Time For A Highlander (Real Men Wear Kilts)

by Maxine Mansfield

  The chieftain nodded. “I see, and did ye indeed kill ye mither, Duncan MacLeod?”

  Again, the boy gulped, and it was all Quint could do to not rush to the child’s defense. He didn’t, though. He stood waiting for Duncan’s response like everyone else present.

  “Aye, my lord, ’tis sorry ta say, but I did.” He sighed and hung his head.

  John Iain chuckled. “Well, lad, women die birthing babes all the time for many reasons. I’m pretty sure it’s nae something ye could’ve prevented. Do nae take what ye Aunt Marta says ta heart.”

  Then, shaking a finger toward Duncan, the MacLeod chieftain bellowed, “But as far as being a cripple, now there’s something ye do have power over, lad. A man is only as frail and helpless as he allows his differences ta make him. Ye very well may have been born on the wrong side of the sheet, but ye are a MacLeod still, and MacLeod’s are nae cripples.”

  Duncan stood a little straighter and nodded.

  “No son of John Iain MacLeod has ever been or has ever sired a cripple. I won’t hear of it. And ye, lad, are as much MacLeod as any other man ever born ta the name. Ye will grow tall and ye will learn ta heft a sword high in defense of those ’tis ye duty ta protect, and ye will follow this clan’s motto until the day ye die and hold fast. And ye’ll do it just as every other MacLeod man before ye has done since time began or fear my wrath.” He waved his hand through the air. “Being a cripple is a state of mind, lad, nae a condition of the body. Ye are the grandson of a clan chieftain and nae a cripple. Do ye hear?”

  Duncan nodded once more. “Aye, yes, sir.”

  John Iain MacLeod motioned toward the back of the castle. “Now, get ye ta the kitchen. If ye are ta grow tall enough and strong enough ta ever watch ye laird’s back, then ye need much bigger muscles on those scrawny arms and legs. Go find cook while I talk with ye cousin. She’ll see ye fed right proper.”

  Duncan bowed before his grandfather, quickly glanced back toward Quint, and then hobbled off.

  The moment the child was out of sight, John Iain glared at Quint. “How dare ye bring that lad into my lady wife’s home, right under my lady wife’s nose. What were ye thinking, nephew? Do ye have so little care for your aunt’s feelings? Do ye nae realize the only reason I sent his father away in the first place was to protect my Sibylla. That, though I was verra fond of his mither and felt sorry for the boy when she passed, I’d nae embarrass the woman who has born me two fine legitimate sons and four beautiful daughters by forcing her ta gaze upon Dougal MacLeod’s countenance every day of her life? Let alone ask her ta foster his bastard son, Duncan.”

  Quint ignored the question for a moment and instead, asked one of his own. “Why did ye summon me, then, if nae ta meet ye grandson?”

  John Iain slammed down his eating knife. “Ye know good and well why I summoned ye. It’s high time ye swore allegiance ta ye laird and ta ye king. War’s coming, boy, and I ha need of knowing what side of the battle I’ll be seeing ye on. I do nae wish ta fight me own nephew, but we both know exactly where ye father stood when it came ta the royalists and parliamentarians. Are ye of a like mind?”

  Taking a deep breathe, Quint let it out slowly. So, it had finally come to this. Time was up, and he had only two, possibly three, choices before him. Swear fealty to his uncle and his sword to King Charles or back his religion and the new parliament, though that choice would undoubtedly put his people at risk of retaliation. Or if God were willing, he’d think of some way to, if only for a while yet, keep his people out of the fray.

  He cleared his throat. “I am my father’s son, Uncle, and can be nae other. If forced ta fight, then I’d prefer the side of parliament. But at the same time, ye are my chieftain, and nae matter what is decided this day, ye’ll always have my loyalty and my sword. Know this, nae matter the outcome of what’s ta come, nae matter what either one of us believes, I’ll nae ever raise my sword ta ye or yours, and nae will any of my men. Wars can be verra long and drawn out, sides change over and over again. Why nae simply keep Brochel and what she has ta offer in reserve for the time being?”

  John Iain shook his head. “I’ll nae be changing sides. I was born a king’s man, and I’ll die one.”

