that they had anything to do with his disappearance or why he hadn’t gone back.
Though he was mostly healed, his side was still incredibly sore and he was growing weak quickly from the use of his sudden burst of energy. But he still kept running until his legs couldn’t carry him anymore. Now is a better time than any to start a fire. Beaste thought. He set about making building a fire, flinting the rocks together as fast as he could. He had to make it look like he was out on his own, living like a vagabond with no help.
Looking around, he found a few fallen branches to create a tiny lean-to against the large bolder he built his fire by. He crawled in and waited. It would be only minutes he knew, maybe less, until they found him. He had to make himself look as if he’d been living in squalor this whole time.
The earth was hard to dig, but after using his heel a few times he was able get some loose and rub it over his face and shirt. His side burned now, and when he looked down he saw bright red seeping through the fabric. He groaned, his wound must have ripped open from all of the running. Atleast it would add to his story for his clansmen. The pain from his side, however, was nothing compared to the pain he felt in his heart.
He figured by now that Lizbeth had found out his true identity and where he had come from. No doubt she was hating him and herself as she thought about it. He had betrayed her by not telling her about his life. He couldn’t change it now, but he could do something for her to prove his love. If it was the last thing he was going to do, he was going to make sure her father got home safe. If he was still alive.
“Over there!” A loud voice interrupted his thoughts from behind a tree. He recognized the voice right away as Angus, and it eased his heartache a little. He had missed his old friend.
“Beaste! Is that you laddy?” Angus yelled.
“Aye!” Beaste shouted, crawling out of the little shelter. He waved his hand in the air and a loud cheer erupted from the search party. Moments later Beaste was surrounded by his clansmen- all of which were happy to see that he was actually alive. Angus was by far the happiest, and lifted him up to give him a giant bear hug.
“Easy, man,” Beaste winced, pushing at Angus’s giant shoulders. If he wanted his side to stop bleeding he’d have to go a little easier on his body.
“Where te bloody hell have ye been, man?” Angus asked, sitting him down.
“I got lost,” Beaste said simply. He gingerly climbed atop the horse that was brought around for him, grateful that he wouldn’t have to walk anymore.
“Lost,” Angus echoed, his expression blank. “How’d te bloody hell ye get lost, man? Ye one of te best trackers of our clan!”
Beaste shrugged his shoulders, and pointed to his wound. “The mind isn’t as sharp when ye injured,” he answered nonchalantly.
Angus grunted, but didn’t answer. Something wasn’t quite right about his friend. He was calm. Too calm for someone who had been surviving by himself in the wilderness for three weeks. Through the light of the torches Angus took a good look at his friend. He was dirty and bloody, but that was it. He wasn’t starved or dehydrated, and from what he could tell by the small shelter built there was no evidence of a meal or even drinking water nearby. Beaste was lying. For a moment he considered asking for an explanation then and there, but decided against it. Whatever had happened to him was a secret he was trying to hide, and no doubt for a good reason. Keeping his mouth shut, Angus mounted his horse and led the riders out of the woods and towards the road home. He would make it a point to ask him what happened later, when they were alone. For now though, he would just be happy that his friend was alive and well.
~
Alan couldn’t get up. He wanted to but his body no longer allowed it. Word had quickly spread through the clans of this predicament and even from his bed he was dealing with rebellions left and right. If he needed Beaste back for anything it would be to have an able bodied O’Cleary able to regain order. Word that his son was alive had come to him via falcon along with the information that it would take them nearly a week to get back to the castle due to his wounds.
It was falling apart. All of it. Everything that Alan had spent his entire life on was now crumbling away along with his life. With no one around to give orders the leaders of his underbelly clans were starting to break off and go their separate ways, despite the plummeting temperatures of the harsh winter and the threat of being buried in snow. Though he had tried to keep his condition a secret, King James had somehow gotten wind of his illness, and had stopped all communication- and flow of money- to him. He had tried several attempts at getting the King’s attention but it was no use. According to Alan’s spies, he was even thinking of giving up on the Scottish wild lands, at least for the time being.
Alan needed something to look forward to, and though they had hated one another for so long, he actually began to look forward to seeing his son again.
