by Trisha Telep
She made him groan, and beg, and buck, and plead for her to stop, but more, and hurry and, “Wait!”
He set her on the bed and ravaged her mouth. Hard to her soft, cool to her hot, he dipped where she curved, arched where she plunged, fitting deliciously and perfectly well.
“Gabriel. You feel so good, this is good; it’s right and—”
“Just kisses,” he said. “Kisses and touches enough for pleasure. Nothing that causes babies.”
“You’re mistaken if you think only dark passion causes babies.”
“Shut up, Jace, and kiss me.”
Just touching brought wild pleasure when touching just so, in just the right places, and with the right person and rhythm. Tongues touching, dancing, mating. Hands, legs, mouths every where.
She learned a new form of pleasure without mating. Yet something seemed missing, something sad and poignant, disappointing, like sliding down a snow-slick hill, not quite fast enough. Despite that, pleasure grew, burst and set them free.
Like two spoons in the wee bed, they slept, until Jace woke and examined his man parts in the soft light of dawn, along and around, up and down, rolling her finger around his moist tip.
When she dared kiss that tip, he woke with a surge and a groan, and she was on her back, him deep inside her.
He brought her higher in three deep strokes than he had all night.
So blessedly good, his weight atop her. She’d take him any way she could, but this glorious, ordained way, this was perfect.
They climbed and soared, then like water cascading down a mountain – pure, bubbling, wild and free – they floated as one, peaceful, at rest.
After a time, he reversed their positions and settled her atop him in lazy contentment.
“Gabriel, we’re at peace now, right? We’ve formed a truce?”
“As your mattress, I say, aye, peace.”
“Was her service beautiful?”
“What service, pet?”
“My baby’s funeral. Did you make it wonderful? Tell me.”
“Ach, Jace, your Mother wanted no service. The babe was stillborn.”
“No, I heard her cry. Mama said she didn’t, but I remember.”
“She had no service, sweet.” Gabe wiped her cheeks with the corner of a blanket. “We’ll ask the gravedigger, and if there was nothing graveside, I’ll do a service.”
“Who’d come?”
“You, me, Bridget, Mackenzie … and Nick.”
“You’d do that for me? With Nick?”
He settled her head on his chest. “Aye, love, I’d do anything for you. Even give you to Nick, though I’d rather keep you for myself.”
Twenty
He’d always wanted her. Now he wanted everything. And for the first time, he admitted it, and she fell asleep.
She stirred in his arms, snuggled her face deeper into his neck, moved and moaned. Parts of her must be tender. He’d kiss her better.
First he’d settle the matter of their marriage, then perhaps he’d let her out of bed.
He guessed he had no choice. She should be dressed if anyone spotted the wagon.
Jacey shifted and rubbed her nose back and forth, hard, against the hair on his chest.
He chuckled. “Itchy nose means you’re coming into money.”
She smiled lazily and stretched in that rod-hardening feline way, her limbs sliding sinuously along his own. “Don’t need money. I have you.”
“Not yet, but you will.”
She regarded him soberly. “I will what?”
“Have me.”
“In the biblical sense?”
“Well, aye. You’ll have me that way, often.”
Jace took her luscious bottom lip between her teeth, making him want to bite it, but her silence made him nervous. “You ken that after last night, we must marry.”
“Must we?” She rose quickly, placing his favourite parts in perilous danger. “We’ll speak no more about it.”
Distracted by her pert breasts and fine bottom, he let the subject drop, for now. She rummaged and blushed, until a nearly see-through shirt covered her to her thighs.
He raised his knee to hide his reaction, or she’d find something else to wear. She was acting that contrary.
“Jace, listen. Bridget needs a mother, and if you marry me, you can save me from a mother-in-law who carries a pitchfork.”
That brought thunderclouds to her brow.
“I know,” he said, looking for food, “I might lose my Kirk over this, but—” He caught her ludicrous expression. “What?” he asked.
She pointed to his raging manhood with annoyed amazement.
“Sorry. I forgot.”
“You can forget something that big? It’s in your way for pity’s sake.”
“I’m hungry.”
“For food, even?”