  Quint nodded. “I understand, Uncle, but in good conscience, I cannae back the king. We both know Scotland would be better off without Charles’s strangle hold upon her.”

  The MacLeod chieftain pounded his fist on the table. “Have a care, nephew. Ye are speaking treason. I’ll nae see the head of my favorite brother’s only son upon a pike if I can prevent it. I am but one man among many, though. There’s only so much I can do.”

  Again, Quint nodded. “Aye, my laird, I understand.”

  John Iain stood, paced, and glared. “I’ll tell ye what I can do. Ye take young Duncan back ta Brochel with ye. Train the lad ta fight. Ensure me he’ll at least be able ta defend himself if and when the time comes. And keep him safe and away from this conflict. For the time being anyway, I’ll simply forget ta mention ta the king that I have further resources at my disposal.”

  He stopped pacing a moment and looked Quint straight in the eye. “But if the need arises, do nae think for a moment I’ll nae be sending ye aunt and girl cousins ta Brochel, and I’ll be expecting ye ta protect them. Do I have ye word, Quinton MacLeod? Will ye keep my family safe if and when the time comes when I canna?”

  Quint bent a knee once more before his uncle. “On my life, I swear I will.”

  ****

  Beth ran a finger along the dusty window ledge of the room she’d been working on all morning and sighed. It’d been seven long days and six even longer nights since Quint and Duncan sailed away and out of sight. How long could one wee trip between two little islands take? And when Quinton MacLeod finally returned home, would Duncan still be at his side, or would Quint leave the little boy behind? She still wasn’t sure which she hoped for more.

  “Ye asked for soap and water ta be brought ta ye?”

  Beth turned toward the sound of the one voice she’d least expected to hear, especially in this room. “Marta?”

  The young woman stood straight and tall with a bucket of steaming water in one hand and strips of cloth in the other. Marta’s long strawberry blonde hair, the exact same shade as Duncan’s, was tied back from her face with a strip of wool, and her gray as Scottish heather eyes glared daggers right through Beth. Her mouth, though normally lush when relaxed, was flattened in a pinched straight line, and her unusually dainty, freckle-kissed nose rose in the air until it tilted ever so slightly higher than proper for a servant.

  It was obvious to anyone with two eyes and capable of looking that Marta didn’t like Elspeth Frasier MacLeod one little bit. But the question was, why? Beth couldn’t think of a single thing she’d ever said or done to warrant the other woman’s disdain.

  She probed Elspeth’s memories once again, but came up with nothing.

  “Well, where do ye want it?” Marta hissed.

  Beth motioned to a small table set up against the wall. “There’s fine.”

  The other woman plopped the bucket down, sloshing water upon the table top, and turned to leave.

  “Just a moment, Marta.”

  The servant squared her shoulders, turned, and folded her arms across her chest. “Was there something else ye be needing…my lady? I’ve other duties ta be seeing ta, ye ken?”

  Beth cleared her throat. “Why do you dislike me so?”

  Marta laughed. “Why do ye care?”

  Beth shrugged. “I’d like to understand, I suppose.”

  Marta laughed again, though there was nothing humorous about the sound. It was almost a cackle, wild and on the outer fringes of sanity. “Ye have everything that should’ve already been mine but isna, yet.” She made a production of turning in a circle and encompassing the room. “But considering we stand in the middle of the nursery, I take it ye are well on ye way ta fulfilling ye promise ta the viscount at least?”

  Beth couldn’t have been more surprised i
f Marta had reached out and slapped her. “My promise to the viscount?”

  The other woman winked. “Don’t ye be worrying overmuch. I won’t give away ye little secret. I’m counting on ye ta give Quinton MacLeod his heir almost as much as Viscount Telford is. After all, once the little brat is born, Quinton will be disposed of and ye will be wed ta the viscount and well on ye way back ta England where ye belong. I’ll finally be Lady of Brochel, as I should’ve been long ago. Just as the viscount promised me I would be if I kept my eyes open for information he might find useful.”

  Beth pointed. “You? You’re the viscount’s spy?”

  Marta grinned. “Spy is such a treasonous term, do ye nae think? I prefer ta consider myself as being verra observant for a price.”

  “Bu—but why?” Beth sputtered. “What could Quinton MacLeod have possibly ever done to earn such disloyalty? He’s a good man, Marta. A good laird.”

