While she’d been at court for the past two years, the viscount had been known only as one of Elspeth’s many benefactors. But what was it that Quint didn’t know of their day-to-day relationship that he probably should? Had they become more than benefactor and benefactress? Lovers even?
Rage filled him. If the old red-haired maid hadn’t already collected Lady Elspeth and taken her to his room to prepare for his arrival, he would’ve asked his brand new wife that very question and demand she answer him before the entire hall.
His heart pounded so hard in his chest, Quint worried it might burst forth. He gulped long draws of breath, his lungs burning. He’d not have another man’s leavings, especially not the viscount’s. If his young bride turned out not to be chaste, he’d send her right back to the abbey, and she could live out her days there alone. He’d never again set eyes on her.
Slowly, the rage cooled and simmered. He could breathe once again.
But what if she’d been seduced away from him already like Mairi had been? What if Elspeth truly loved the man, or even worse, was nothing but a pawn in Telford’s political game? Would he hold the blame of a lost maidenhead against her then? Elspeth was so young, so small, so fragile, and the viscount…well, he was not.
And in the end, could Quint blame her for a single moment of weakness, if there had been one? Would he still send her away if that were the case?
His fingers itched to draw his dagger and sink its blade deep into the viscount’s heart. It would serve the man right. Or he could always simply toss the despicable man off the castle’s highest parapet as he’d been accused of doing to his good friend and cousin, Dougal.
Quint sighed. He’d found Dougal’s dead body wedged between the boulders holding the sea back from the base of Brochel Castle. It was a sight he’d never forget. Even now, more than seven years later, the memory made him queasy.
There lay Dougal, the bastard son of the MacLeod chieftain, John Iain, in a grisly tangle of limbs, blood, and gore, and not even a full night after coming to Quinton and professing his love for Mairi. He’d even openly confessed to her seduction and informed Quint of the child to come from their union.
Knowing what it had been to be raised a bastard himself, Dougal had begged to be allowed to take Mairi as wife, to insure his own son wouldn’t suffer the same shame.
Mairi. The woman his eighteen-year-old self had been desperately in love with and the only woman he’d probably ever give his heart to. Not of high birth, Mairi was a daughter of a lowly serving wench, but that didn’t matter to him. From the first, when they’d been children growing up together, he’d had every intention of making Mairi and none other his wife one day.
Mairi, with her strawberry-blonde hair, her haunting gray eyes, her playful smattering of freckles across her pert little nose, and tinkling laugh from her kissable lips.
The very same Mairi, Quint had angrily sworn before every man, woman, and child present at Brochel that Dougal MacLeod would never call his own. Even though Quint had been well into his cups when he’d declared it and not of sound mind or thinking straight, those words had become his deepest regret.
He never gotten the chance to take them back. Before the sun rose the next morning, Dougal MacLeod was dead, and if Quinton hadn’t been the cause, then it appeared to be by Dougal’s own hand.
Quint would’ve relented eventually, and in the end, he would’ve stepped aside. He would’ve. Especially, if he’d known a few months later, his beautiful Mairi would be taken from him, too.
He shook his head. Even if he hadn’t personally pushed Dougal off that parapet, both his cousin’s and Mairi’s deaths were still his fault and their blood was on his hands. He was well known for his quick temper and jealousy, always had been. It was no wonder they’d felt the need to hide their relationship for as long as they did. Dougal and Mairi had both known he couldn’t be trusted with that particular truth.
With Elspeth, though, he wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. He wouldn’t let his unreasonable jealousy override his good judgment. After all, he had no cause whatsoever to doubt Elspeth’s chastity or intentions. And for that matter, no real proof of any misdeeds by the viscount.
But soon now, very soon, he’d know for himself. He’d have firsthand knowledge as to the true relationship between Lady Elspeth Frasier MacLeod and Lord Fredrick, Viscount Telford. And then he’d decide whether the viscount needed to be dealt his death this night or would live to breathe for at least another day.
Right or wrong, Quinton MacLeod wouldn’t lose or share what was rightfully his ever again.