“That too, aye.” He looked into a tin. “Sodabread.” He bit into it and offered her the tin. “Needs jam.”
Jacey took a jar off the floor. “I saw it rolling around before, before …”
Gabriel raised a brow. “Before we hit the tree? Stripped? Laid hands on each other? Burned each other alive?”
She about strangled him, her cheeks strawberry-bright. “Before any of it, blast you. Will you put on some clothes?”
“They’re wet.”
“Suttie must have something you can wear.” Jace rummaged. “Here put this on.” She handed him another old shirt.
It didn’t meet in the front to button or cover … anything.
He chuckled at the sight, her: half dressed, half appalled.
“At least it keeps my back warm. Come closer and warm my … front.”
That set her spine. “I will not marry you, Gabriel Macgregor. Not to save you from the Prouts. Damn you for suggesting it.”
He hung her clothes over the branch, to hide his disappointment.
“Hello the wagon? Anybody inside?”
“Hello,” Jacey shouted. “The door’s jammed. Can you get us out?” Her voice wobbled, as if she might cry as she stepped into her wet crinolines.
Twenty-one
More than a day after they left, they returned to Kirk Cottage.
From the hall, they saw Bridget, on her stomach, on the settee, chin in hands, speaking to Hedgehog, peeking over the arm of the settee.
Hedgehog stroked her hair. “Tell me what you remember about your mother.”
“She used to sing, but not as often as Myjacey. Once, Papa looked sad, and Mama said she knew he missed Myjacey when she sang.”
“Hedgehog, this makes me sad to remember.”
“You’ll feel better, if you tell me what’s bothering you.”
Bridget sighed. “Mama said she wouldn’t rest in heaven if Papa didn’t go get Myjacey. He held her and said he was sorry. He and Mama cried. Me too.” Bridget swallowed. “They didn’t know I saw.”
She wiped her eyes. “I know Papa likes me, but I wish he liked Mama enough to keep her and not send her to heaven.”
Jacey took Gabriel’s arm, in support and comfort, and it was a measure of his shock that he let her.
“Yesterday Papa took Myjacey, and they didn’t come home, and I’m afraid he sent her to heaven.”
“Your Mama was very sick,” Hedgehog said.
“God would have let Papa keep Mama, if he asked. Mama said God listens to Papa, ’cause he talks Sundays and everybody hardly falls asleep. Why didn’t Papa like Mama enough to keep her?”
“Cricket, Mama stopped hurting when God took her home.”
“After Mama went away for hours, Papa said God took her to heaven. Now Myjacey’s been gone that long, and I’m afraid she’s with God. If she is, I’ll never forgive Papa, Hedgehog!”
“Cricket,” Jacey said.
Bridget launched herself into Jacey’s arms.
Gabriel looked rooted in horror, because in his daughter’s eyes, he’d failed at the single most important task of his life. He’d failed to rescue her mother from the clutch
es of death.
“You’re wrong, sweetheart,” Jacey said. “Papa prayed hard to keep her. Your Mama wrote and told me so.”
Like Gabriel, Bridget looked at her. “She did?”
Jacey nodded. “That’s why Papa cried holding Mama, because he knew God said no, and your mama was going to heaven. That’s why he was sorry.”
“Did you, Papa, pray hard to keep Mama?” Bridget asked.
“So hard,” Gabriel said, hugging Bridget.
A few hours after the reunion, and after she and Gabe had bathed and eaten, they all met the gravedigger at her daughter’s grave. “Angus,” Jacey said. “When you buried my baby, were graveside prayers said over her wee casket?”
“I din bury no baby, m’Lady. I put the stone here, like your Ma said, which she paid me not to say.” He shrugged. “I don’t s’pose it matters now she’s dead.”
Jacey covered her mouth with a hand. Mac wept into her apron. Bridget traced the numbers on the gravestone.
“Dig her up,” Jace said, and Mac wailed. “Don’t, thank you, Angus.” She turned towards the house. “Bridget, get your Mama’s book. Mac, I’ll have that trunk of baby clothes, please.”
Mac shook her head.
“Mackenzie,” Gabriel said.
