Time For A Highlander (Real Men Wear Kilts)

by Maxine Mansfield

The young harridan was known far and wide for her unreasonable temper and spoiled ways. Not only didn’t he need that kind of woman for a wife, but his people didn’t deserve someone who cared only for herself as their lady.

  Could he tolerate the lass, even come to care for her someday? Quint shook his head. Probably not. He’d once freely given his heart to a much more deserving lass than Elspeth Frasier would probably ever become, and he’d had it handed back ta him in tatters. That, was one mistake he’d nae again make easily. But loyalty, kindness, and protection for the sake of his people, he could give her those.

  But then, what of her loyalty? Where did it lie? She’d lived on English soil almost as long as she’d lived in Scotland. In the political and religious turmoil engulfing them, he could ill afford a wife he couldn’t trust. And that he couldn’t trust her was obvious.

  For the last two years while Elspeth Frasier had been hiding away at court, one of her benefactors had been none other than the unscrupulous royalist, Lord Fredrick, Viscount Telford. The man was known to have not only the ear of King Charles, but his friendship as well.

  What kind of influence did the viscount have over Elspeth? Did Quint need worry?

  Though this island and his own were both very much a part of Scotland and so far, had been blessed to remain neutral in the struggle between the king’s royalists and parliament, how much longer could he hold out?

  And what of John Iain, the chieftain of Clan MacLeod? He was a staunch supporter of Charles and the royalists, while Quint’s own beliefs tended to side with the forces of parliament. When would he be forced to bend a knee and swear allegiance to a king he no longer believed in or risk finding his head forfeit? And even if he was lucky enough to avoid John Iain’s wrath…would there be a night in his near future when he’d lie down to sleep beside his young wife and not wake the next morning?

  What choice did he have, though? He owed loyalty to Alec Mackenzie. The man and his army had stood beside him and clan MacLeod. And that was after his own chieftain, John Iain, hadn’t. Even though the thieving MacDonalds had made good on their threats and tried their best to devastate his people and lands.

  And when it was all said and done and the MacLeod lands were once more safe, Alec had come to him. He had asked Quint to take his sister, Lady Lydia’s stepdaughter, Elspeth Frasier to wife. What else could he do but agree?

  A small smile graced his lips. It seemed he’d need to perfect the skill of sleeping with one eye open apparently.

  At least it wouldn’t be too tedious a task to bed the wench. She was a beauty to gaze upon. More than simply beautiful, Elspeth Frasier had the face and body of an angel with a halo of golden curls. How would those luscious locks shine when spread upon his sheets while the rest of Elspeth Frasier’s body was snug beneath him?

  Quint’s cock hardened and, unlike his brain, didn’t have any objections at all to his choice of wife. But he did his best to ignore his erection’s demands as it rubbed against the scratchy wool of his kilt. “Down, laddie,” he hissed. “Behave. There’ll be time enough for ye later.”

  Chapter Three

  It was the most wonderful sensation she could remember in ever so long. Beth sighed as the back of her sore head rested lightly against the rim of the wooden tub. The heat of the water and the fragrance of wild flower petals strewn upon its surface seeped into her muscles and soothed her soul. Though cramped, and she had no choice but keep her knees partially bent, Beth knew she wouldn’t trade this morning’s bath for the fanciest spa treatment she’d ever seen advertised.

  Running her hands along her skin, she closed her eyes and allowed her hands to explore. Oh, the wonders of youth. This body didn’t have a single inch of fat or dimple of cellulite on it anywhere. She could clearly feel every single rib, and it even had…hip bones.

  She smiled.

  Beth couldn’t remember another time in the last fifteen years when she’d actually been able to feel hip bones. And these breasts? She held them both in her hands and squeezed. They were magnificent, all round and perky, full and lusciously soft with pebbly hard, pretty little pink nipples.

  God, here she was sitting in a tub of water, engrossed in the sight and feel of some other woman’s body. Eww. What did that say about her as a person? Had she suddenly become some kind of pervert? After all, Elspeth’s very female body was only twenty years old, and Beth’s mind was an old forty-five.