CHAPTER 3
Eight Weeks Later
Thistle looked across the rough-hewn wooden table at her
friend Merida. They had been friends since they were children, and had both been lucky enough to marry men that truly loved them and they loved in return. While Merida had only been able to have one child however, Thistle had been able to have many. Seven in fact, all of them with bright carrot orange hair and freckles. She had five boys and two girls and not a single one of them had been lost to sickness or wilderness, though the oldest boy, Bae, was now fighting at his father’s side at the age of seventeen.
Thistle knew children more than anything else. She knew how to raise them, wash them, love them, and most importantly, keep them alive. Which was exactly why Merida had called on her friend to pay a visit. Something was wrong with Lizbeth. She hadn’t been the same since her father had left to go fight but things had really taken a turn for the worse after the search party came looking for O’Cleary’s son.
“I just don’t know what to do,” Merida had whispered. Though Lizbeth was out checking the chickens for eggs, she didn’t want to chance her daughter hearing that she was talking about her. All her life Lizbeth had always acted more like a boy than a girl, but now…now she was different somehow. As if she’d lost her boyish strength, and had become all woman.
“She won’t eat, she’s constantly dizzy or sick, and she wants to sleep all the time,” Merida explained. “Normally she’s up with the sun and starting on the chores. She finds a way to keep busy all day and yet is able to find the strength to get up and do it all again every morning. But now, all she does is daydream and stay in bed it isn’t like her at all. She barely talks to me anymore.”
Thistle chuckled and shook her head, making her friend upset.
“Why ye laughin’, eh? It’s not funny! Me little lass is hurt!”
“Aye,” Thistle agreed, picking up her mug of tea. “She’s hurt all right.” Her smile faded and her eyes filled with sympathy.
“Sounds ta me like ye lass has had her heartbroken.”
Merida’s eyes widened in surprise. The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. Before she could speak, the door opened and Lizbeth walked in, the egg basket balanced on her hip. As usual lately she looked pale and distraught, her bright red hair making her look almost ghostly.
“Lizbeth, luv, look who’s here te see us,” Merida said, waving over to Thistle.
Lizbeth gave the two women a soft smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Good day, auntie Thistle,” Lizbeth answered quietly. Her smile slipped suddenly and she wavered on her feet, as if she had lost her balance. Thistle reached out to grab the girl’s wrist and steady her, barely wrapping her fingers around it before she began to fall backwards.
“Easy darlin’, easy,” Thistle soothed, moving catch the young lass in her arms.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Merida asked. She had hopped out of her chair and rushed over to help Thistle carry Lizbeth to the bed.
“Not a thing,” Thistle assured her, patting her arm. “Bring me a bottle of honey and some dried lavender from me kitchen, luv. Grab that and some milk and we’ll make her a nice drink to ease her stomach.”
“But”- Merida tried to argue.
“Go,” Thistle said forcefully. She waited until the door shut behind her friend before she turned back to Lizbeth and smiled.
“So, somebody’s stinger found their way into ye honeypot, didn’t they now?”
Lizbeth’s cheeks turned red with embarrassment. She had suspected, but wasn’t quite sure. Now she was certain.”
“Please, auntie Thistle,” Lizbeth begged. “Don’t tell mum. I’ll tell her I promise, it’s just not the right time.”
“Who’s te father?” Thistle asked calmly. She took Lizbeth’s hand and started massaging the pressure points there to reduce her nausea. A nifty old trick she’d picked up from the old witch in the woods.
Lizbeth didn’t want to say his name. He’d been in her mind every day and especially every night since he’d left. She missed his touch, his laugh. She missed the way they had sat by the fireplace in the old witch’s dwelling and had talked for hours about their dreams of peace for their people. Had it all been a lie? Had he been taking advantage of her kind heart to get healed and get his way? Her mother had warned her about greedy men and their lust for the treasure between her legs. She had been warned to guard it, and to only share it with the man she loved most in the world. For a brief moment, she had thought she done that very thing.
“His name is Beaste,” Lizbeth rasped, a tear slipping from her eye. “Beaste O’Cleary.” She let out a sob and leaned into her auntie’s shoulder, crying for her broken heart, her shame, and her unborn baby that would come into a world of death and war.