Chapter Four
Beth closed her eyes as tightly shut as she could get them and tried her best to relax. It didn’t happen, she couldn’t. She was worried about what the creepy viscount had said.
Though she’d sought the very deepest recesses of Elspeth’s mind for answers, none came. Try as she might, only fleeting glimpses of places she didn’t recognize and snippets of conversations with people she didn’t even know—and that made no sense whatsoever—were all her efforts were rewarded with.
Then there was Quinton MacLeod. What was she going to do about her brand new husband? Any moment now, the Highlander would stalk through the door, climb right into the very bed she lay in naked, completely, as the day she’d been born, and ravish her.
Her breathing quickened, and a heat she’d forgotten she was capable of flowed through her. The old maid hadn’t wasted any time stripping away every last stitch of clothing Beth had worn and then left her all alone. And what had Bronwyn’s parting words been? “Have a good night, my lady. May the MacLeod ride ye long and hard, and may his cock stay stiff ’til morn.”
Beth shuddered. She wasn’t afraid of what Quinton MacLeod meant to do. After all, she’d been married for nineteen of her forty-five years and had sex more times with her ex-husband than she could count. Granted, she hadn’t personally had sex with anything that didn’t require batteries for the last eight years since her divorce, and she hadn’t ever actually had sex with any other living breathing man except for Burt Anderson, but it wasn’t because she was afraid of men. Not precisely anyway.
Why hadn’t she sought company from the male species after her divorce? Beth sighed, and could no more answer that question now than when she’d asked it of herself on so many other occasions. It was just the way it had been. Sex with vibrators and dildos and such had been safe, easy, and kind.
Toys weren’t mean and never cruel. When having a relationship with plastic or rubber, she didn’t have to be young, slim, pretty, witty, or even know how to talk dirty. And a sex toy never, ever forced her to do things she didn’t wish to do. Things that shamed her, things that hurt.
Beth shivered and tugged the fur cover closer around herself.
One thing was for certain, Lard Quinton MacLeod didn’t come with batteries, but he would come with expectations. With Elspeth’s lithe, young body, she wondered if she’d be able to accommodate those expectations to his satisfaction. Heat surged up her neck, down her belly, and pooled between her thighs.
She was surprised to realize she was actually kind of looking forward to the handsome Highlander striding through the door and having his way with her even more than she feared it. Did that make any sense at all? Did it make her a bad person?
She groaned. At her age and with her history, she should at least be ashamed that she was soon going to be in the arms of a very young, very handsome man.
But she really wasn’t.
With that thought in mind, Beth drifted off to sleep.
****
She stood in a shadowed corner of the room and eavesdropped on the conversation between Elspeth Frasier and the creepy viscount. Though Beth realized she was dreaming and was now simply a witness to one of Elspeth’s more protected memories, she still felt like the worst of voyeurs when she couldn’t bring herself to look away from the scene unfolding right before her eyes.
“I hate her, and I’ll be glad when she’s dead
.” Lady Elspeth Frasier glared at the man sitting nonchalantly across the room with his legs sprawled and a look of complete boredom on his face. “Well, say something, Fredrick. Ye stand to lose as much as I do if I fail at killing Lydia and she succeeds in marrying me off to that, that MacLeod person on the morrow.”
The viscount chuckled. “As if I would wish to impede your upcoming nuptials? Unless you do succeed in killing your dear sweet stepmother, this evening, I’ll be counting on them. As a matter of fact, my dear, unless Lydia does indeed die, I will be dancing at your wedding to that filthy Scot come the morrow.
“After all, what Lady Lydia Frasier said is true. You have managed to thwart her attempts for years by staying first at the abbey longer than you should have and then by hiding away at court. But alas, my sweet, Beth, your time, our time has all but run out. And perhaps you should try calling him Quinton or laird, anything but that MacLeod person. I seriously doubt your dear husband would wish for his bride to be so cold and distant. Especially considering what you must do if you end up married to him.”
