Highland Valentine

by C. A. Szarek

  More accurately, he lacked a mood. A feeling. Any feeling—singular or plural. His body wasn’t his anymore. His nerves had gone numb the day Juliette had left him, and had stayed that way.

  He’d even gone for an icy—literally—dip in the sea, and it’d done nothing except make his teeth chatter and his skin bluish. Re-donning clothes he’d taken off for his winter swim hadn’t been able to dry or warm him much. He’d come home shivering—which in turn had made his aunt fuss until he’d walked away from her. He’d have to deal with that fallout later.

  His black stallion had refused to get wet. Dubh had stared from the shoreline, the wind in his mane and tail, almost as if he was confirming his master had finally lost his mind. But at least the steed was loyal—he’d waited for him.

  What Hugh had hoped to gain from his self-baptism was a mystery. The move hadn’t fixed his numbness, or the hole where his heart used to be.

  She’s still gone.

  He stomped up the stairs to his ledger room.

  Hugh had assumed—hoped…mentally begged?—that she’d come back to him after a day or so. It’d been three. And there was no sign of his wife.

  A part of him hadn’t doubted her seriousness.

  A part of him was angry, but the hurt overwhelmed that, which was probably the cause of his broken nerves. Disbelief was there, too, but only a tad, because he knew his wife well.

  “She ran ou’ of patience ta put up wit’ yer shite, Hugh MacDonald.” He shook his head and chided himself some more.

  Juliette had told him that vulgar phrase on more than one occasion, and he’d always laughed. Which would raise her ire, they’d argue some more, and then make love—forcing it all to go away.

  His wife talked to him as no one else would dare—one of the many reasons he loved her.

  She’s still gone.

  He yanked the chair out from behind his desk and restrained himself from throwing it against the wall to watch it splinter. Or he could just toss it into the lit hearth. He could burn the wood, but then he’d have to deal with Mab for wasting a perfectly good chair—and she’d bemoan the expense to replace it.

  Hugh gritted his teeth and took a seat.

  There were some scrolls on his desk that his steward needed him to look at, but he couldn’t deal with being the laird at the moment. Or in the near future.

  “This isn’t about love.” Juliette’s words bounced off the walls of his aching head. Or maybe the walls and ceiling of the ledger room.

  Since when did he concern himself with tender feelings?

  Since Juliette, you fool.

  Hugh couldn’t lie to himself. Not about Juliette. He did love her. More than his own life.

  So what’s wrong with you, then, Hugh MacDonald?

  His aunt had hollered at him to go get her multiple times a day since she’d left. Mab had told him to talk to Juliette. Explain how he was feeling—speak of his fear, and though his aunt hadn’t said so, she’d implied, accept responsibility for hurting his wife, making Juliette want to leave him in the first place, and generally for being an arse.

  He needed to.

  Why hadn’t he left already?

  Because Juliette was in the right.

  She likely needed some time to herself as well.

  She’s had three days. Go to her, wretch.

  Was he just a coward? Hugh couldn’t answer himself, for fear of the truth.

  He’d treated her badly. Pushing her away like he’d never done before, but he couldn’t look at her growing belly. The bairn’s presence was a constant reminder of how he could lose her. How he’d already lost one wife and child, and he’d not gotten the chance to love the shy lass his father had ordered him to marry when he’d been twenty years old to her six and ten.

  Many times, Juliette had referred to him as the love of her life.

  She was the same for him.

  Hugh swallowed. There was a brick in his throat, and it was slowly working its way down to his gut, hardening every part of him as it went. Agony spread across his chest and down, but at least he was feeling something.

  “Hugh MacDonald.”

  He didn’t want to look at the doorway—nor did he look up as he heard her uneven step cross the room.

  Go away, auntie, was on the tip of his tongue, but since his little dip in the sea, he didn’t dare. She was already angry with him. He was looking at a beating with her cane at best as it was. On the other hand, maybe that could make him feel better.

  “Have ye come ta yer senses?”

  “Regardin’?” He tried to keep his voice dry, but failed. The word came out like the painful crack it was.