  The other woman shook her head, and for a second, Beth saw a sheen of tears cloud Marta’s eyes. “Good man? Good laird? Quinton MacLeod is just as responsible for the death of my sister as that ugly, little, crippled spawn of hers. I hate him. I hate them both, and I want them dead. If he’d only allowed Mairi and Dougal ta wed when they’d first asked, everything would’ve been fine. I know it woulda. She wouldn’t have died birthing that thing. She would’ve had Dougal as a reason ta go on living. Quinton MacLeod would nae allow it, though. He wanted her for himself, and it did nae matter the cost.”

  Beth gulped. “Duncan’s mother was your sister? You’re his aunt?”

  Marta nodded. “We shared the same womb, the same face, the same voice, and even loved the same man. She was my twin sister and the only family I had left. Quinton, Dougal, and Duncan MacLeod took her away from me, and though Dougal is dead and buried, the other two still draw breath even though they have nae right.”

  The young woman closed her eyes, and Beth wasn’t sure that Marta was even talking to her anymore but simply releasing some of her pain. “I found Quinton upon the parapet that night,” she whispered. “He and Dougal were well inta their cups. I even offered ta take Mairi’s place and become his wife, so Mairi could be free ta wed Dougal. He laughed at me. Told me I’d make a piss poor substitute for Mairi, and Dougal agreed with him.” Marta took a deep breath. “I had nae choice, ye ken? Honor demanded I make them pay. And though I tried my best ta…” She shook her head. “It does nae matter what I tried. What does matter is, Quinton MacLeod did nae care enough ta even remember I was there come the next morning. It would’ve served him right if I had killed him.

  “And one of these nights, when Duncan is sound asleep before the kitchen fire, I’ll find a way ta make Mairi’s bastard son pay for his role in my sister’s death, too. And then, perhaps, Laird Quinton MacLeod will finally speak up and take responsibility as he should.”

  “You’d do that?” A shiver ran up Beth’s spine. “You’d stoop so low as to…to murder an innocent little boy who has never done or said an unkind thing to anyone?”

  Marta opened her eyes, and this time the gleam of insanity was a shining beacon of just plain scary. “Oh, aye, I’ve killed before when left with nae other choice and will again if need be. Especially if someone dares ta get in the way of what’s rightfully mine.” She grabbed Beth’s arm and twisted. “Ye won’t be telling anybody, though, now will ye? After all, we both have secrets we share, remember? Secrets we would nae want known.”

  With that, Marta spun on her heel and walked away.

  ****

  A trickle of sweat ran down her neck, itching as it went, but Beth was powerless to stop it or even reach up and wipe it away. Not only could she not control the functions of the body she now found herself in, but she couldn’t control its thoughts either.

  “Eat, you stupid spredith,” Elspeth’s mind screamed. “Eat every single bite and die.”

  Beth had fallen asleep, safe and sound, in her bed in Brochel castle and was undoubtedly dreaming, but she felt completely trapped within this old memory of the real Elspeth Frasier and had no idea how to get out. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to watch what she was afraid was coming. Yet she also couldn’t seem to look away.

  Why had she tried so hard to conjure up more of Elspeth’s memories on this night when she was so very alone, so very lonely, and so very confused? But then she already knew the answer to that question. It had been the strange conversation she had with Marta earlier in the day. What was the true connection between Elspeth and Lord Fredrick? And how exactly did Marta figure into the mix? She needed to know.

  Beth gazed out through Elspeth’s eyes. Over the last few months, she’d come to consider this body as hers, if only on loan, but she’d never before had the distinct impression she was sharing it with the ghost of its real owner, at least for this one night anyway.

  For one thing, she was back in Frasier castle, in the very same room she’d first awakened, and dinner was being served. A meal she definitely had no recollection of being present for. And unlike the previous times she sought out Elspeth’s memories, she was no longer on the outside looking in. Oh no, this time she was being granted the very distinct unpleasure of Lady Elspeth Frasier’s up close and personal brand of downright crazy.

  And she didn’t like it one bit.

  Lady Lydia sat to her left at the head of the table, and Marta, of all people, was ladling some kind of stew like substance onto Lydia’s trencher while two other servants placed food before Elspeth and the viscount.