  She’d never been attracted in any way to female bodies before, at least not any more than the normal passing appreciation for a nice tight butt, flat tummy, long legs, or fine high boobs, cute haircut, pretty eyes, or full pouty lips. Why now did she suddenly wish to explore every single inch of this body she found herself in?

  Along with her trip back through time, had her entire sexual orientation changed also?

  She thought about it for a moment and shook her head. The memory of Quinton MacLeod’s impressive…package as her very first glimpse into this time period had caused a warmth to flow through her insides that had nothing at all to do with the temperature of the water she sat in.

  Bi then? She grimaced.

  Not that she’d had anything against anyone’s sexual preferences, ever, because she hadn’t. It was just that she’d always had more than enough trouble figuring out relationship dynamics with men that she hadn’t bothered with another after the disaster that was Bert. God help her, if she’d ever considered adding a women to the crazy mix that was her life.

  So probably not.

  She was pretty sure today’s exploration was nothing more than simple curiosity. After all, hadn’t her own saggy, flabby body parts and a few very useful toys with long lasting batteries afforded her hours of pleasure over the years? And if truth be told, they’d been her best and only real friends for longer than she’d like to admit.

  Beth shuddered. Her poor flabby, saggy body parts mashed flat as a pancake, how sad. How many strangers had it taken to scrape up the remnants of that mess? And what had they done with it when they were finished? Had they packaged her up in a really big, zip-lock freezer bag and shipped her remains back to Alaska? Had her sister and brothers bothered to make the long trip from Miami to witness the cremation?

  What of her poor, old, almost blind Irish setter, Kato? Who was taking care of him now? And her three legged cat, George, whom she’d rescued from the pound as a kitten? And her mean-ass bird, Harley, who tried to bite her every time she filled his food dish? Her plants, and her classroom filled with eager young faces, and her little condo?

  She shook her head. She couldn’t afford to fret about all of that stuff. It would make her completely crazy if she didn’t stop. What was she so worried about anyway? Her death hadn’t even happened yet and wouldn’t for almost four hundred years in the future.

  Right now, there were more pressing issues to be concerned with, like her wedding to a complete stranger, a very young, very handsome, very sexy complete stranger.

  Shivers ran down her spine.

  The ceremony was due to start soon, and Beth had no clue how to prevent it from happening without getting herself burned at the stake. It made her brain hurt to think about it.

  ****

  No wonder ladies in the sixteen hundreds needed personal maids to get themselves dressed. There was no way any one person could lace up, tie, tuck, and twist any of these garments into place all by herself.

  Beth stood before the pounded to a shine piece of metal that served as a mirror and stared. Though a little blurry, Lady Elspeth Frasier was still an absolute beauty. The sky-blue day dress Bronwyn had helped her into fit like a glove and accented not just the curve of her high breasts but the slimness of her tiny waist. Her eyes glowed, her cheeks were a healthy pink, and her lips would put a ripe strawberry to shame. Her hair hung in golden ringlets about her shoulders and back, and a wreath of early spring flowers graced the top of her head.

  But what was really weird was the fact that, though she was garbed in a multitude of layers, she wore no panties or
bra beneath this gown. She pressed her thighs tightly together. It was the strangest sensation to be so very dressed from head to toe and still feel so utterly naked. From her study of history, she knew woman didn’t begin wearing undies and such until a much later time period, but it still didn’t seem right. As a matter of fact, it felt quite…naughty.

  “’Nuff looking at yeself, my lady. Time ta get ye married, it is.”

  Beth took a deep breath, nodded, turned, and followed Bronwyn.

  Through the soft leather soles of her slippers, the roughness of every stone step she descended imprinted on her mind, and it took much less time than she hoped to reach the bottom floor. To her right loomed the great hall from the previous night, complete with its long tables and huge fireplace. Those same tables had been wiped clean and were laden with what looked to be a great feast.

  Her stomach rumbled.

  Bronwyn chuckled. “Aye, I’m hungry meself, my lady. Looks like ye stepmother and her brother spared na expense for the occasion.”