  “Yer. Wife.”

  When he mustered the bollocks to look at the woman who’d raised him, her dark eyes were narrowed. A constant expression on her face as of late, but he couldn’t risk pointing that out, either.

  Hugh sighed. “Will ye leave me be, woman!?”

  “Nay.” His aunt’s voice was deceptively calm.

  “Nay?” he yelled.

  “Nay. No’ until yer lass has returned.”

  He wanted to growl and scream, but like his Juliette, that rarely had an effect on Aunt Mab.

  “Ye love tha’ lass. Yer bairn will be here any day now. Go get what’s yers.”

  “I do love tha’ lass.”

  And I need to go get her. Beg her forgiveness.

  Silence fell, as if his aunt hadn’t expected him to say that. When their gazes collided, a dark bushy eyebrow was cocked high.

  “They do belong ta me,” Hugh said. He stood. Cleared his throat, but avoided Mab’s eyes again. He moved past his meddlesome aunt.

  He wouldn’t contemplate what he’d do if Juliette turned him away. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

  Right?

  Hugh wouldn’t voice his worries—even though his aunt would likely reassure him his wife wouldn’t deny him. The lass loved him, too.

  Tremors chased each other down his spine, but he ignored them. He’d crawl in front of every MacLeod if he had to. He’d get his lass—his family—back.

  Maybe he should thank his aunt, but he wouldn’t give her satisfaction for something he’d decided for himself already.

  He didn’t need a final push. He loved his wife and he was going to get her back.

  “Where ye goin’?” Mab’s voice made him jump. She’d shocked his head into silence—for now.

  “Ta order the lads ta ready my horse.”

  Anger creased his aunt’s brow. “Ye willna run—”

  “I’m goin’ ta Dunvegan,” Hugh whispered.

  She tilted her head and leaned in, framing the shell of her ear with gnarled fingers. “Speak up, lad, my hearin’ isna wha’ it used ta be.”

  He snorted. The woman wouldn’t allow him to lie to her, but she could lie to him?

  His wife’s gorgeous face danced in from his memories. He sucked in a breath, and his heart skipped. “I will hie ta Dunvegan.”

  Mab grinned.

  Hugh frowned and said nothing. Tried not to stomp from the ledger room, lest she call him a foolish laddie again.

  Chapter Five

  The Valentine’s Day party was in full swing in the great hall. Alana, Xander, and young Angus had pooled their magical talents to conjure red flowers, and they were draped everywhere, along with Claire’s parchment garlands and hearts that hung on anything standing still. The only thing missing was glitter, but it was better left in the future.

  Each of the long tables had been decorated, too, with red and pink tablecloths and a flowery centerpiece on top. Jules was pretty sure the colors had been magically infused into the fabric, and probably weren’t permanent.

  Claire had gone overboard, but that wasn’t a shocker. She’d even joked about wanting a disco ball—another thing better left where it’d been born.

  The atmosphere was lighthearted and fun. Loving, even. Family.

  Jules felt guilty for just sitting like a lump on a log at the head table while everyone laug
hed and talked around her, but she wasn’t interested in any of it—or the food on her plate. It’d long gone cold and everyone else had already eaten.

  The happily married couples around her—Alex and Alana, Xander and Janet, as well as Duncan and Claire—made her insides wither, and watching them was difficult. Especially since her sister had explained what Valentine’s Day meant in their time. Commercially speaking anyway.

  She snorted. Her younger sister had always pouted if she’d not gotten a gift on the big love day—of course she’d always cried if she’d been single on her favorite holiday.

  Funny how fate had made Claire land in a time where the day didn’t exist as they’d know it in the future, and her soul mate was a big strong Highlander mostly unfamiliar with being romantic. Although, Jules had to give it to Duncan. The guy could be sweet, and he did love her sister. Would do anything for her and their son—and it’d be the same for her nephew that wasn’t born yet.

  Jules had to look away when the laird got down on one knee and presented a red rose to his princess, then asked her to dance to the slow song the MacLeod bards were playing on instruments and singing from the corner of the room.