Clara’s bible noted Baby Lockhart’s date of birth and death. A week later, Bridget Lockhart Spencer’s birth was recorded.
Jace stared until the words blurred. She opened the trunk. “This is probably a waste of time. When I heard there was no funeral, I thought …”
She found the yellow embroidered sacque to match the bonnet and held it up, her heart racing. “Clara in Scotland, me here, and we make the same gown?” She trembled with hope as she snipped the stitches at the back hem.
When she opened it, she sobbed.
“Jace, you’re upsetting Bridget. Mackenzie,” Gabriel added. “Take Bridget to the kitchen.”
Twenty-two
Gabe carried Jace to the settee. She laughed while she cried.
“Are we going a wee bit daft, love?”
“Gabriel, my baby didn’t die. Mother lied. She sent her to Clara. Probably to legitimize her.”
“You don’t mean … Bridget is yours?”
“Dearest, you may never forgive me, but she’s more than my daughter—”
Gabe groaned. “Right; she’s Nick’s.”
“Remember how I counted on Nick to get me out of trouble. Think about it.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jace kissed him with all her love, and though he was confused, he put love into his kiss.
“Gabriel,” Jace said, “Bridget is more than my daughter, she’s our daughter.” She showed him the sacque. “I embroidered ‘Baby Macgregor’ inside. I wanted the truth somewhere.”
He stroked the embroidery: “I fathered your child? Not Nick?”
“My mother couldn’t make his life hell in America, so I waited for him to leave, then I named him, with his permission.”
“Jace. That about killed me. If I wasn’t so happy, I’d …”
“I didn’t want you defrocked. You’d just taken holy orders. Your father’s parish was yours, you had your family name to mend. How could I destroy your dreams?”
“I wanted our babe,” he said. “And you, you were more my dream than anything. Didn’t you know?”
The resultant kiss lasted longer, meant more, because they’d added honesty and forgiveness. “I love you Gabriel.”
“I love you, Jace, and our daughter. Bridget is ours. Jace, you bore my child and the stigma of sin to protect me.” He cupped her face. “Marry me, please. I’ll try to be worthy.”
Jace kissed his palm. “With our passion; we’ll have six more.”
“At least,” he said, hearing a whispered “shush”. “Hear that, Mackenzie?” he called. “You’ll have a job here forever.”
“We hear,” Bridget said, throwing open the door and climbing into their laps. “Nanny Mac says you’re my real Mama and Papa. She brought me to my first mama to keep me till ‘you two came to your senses’.”
“Did she now?” Gabe eyed Mackenzie.
“I have to go tell Suttie and Hedgehog,” Bridget said.
“Suttie’s gone,” Mac said, “though I didn’t hear the wagon. She left a note: ‘My work is done. Fairy kisses and long happy lives. Suttie.’”
“We’ll do just fine right here, won’t we, darling? You’re right about Papa. Lots of growl but no bite.”
Her MacKinnon
Sandy Blair
The Legend
I came into being on Beltane morn’ on the shores of Skye in the year of our Lord 1490.
In my veins runs the blood of Alpin, king of the Picts and father of Cinaed mac Ailpin king of Scots, of Bebe, king of Norway and that of the first abbots of Iona.
Brought down by treachery before my time, my immortal soul does not rest. My essence remains with the gold signet ring – bearing the hand clutching the cross – that I and all those who came before me wore.
I am the MacKinnon, then and now.
Board’s Head Pub, Isle of Skye, present day
One
“Come on, man, just one half and a half.”
Since the last thing A.J. MacKinnon needed was another dram and a half-pint of ale, Mickey shook his head. “You’ve had quite enough for one day, A.J. Go home to that pretty wife of yours before she worries herself sick.”
A.J. made a sound at the back of his throat. “The bitch is already dead to the world … or pretendin’ to be.”
No. More likely Maggie was pacing, her eyes brimming with tears and silent accusations. Why his cousin stayed with this sorry excuse for a man no one in the family could figure out.