  Beth didn’t comment, she couldn’t think, let alone speak. Every step led her closer to the kirk she’d been told lay outside in the courtyard and that much closer to her waiting groom. A morose thought flittered through her mind, and she suddenly giggled. Was this anywhere near to what men on death row felt when making their last walk to meet their maker?

  Bronwyn stared at her as if she had lost her mind. She immediately sobered and concentrated on something she did have control over, the movement of her feet. Right foot, left foot, right foot. Clamping her mouth tightly closed, she breathed through her nose and simply walked.

  The great doors of the castle opened, and she saw him. Laird Quinton MacLeod stood facing her, waiting silently at the entrance of a squat, stone building a few feet away, and he was…magnificent.

  If she’d thought him handsome the night before, in the light of day he was beyond any romance book cover model she’d ever fantasized about.

  The sun glinted off his dark hair as streaks of sunlight danced through each strand. His stormy blue eyes gleamed, and a velvety-brown stubble surrounded his oh so kissable mouth and chin, making him even more dangerously handsome. And his body, oh dear God, that body.

  Quinton MacLeod’s shoulders were so broad they blocked the sun, and his legs so long, he towered well above every other man present. What was it about a Highlander in a kilt, with a face and body like a god that made a woman hunger for something that had absolutely nothing at all to do with food?

  Beth didn’t remember the last few steps it took to close the distance between them, and even much later, if asked, she wouldn’t have been able to repeat a single word she, Quint, or the priest had said.

  But she’d always remember the kiss.

  Quint’s lips lightly brushed hers in a touch made of not much more than air, but they left a permanent imprint upon her soul as tiny sparks of excitement scurried along her spine. If a quick meeting of their lips could leave her so breathless and weak in the knees, what would it be like when he really did kiss her deeply, when he took her to his bed? When he…

  Her mind was a muddle. As they walked hand in hand back to the castle a few minutes later, all Beth could think was, she’d gone and done the one and only thing she’d sworn she’d never, ever, ever do again.

  She’d once more become some man’s wife.

  ****

  They sat at the far end of the great table and shared a trencher of food. At least, it had been meant to be shared. Beth’s nerves had long ago killed any appetite she might have had today.

  “Eat, my lady,” Quint ordered, and Beth jumped at the sternness of his voice.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He scowled at her, and Beth gulped.

  “When ye address me, lass, ye will call me, my laird, my lord, or my husband, or even simply Quint or Quinton, but ye will address me properly. As ye laird and ye husband, I am due that respect. Now eat.”

  She wanted to tell him where he could put his laird and lord, but in the end she nodded. The last thing she wanted today was to start a fight with her new husband. Instead, she pretended to listen to what he said while scanning the room and Elspeth’s memories for a glimpse of anything familiar.

  He leaned in close, and she found it impossible to ignore him. “Lady Lydia and her brother the Mackenzie have gone ta a great deal of trouble ta prepare this celebration for us. It would be discourteous ta our hosts if ye don’t eat, and I will nae have it be said a MacLeod was ever ill-mannered ta a friend.”

  Beth cringed. Here they’d been married less than an hour and her new husband was already issuing orders. Though quite handsome on the outside, it was obvious he was a brute where it really counted.

  But then, weren’t most men? And after all, this was Scotland, the spring of 1643, and Laird Quinton MacLeod was beyond any doubt a Highlander all the way to his toes. If he was anything like the Scots portrayed between the pages of the historical romance novels she so loved to read, she had no doubt she was in store for a whole lot more alpha male antics. The problem was, what could she do about it?

  She wanted to ignore him. Not just ignore, but actually disobey him. For too many years she’d lived under the thumb of a tyrant, and the cost of her freedom had come at a very high price. She’d not live that way again. She couldn’t and survive a second time. But this was no longer the twenty-first century. Women had no rights. They were chattel, property.

  In some of the romance novels she’d read, even the nicest hero types had at times…censured their heroines. She couldn’t abide being beaten again, and she knew it. Also, it was well known that men of this time period felt it their due to have as many women as they wished. Could she tolerate blatant infidelity again? And if she dared speak her mind, would Quinton MacLeod have her punished for her insolence?