Thistle’s eyes went wide when she heard the name, though she had suspected as much. She loved her daughters fiercely but neither they nor any other young lass compared to Lizbeth’s beauty and strength. She was the thing that every young lad dreamed of but was too afraid to go after. It couldn’t have been one of the lads from the village. They were too plain, too boring for her. Still, the son of their enemy was quite a choice.
“Here now,” Thistle soothed, rubbing Lizbeth’s back. “I won’t breathe a word,” she swore. “But ye need te know that ye mornin’ sickness is goin’ te get worse before it gets better. She’ll probably figure it out for herself if ye don’t tell her soon. As for te father, well, maybe ye should leave that part out, eh? We don’t want to give ye dear mum a heart attack now do we?”
Lizbeth laughed through the tears and shook her head. It was the first time she’d laughed since Beaste had left. After taking a breath to steady herself, she wiped away her tears and placed a hand on her stomach. It was real now, somehow. Speaking it aloud with someone had turned it from a possibility to a reality, and it all hit her fast. She was going to be a mother.
~
Her skin was as soft as silk, but warm, and full of life. Beaste stared up at her in wonder as Lizbeth came down to straddle naked across his lap. Her lips, plump and red, curled into the sweetest of smiles as she looked down at him.
“I missed you,” he groaned, his arms wrapping tightly around her. Her round but pert breasts swayed softly as he nuzzled into them. She smelled of lavender, just like she always had, and he couldn’t believe that she was finally in his arms again.
He felt her small fingertips underneath his chin and he looked up in just enough time to receive the sweetest of kisses. Her tongue dipped and danced seductively in his mouth, driving him near crazy with wanting and arousal. When she pulled away he was panting for her.
“Make love to me,” she begged, her warm, wet mons already sliding teasingly around his shaft.
Beaste simply nodded, and lifted her up just enough so that he could slide his hard, thick shaft deep between her wetfolds. The moan that escaped her lips as he did so was one of sweet, pure pleasure. The perfect sound from the perfect woman.
“More,” she gasped, her hips already bucking along with his. “More, more.”
Together they moved in a perfect synchrony, their hips gyrating and thrusting with another to guide one another towards their bliss. No one had ever felt, sounded, or tasted as good as Lizbeth, of this Beaste was sure. She was perfect for him in every way, and he couldn’t believe that he’d found her not once, but twice. The warmth, the pleasure, the love, it was all growing so intensely fast. Beaste felt as if he were ready to explode and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
“Not yet,” Lizbeth gasped, riding him harder. “Don’t go just yet.”
“Go?” Beaste asked. “Never.”
Tears of blood started to fall down Lizbeth’s cheeks, alarming him greatly. “Don’t go, don’t go,” she repeated.
Beaste tried to stop Lizbeth, to slow her down and calm her, yet try as he might she felt glued to him.
“Don’t go, don’t go…” Her voice, soft and feminine suddenly took on a much deeper yet familiar tone. “Beaste, don’t go!”
A giant shock rang into his shoulder and Beaste gasped as his eyes opened wide. Lizbeth was nowh
ere to be seen but in his face was Angus and several servants. They all looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. Glancing around, he saw that he was not at all inside in his bed, but sitting naked in a heap of snow.
“Christ, lad, I thought ye were frozen! What te bloody hell were ye thinkin’? Lift him up, boys, let’s get him inside before he catches his death.”
“How te hell did I end up in de snow?” Beaste asked, his voice full of surprise.
“Oh aye, that’s a great question,” Angus sneered back. “I swear man, after losin’ ye for a month te the wilds just te bring ye back to lose ye to the cold is enough ta give any friend a heart attack!”
Beaste demanded the servants to put him down once inside the castle. After a few seconds of numbly stumbling around he grabbed his bearings and was able to walk on his own. He had never walked in his sleep before, at least not to his knowledge. Then again, he’d never missed someone the way he missed Lizbeth before either. She’d felt so real in his dream. So soft; perfect. He hadn’t even had a chance to show her how amazing sex could be before they were ripped away from another.