Sure, Alistair Jerome MacKinnon stood an easy six feet four inches, had a head full of auburn hair and blue eyes that could stop a clock – even had an aura about him that initially drew you in – but soon enough you discovered he was all hot air and pretention. Cold sober, the man couldn’t keep a job to save his soul. Drunk, he got mean. Real mean. And this evening, he’d arrived drunk as a lord after being fired from yet another job. This time it was from one Mickey had found for him.
Having heard enough, Mickey leaned forwards, hands fisted on his centuries-old oak bar. “Do not be talking like that about Maggie. She’s a good woman, better than you deserve and well you know it.”
Bleary-eyed and sullen, A.J. muttered, “Oh ya? Well, I’ve news for you. She’s a blubbering nag.” He thumped his fist on the bar again. “Come on, just one more for the road.”
Mickey was fed up and needed to close, so he came around the bar and grabbed A.J. by the scuff; no mean task given the man stood a full head taller than he and outweighed him by an easy three stones. “Let’s go. Your pockets are bare and I’ll not be extending credit.”
Maggie was working two jobs as it was.
A.J., cursing and boxing the air, stumbled forwards. In the parking lot, Mickey gave A.J. a shove. “Go home.”
A.J. staggered to his beat-up Ford Focus and got behind the wheel. When the engine finally sputtered to life, Mickey slammed the pub door closed and shut off the lights.
Had his last customer been anyone other than A.J., he’d have taken the car keys and seen the man home, but A.J. and Maggie lived only a quarter mile up the road. Being well past midnight, there wouldn’t be another soul on the road till dawn so he’d be safe enough.
Maggie pushed aside the lace curtain and peered into the night. “Where the hell can he be at this hour?”
A.J. had promised he’d only stop by the Boar’s Head to thank Mickey for finding him the job at the Portree restaurant, then come straight home for a celebration dinner, which should have been hours ago.
Worried A.J. might be passed out in the pub’s parking lot, she reached for the telephone to call Mickey, only to remember her service had been cut off weeks ago. Cursing, tears springing to her eyes, she continued pacing.
This was not the life she’d envisioned whe
n she’s fallen in love and married A.J. MacKinnon, who claimed to be the legitimate heir to the MacKinnon legacy. According to A.J., the MacKinnon ring he wore, given to him by his grandfather, had been passed down to the rightful heir for centuries. The Mackinnon title was by all rights his, not some distant cousin’s. Only A.J. had no way of proving it – other than his having the ring, which was no proof at all according to their high-priced solicitor. The court needed birth and marriage records dating back to the beginning of time, but the crucial evidence of his lineage had been lost to war and a kirk fire.
Peering out the window, Maggie cursed A.J.’s grandfather yet again for filling his head with grandiose nonsense. This crazy obsession – of his having the blood of kings running in his veins – was eating A.J. alive, and had turned him from the charming and ambitious lover she’d fallen for during their whirlwind courtship five years ago into a bitter man she barely recognized. Worse, when he drank he blamed everyone but himself for his every failing. Bosses were out to get him. The small cottage she’d inherited was a joke. The meals she prepared weren’t fit for dogs. Worse, whenever she lashed back, he called her a shrew. How she’d managed to escape his fists when he went on one of his drunken rampages was still a mystery. Thank God, he was prone to stumbling and falling whenever he swung a fist.
But then would come morning – or more often afternoon – and he’d stumble out of the bedroom, beg her forgiveness, saying it had only been the whisky talking, making him a bloody ass. He’d profess his love and swear never to do it again. And because she’d once loved him beyond reason, had pledged to love and honour him in good times and bad, she hung on, desperate to believe, putting her dreams on hold. And all because A.J. couldn’t pass a pub if he had a penny in his pocket.
She hated admitting it but Mickey had been right when he’d repeatedly warned her that if she married in haste she’d repent in leisure.
The mantel clock struck two and she dashed the tears from her cheeks. All this pacing and fretting was getting her nowhere. Hoping Mickey had at least seen A.J., she pulled her cardigan from the wall-mounted coat rack by the door. Outside, she hunched against the wind coming off Inner Sound, its choppy water reflecting moonlight like a fractured mirror, bathing both the empty two-lane carriageway before her and the mountains at her back in a cool white glow.