  Beth took a deep breath and gingerly plucked a piece of mystery meat from the slab of dry bread being used as a plate. Taking a nibble of the cold, watery, spiceless lump, she almost gagged. She didn’t though. Slowly, she forced herself to chew and swallow it.

  She drew not just from Elspeth’s memories, but also from the pages of her precious novels, for a proper response. Turning to her brand new husband, Beth forced smile. “Forgive me, my lord. I did not mean disrespect to you or our hosts. The day has simply been overwhelming to my delicate sensibilities. After all, it’s not every day a girl marries.”

  Quint nodded.

  They ate in silence, neither looking at the other until suddenly the sound of bagpipes filled the room. Her head popped up so quickly she was almost overcome by a wave of dizziness, but Quint’s hand touching her shoulder steadied her. “Shall we dance, wife?”

  She looked into Quint’s smiling face and couldn’t bring herself to deny him. But then, how could she accept? She barely remembered the steps to the stupid electric slide she’d learned as a young girl, let alone a country dance from seventeenth century Scotland.

  Again she probed Elspeth’s mind, hoping for a thread of help with the problem, and there it was, as if she’d danced Scottish folk-dance steps every day of her life.

  Beth smiled back at Quint and nodded.

  She wanted to laugh, and she wanted to sing. Dancing within Quinton MacLeod’s arms was the most fun she’d had in ever so long. He spun her with ease, and his steady hands held her gently. Though the steps were intricate, and she had to concentrate on where she set her feet, she could’ve done this all day.

  Then he spun her away from him, and the next thing Beth knew, she was in the arms of the creepy viscount from the evening before. She almost stumbled.

  He leaned in closer than she was comfortable with and whispered, “What a beautiful bride you make, my dear. How are you faring today?”

  His breath smelled of sour whisky, and his eyes glared at her with a gray, dark madness. Try as she might, however, this time Elspeth’s memories let her down, and she couldn’t remember a single thing about him except for his title. “I’m fine, my lord. Thank you for
asking.”

  The expression on his face didn’t change in the least as the fingers he had been resting lightly at her waist suddenly squeezed tight. Beth took a deep breath as pain shot throughout her side.

  “Don’t play games with me, Elspeth,” he hissed. “If you think for a moment you can act the idiot and go back on your word, you’d better think again. Pay heed to our bargain, my dear, for if you fail to follow through with your promises, I’ll make sure your husband hears all about your involvement. He’ll run you through with his very own blade and position your head on a pike to decorate his castle gate before I’m through.”

  Beth’s mind screamed. Oh my god, what had Elspeth Frasier gotten herself involved with, and who exactly was this man to her?

  The viscount smiled. “I must leave in the morning. The king is in Yorkshire, and so I must be also, but I’ll have eyes watching until my return. Don’t think I won’t. You have until such time to carry through with what we discussed, my dear. Pity our plans of last evening were thwarted. I would’ve enjoyed watching Lady Lydia slump over dead right in her trencher.”

  He laughed. “But at least you managed to fumble your way through the wedding, and if the look on your husband’s face is any indication, getting him to do his part in our little plan shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Then, with a twirl, Beth found herself right back in the arms of her husband. His eyes gleamed with questions, but she didn’t have any answers and she certainly didn’t want to dance anymore.

  She wanted to run away, but since she couldn’t do that, she wanted to lie down somewhere and sleep. She didn’t want to wake again until this nightmare was over and she was back in her own time where the world might be bitterly cold and unbearably lonely, but at least, it made sense.

  ****

  He wanted to heft his claymore and slice Lord Fredrick, Viscount Telford, into tiny pieces. What had the man said to Elspeth when he’d been holding her much too close than was proper? When the viscount had finally twirled her back to Quint, the lass had trembled beneath his touch throughout the remainder of their dance and even during the short walk back to their table. Or had it been the viscount at all? Did his new wife, by chance, still maintain a secret passion for the Englishman lost to her?