  The kids laughed and played, and at least that distracted her. Her little nephew had brought her a red flower and a paper heart with her name on it, and she’d been able to smile genuinely. When Lachlan had wanted to sit with her, and stood on the chair next to hers, only to lean over and kiss her cheek, she almost lost it again. Tried to avoid his huge sapphire eyes, because the three-year-old didn’t understand why his aunt was sad.

  She’d soon sent him back to Claire’s arms, and her sister danced with the little boy while they both shared loud kisses and giggles as she swayed.

  Duncan watched them with obvious affection for only a moment, then joined them, wrapping his arms around them both.

  Angus, Alex and Alana’s son, was still at the table with Jules. He leaned over and covered her hand in his, a gesture much too old and sincere for his age.

  But Jules was compelled to look into his eyes—also blue, the most common MacLeod trait.

  “All ‘twill be well, Aunt Jules.”

  She wasn’t really his aunt, but all the kids who could talk called her that. Jules tried not to look down or away, but her neck and cheeks heated.

  How could she argue with a kid who couldn’t know about everything going on?

  “I’ve seen it,” he asserted. Then he smiled, and looked so much like his father and uncle he could’ve been a clone.

  Seen it?

  Jules wouldn’t ask aloud. She’d been told the laird’s son had visions—premonitions—or whatever, and magic was real and all that, so she was afraid to hope he wasn’t just trying to make her feel better. “Well, thanks, I guess.”

  Angus nodded and went to his baby sister when she whined for him. The boy swept her up into his arms until the tiny girl giggled, her dark curls flying.

  Her back gave a twinge, so she straightened in the chair. When that didn’t help, Jules gained her feet, rubbing the spot.

  The discomfort spread, rippling around to the front of her stomach, and she gasped. No one was at the table with her, and she didn’t want to try to navigate the three dais stairs on her own. She gripped the back of the chair and whimpered when the pain worsened.

  “Jules?”

  Claire’s voice washed relief over her. Thank God her sister was keeping an annoyingly close eye on her. This time she was grateful, anyway.

  “Claire,” she panted.

  Her sister set her son down and lifted her olive green skirts, jogging up the steps to join her. Took her hand. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “I…don’t know…but…”

  Liquid rushed down Jules’ legs, smacking onto the dais planks, soaking her legs and her dress. She blew out air. She hadn’t just lost her bladder, so—

  “Oh crap, your water just broke!” Her sister’s green eyes went wide. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re in labor? Have you been having contractions?”

  “What? My water… I didn’t… I’m not?” Panic hit and tightened her chest. Jules hung onto Claire’s hand for dear life. “Am I? I haven’t had any pain until right now…”

  “Does your back hurt?” She looked over her shoulder without waiting for an answer. “Janet, Alana, her water just broke. It’s baby time.”

  “Yes, my back…baby time?” Jules sputtered.

  Both women nodded, and Janet handed her toddler son to his father, Xander.

  Alana slipped from the laird’s arms and came toward them. “Janet and I will bring what we need. We’ll meet you in the guestroom.”

  “Duncan, can you help with her?” Claire called to her husband.

  “Wait. What?” Jules’ head spun.

  It’s not time.

  It couldn’t be time. It wasn’t time.

  She still had two weeks. Right?

  “It’ll be okay, Jules.” Her sister’s voice didn’t comfort her.

  It’s not okay. Hugh’s not here.

  Without a word, Duncan swung her up into his arms.

  Jules was caught off guard and clutched at him. Breath fled her lungs, and her middle was now radiating pain, like a slow fire spreading wider. When she met her brother-in-law’s gaze, he smirked.

  “Sorry, I didna mean ta alarm ye. Hold onta me, lass. I’ll no’ drop ye.”

  A contraction took all her attention, so she forced a nod and let him hold her—as if she had a choice. She wove her arms around his neck.

  His body was hard—not unlike Hugh’s—and Duncan was warm. She wanted to burrow into her sister’s husband so she’d stop hurting, and maybe her head would stop its ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl.

  “Oh, God,” Jules moaned.