  Shivers of excitement skittered along Elspeth’s spine as the smell of roasted meat mixed with gravy and vegetables had the woman’s mouth watering. She hesitated tasting the fare set before her, however, and looked directly at the viscount, waiting for his slight nod before dipping the tip of a single finger into the sauce and bringing it to her mouth.

  “Umm.” Elspeth grinned. “Lady Lydia, your cook has certainly outdone herself this evening.”

  The viscount made a production of spearing a large chunk of meat with his knife and quickly devouring it. “Yes, very tasty.”

  They both turned and simply stared at Lady Lydia.

  Beth wanted to scream. She knew without a doubt, the dish Marta had placed before Lady Lydia was poisoned. She could even remember the exact conversation when Elspeth and the viscount planned the murder.

  The union between Lady Lydia and Elspeth’s father had never produced an heir. And if by chance her stepmother died before the vows with the Scot were spoken on the marrow, then Elspeth would be free to marry the viscount instead. And together they could grant her deceased father’s crumbling castle on the Isle of Lewis to the king, and she and the viscount could return to England where people were civilized.

  But it all hinged on Lady Lydia eating her stew.

  After all, it would be so much simpler to kill off her stepmother than it would be to wed Quinton Macleod, pretend to like him long enough to give him an heir, and then kill him off in order to procure his lands and castle for the crown.

  Beth wanted to alert Lydia. Her mind screamed for her to do just that. But she couldn’t utter a single word, let alone shout a warning. Elspeth’s mind was too strong, and her tongue wasn’t the least bit inclined to obey anyone else’s commands.

  Beth was nothing more than a helpless onlooker in a nightmare she couldn’t escape or control, and she hated it.

  “More ale, girl,” Lord Fredrick bellowed.

  Marta made quick work of doing his bidding, and the look that passed between the two would’ve sent shivers along Beth’s spine if it hadn’t been Elspeth’s body she was in.

  The viscount lifted his goblet and smiled at his ward. “To your nuptials on the morrow, my dear.”

  Though Beth tried to prevent it from happening, Elspeth’s hand reached out and grasped her goblet, holding it high. “Indeed, my lord, to my nuptials.”

  Lady Lydia cleared her throat. “We really should wait for the groom ta arrive at the board before we begin our meal, don’t ye agree?
”

  Beth had never felt a glare from the inside out before, but she did now. Elspeth’s eyes literally burned with animosity toward her stepmother. “And why should we wait? If the MacLeod laird wished to be included in this pre-wedding supper, then he should’ve already been present.”

  She popped a morsel of meat into her mouth and chewed, then she smiled and gestured toward Lady Lydia. “Quinton MacLeod will arrive when Quinton Macleod arrives. You know the man only does as he wishes and in his own time. But as for you, dear, dear stepmother, please eat. You know I worry so for your health. With Father forever gone from us, you’re the only real family I have left.”

  The man they’d been speaking of walked into the room and pulled out the bench across from Elspeth. She didn’t spare him a glance. She was too busy watching Lady Lydia lift a bite of stew toward her mouth.

  Euphoria filled Elspeth’s mind to overflowing while Beth’s brain screamed a silent, “No!”

  Suddenly, the heavy table shifted, and Elspeth’s body toppled backwards. An excruciating pain slashed through her brain, and then there was quiet. She was all alone once more in Elspeth’s body, her dead, cold, empty shell of a body. Alone and trapped in the midst of a never ending nightmare.

  Beth screamed.

  “Shh, easy there, I’ve got ye, lass.”

  Her eyes flew open, and at first, Beth thought she must still be dreaming. Then the sight of Quinton’s handsome face came into focus, and the warmth of his arms enveloped her.

  “You’re home.” She sighed. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

  He kissed her, and the world once more righted itself.

  Chapter Ten

  Beth trembled in his arms, and Quint stroked her back. “Bad dream, my lady? Don’t fret, I’m here. Ye are safe.”

  She shook her head.

  He chuckled. “Ye can’t fool me, my Beth. What was ye night terror about, being forced ta endure idle hands with no work ta be found for them or a smudge of dirt on something somewhere ye could nae remove?”

  She shook her head again. “Really—” Her voice broke. “—there were no night terrors. I’m simply chilled.”