She balled up her fists. “Do nae be calling me Beth. My name is Elspeth. Ye ken well I don’t like it when ye call me by any other name but the one my father gave me. And I’ll call the devil MacLeod whatever I like.”
He laughed out loud. “Your Scots gets quite strong, my dear, when you’re upset. You sound nothing at all like a proper, future countess should.”
Elspeth stomped her foot. “Oh, now do you see what she’s done to me? You, of all people, know how hard I’ve worked not to sound provincial.”
She took a deep breath. “I refuse to allow Lydia the power to turn me back into that stupid, silly, little girl I was when I first left for the abbey.”
The viscount smiled. “Perhaps you need only to calm yourself and consider embracing these nuptials as I’ve asked. That is, if by chance you fail in your task of this evening. Have you not been listening to anything I’ve been telling you for more than a sennight? Stop thinking with your woman’s heart, Elspeth, and take a moment to use your head. Can you not see this marriage fits perfectly into our plans? Look at the benefits. When all is said and done, we’ll end up with either Frasier or Brochel castle for King Charles, and that is all you need to know in order to stay on task. Now do us both a favor, my dear. Stop fighting this and either kill off your stepmother this evening or marry the Scot come morning.”
Elspeth gasped. “You can’t truly mean that even if I fail with Lydia, I’m to still… I thought you weren’t serious when you suggested… I mean, I thought you loved me, Fredrick. I thought you were going to announce your intentions to wed me yourself at tonight’s dinner. Right before I…” She shook her head. “Are you telling me you could actually bear to have another man’s hands and lips, and other parts touching my body? Don’t you love me? Don’t you covet the maidenhead I’ve saved for you?”
The viscount smirked. “Oh, my dear Elspeth, what a child in a woman’s body you still are at times. You have but seen the passing of a handful of summers and know only the world the sisters at the abbey and your guardians at court allowed you to see. On the other hand, I’m a learned man of the world and have thirty-six years and two barren wives behind me. You hold that maidenhead of yours in such high regard, where as I see it only as a bargaining chip.”
****
Beth’s eyes flew open as warm hands gently shook her awake. “Elspeth, are ye or are ye nae still a maiden?”
She stared up into the stormy blue eyes of Lard Quinton MacLeod and shook her head no, then nodded yes.
“Which is it?”
She cleared her throat. “I swear to you, m—my lord, Elspeth Frasier MacLeod’s body is still untouched by any man.”
Quint smiled as he slowly brought his lips to hers. He chuckled. “Nae for long it isna.”
The heat of his kiss as his lips captured hers burned Beth with a passion that seared her to the depths of her being. She was helpless, defenseless against the onslaught. She opened in surrender as his tongue slipped between her lips. It was heaven.
Her Highlander tasted of the tangy sweetness of ale mixed with honey and smelled of lust sprinkled with manly musk. With his beefy arms that now held her close, along with his large strong hands that caressed her and combined with his firm, forceful lips that devoured her, he was impossible to resist. But then she didn’t really want to.
“Mine,” he whispered against her still partially open mouth as his fingers slowly trailed down her body and possessively grasped her mound. “You’ll find me to be a greedy man, my wife, my Elspeth, my Beth. I do nae share what’s mine, nae ever.”
The smoldering fire of his gaze bore deeply into her soul, seeking, searching for answers to questions she couldn’t give him. She gulped.
His fingers delved through the curls, parted her folds, and captured her clit, stroking it, teasing it, tormenting her.
She thought she’d known what to expect, was anticipating it even, in a way. But the flash of pleasure that shot outward in every direction, from the pit of her stomach, to the tips of her toes and all the way back up to the very roots of her hair, caught her by surprise.
He rose above her and, with one leg, quickly parted both of hers. He settled himself snugly between them. His erection was hard and nudged her opening.
Beth took a deep breath and held it, trying to squash the panic threatening to overtake her. Oh my god, hadn’t the pain of losing her virginity once in a lifetime been more than enough? She readied herself for the agony to come. Though she didn’t want it to invade and tried her best to block it out, the memory of the first time she’d been in this very same situation came rushing back. She stiffened.