  She was barely aware of Duncan climbing the stairs, and kicking the door to her guestroom open. He set her gently on the bed and straightened.

  Claire was on his heels, but came right to the side of the bed. “I think you were in labor all day. Did your back hurt? That’s how it started for me with Lachlan.”

  Jules ignored her sister and made eye contact with her brother-in-law, who hovered near the end of the bed now. “Hugh. I need Hugh.”

  “Jules—”

  “I need my husband,” she gritted through her teeth as another contraction—or maybe it was the same one—tried to monopolize all her attention.

  “Jules!” Claire barked.

  “I’ll…never…forgive myself if he misses…this,” she breathed. Maybe he won’t forgive me, either. Jules made tight fists of the bed linens. Her knuckles were the same pale color as she panted through the agony.

  “Yer sister is right, mò gradh. Her husband should be here. ‘Tis his bairn, too. His heir.” Duncan’s expression softened as he regarded them both.

  Jules relaxed back into the pillows her sister had propped at her back and blew out a breath as the pain finally released her.

  “I’m not arguing about that,” Claire said. She shook her head, making her flaxen locks dance. “I just don’t know how much time we have, since you didn’t realize you were in labor. Let me see what’s keeping Alana; she’s delivered more babies than me.” She hurried from the guestroom without another word.

  It should be surreal that her sister had delivered babies at all, but they lived in the seventeenth century, and a woman had to do what a woman had to do.

  “I’ll go fetch Laird MacDonald.” Duncan shook his head. “‘Tis the first heir MacDonald ever ta be born a’ Dunvegan, fer sure.”

  She managed a smirk for the big Highlander. “I bet so, and it’s gonna piss him off. But… I need him.”

  Duncan offered a curt nod, but his eyes said he’d understood more than her words. “I’ll be quick abou’ it, lass.”

  “Thanks, Duncan,” she whispered, but he was already gone.

  Chapter Six

  Dubh tossed his head and hoofed the ground, then shifted his weight and nickered.

  He barely paid his dear steed a
ny notice even as he swayed with the horse’s movements. The reins lay loose in one palm, and even if his stallion was protesting, he wouldn’t take off without command.

  Hugh couldn’t tear his eyes off the MacLeod stronghold from his place high up on the ridge. They’d been standing there for hours that felt like days.

  Mab had told him to go get his wife, and he wanted to. Needed to. But after riding out, he’d wandered Skye more than coming directly to the MacLeods.

  The wind was bitter, and it was snowing big fat lazy flakes. He could hear his aunt’s voice in his head, chiding him that he’d catch his death, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His body was mostly numb again, like it’d been since his dip in the sea, and since she’d left him.

  He must’ve lost his bollocks somewhere along the journey, because he couldn’t go forward toward Dunvegan, and he wouldn’t go home. Not without her, anyway.

  Juliette.

  His wife was safe inside those walls. Residing with a clan that wasn’t his.

  Safe from me?

  Hugh swallowed and called himself every name he could think of—in Gaelic and English. Even some curses common in the far future Juliette had taught him, but never around Mab. His aunt didn’t like that kind of talk, especially from the Lady of Armadale.

  If he closed his eyes, Hugh could see his wife’s face, and recall when she’d quoted her favorites, grinning like they had a secret. His chest ached, and every breath was like a dagger, as if his stallion was seated upon his torso pushing the blade deeper.

  Dubh backed up and stepped forward.

  Hugh wobbled, then tightened his grip on the reins. He sat taller, re-centering himself. “What’s botherin’ ye, laddie?” He paused and tilted his head to one side when his mount whinnied and pranced.

  Thundering hooves echoed, but it wasn’t more than one horse, unless his ears deceived him. Their position obscured the gates of his rival’s vast wall, but obviously a rider had just left from where he couldn’t see. They should be visible in moments, and Dubh had heard them first.

  The horse was white—and he’d seen it before.

  His black stallion needed little encouragement to head back to the road they were only ten or so feet above; he practically cantered down the ridge to level ground. Hugh reined Dubh in more than his horse liked, but he’d not wanted them to be run over.