They’d both been seventeen. Their junior year of high school had just ended, and in a matter of a couple months, they’d be seniors. The summer, like the rest of their lives, lay long and lazy before them, theirs to enjoy, theirs to relish.
They’d been doing some pretty heavy petting in the backseat of his car at the local drive-in, and Burt had just slipped his letterman’s ring, attached to a thin gold chain, around her neck. He’d been so sweet when he’d asked her to be his steady girlfriend.
So very handsome, Burt Anderson was all muscle and brawn, a hair over six feet tall, blond, with big brown eyes, and the star running back of their school’s football team to boot. Even now, she had no idea why he’d picked her. He could’ve had any girl he wanted.
She hadn’t wanted to have her first sexual experience that night, especially not in the backseat of a car. But he’d told her it was an expected part of agreeing to be his. And it would be the proof he needed that she really, truly was the one.
She’d wanted so desperately to be in love, to be loved. Coming from a completely dysfunctional home, any emotions, other than anger and apathy, had been in short supply for as long as she could remember. Being wanted and at least desired by the oh so popular Burt Anderson and unconditionally accepted into his large circle of friends had changed her life. No longer was she the weird bookworm nobody noticed, and no longer the sad little plain Jane either.
The cheap, vinyl upholstery of his backseat against her bare skin had been cold as death. She’d clenched her eyes as tightly closed as she could get them and grimaced as his hands roughly groped her body. The sharp pain came swiftly before she’d even been able to prepare herself for it. She’d cried.
Not only had the tearing of her virginal membranes been excruciating, but the pain hadn’t stopped even when she’d begged him to. In retrospect, it really was over with rather quickly, but not quick enough for her taste.
It should’ve been a warning she’d heeded, but it hadn’t. She’d married the jerk a year later and only because she’d been careless and gotten herself pregnant.
Beth’s mind returned to the present and was embarrassed to find Quinton MacLeod rigidly still above her, staring at her, as if she’d suddenly grown horns and turned purple.
“Are ye all right then, lass? There’s nothing to be
afraid of. I’ll take care of ye. Just breathe.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat before nodding.
“Are ye sure ye are all right? Ye look skittish as a wild pony. Though I do nae deny there’s a bit of discomfort a woman’s first time round, I do promise, I’ll make sure ye have pleasure to temper its bite. Trust me, my Beth. Ye are safe with me in this and all things, always. Do ye ken?”
She gazed into the sincere eyes of Lard Quinton MacLeod—his hair falling forward, his lips pursing in concentration, and the muscles of his shoulders bunching. She almost sighed. He certainly wasn’t Burt, and that was a good thing.
Yes, her first sexual experience had been horrible, she couldn’t deny that, but if she had no choice but be in the twenty-year-old body of Elspeth Frasier, then why not at least give it another shot?
Taking another deep breath, her body suddenly tingling with anticipation, she nodded once more.
He kissed her again, but this kiss was different, and Beth relaxed ever so slightly in his arms. Though his passion was certainly evident, for his erection rested against her thigh, his lips were gentle. They coaxed, prodded, and tempted, instead of taking.
She sighed and opened to him.
His tongue probed the recesses of her mouth, and she inhaled the breath he’d just breathed out. All memory of Burt and his backseat faded away, replaced by bittersweet euphoria.
The man feasting on her mouth was like a drug, and she couldn’t get enough. He was a potent, narcotic aphrodisiac. A female version of the little blue pill on steroids. And she? Well, she was quickly on her way to becoming an addict.
Her nipples pebbled, and her skin tingled. Shivers of excitement raced along her spine, and he’d only kissed her for the fourth time ever.
She sucked in a deep breath as she realized something about herself. She and Elspeth really did have something in common. In this man’s arms, she found herself as inexperienced as any twenty-year-old virgin. Where had the worldly forty-five-year-old woman gone?
Time For A Highlander (Real Men Wear Kilts) Page 5
