Beth paced the room, trying to decide how best to answer. She knew exactly what had happened in her lifetime, but that was a period of history before Quinton MacLeod had an heir on the way, changing the stakes, and that was a time before Elspeth Frasier Macleod had failed to die as she once had. Had history changed? And if so, what to tell Quint?
She stopped right before him, knelt, and took his hand. “I understand your concern for our people. Really, I do. But I can’t be one hundred percent positive what will happen to King Charles now. In my time, he was beheaded in either 1649 or 1650 by Oliver Cromwell and his followers. I can’t remember which year for certain. And yes, parliament overthrows the royalists. But that was before we changed history, Quint.” She rubbed her belly with her free hand. “That was before this child was created.”
Quint rose abruptly to stand and pace. “Forty-nine or fifty is only a few years away. Our child will still be a young lad. His existence shouldn’t have any effect on the king’s fate.”
Beth shook her head. “No, not on the king’s fate, but perhaps on the future of Brochel. The viscount will be determined to procure this castle and lands for Charles once this child is born. It is his mission.”
Quint got that same stubborn look on his face she’d seen so many times before. The eyes-narrowed, lips-pursed expression that Beth had come to realize meant hell would freeze over before he’d allow anything or anyone to threaten what was his. “He’ll nae take Brochel. Nae as long as I draw breath.”
Beth nodded. “That’s what scares me the most about all of this, Quint. I know you’d die for Brochel, and I know you’d willingly exchange your life for the lowliest of your people. But then, what’s to become of your son? Who will see to his welfare if you aren’t here?”
Quint stopped pacing, stood right in front of her, and took both her hands into his. “I do nae plan on dying and leaving ye, my Beth. But if it should happen, ye’ll be here ta safeguard our lad, ta tell him of the father who loved him, ta watch him grow into a man.”
For a moment, her breath left her body. Just the thought of a world without Quinton MacLeod in it was too horrible to contemplate. “No, you must live.” She sobbed. “You must raise your son. Promise me you will.”
She turned away from Quint and crossed to the other side of the room. How could she explain to the man she’d come to desperately love that she herself meant to betray him even more than Elspeth Frasier had ever hoped to? How could she tell him she meant to leave him the moment his son was born? And not simply walk away into her happily-ever-after afterlife, but leave him all alone here on this cold, cruel earth in the year 1643 and in the middle of the fight of his life?
His arms were warm and comforting as he wrapped them around her. “I will nae promise ye something I do nae know for sure. Ye are the one who claims to know the future, lass, not I. What I will promise ye, though, is ta try my verra best ta remain at ye side until God calls me ta him. And I expect the same from ye. Do nae ever leave me, my Beth. My life would nae be worth living without ye in it.”
Beth gulped as her heart ripped in two.
Part of her wanted desperately to stay in this past with Quinton and the child he and Elspeth had made, but an even greater part of her heart screamed no, she couldn’t, she didn’t dare. Ben and Brian were waiting for her. They had been for ever so long. They deserved to hear the words she’d failed to say to them the day they died. They deserved to have their mother back. They deserved an explanation, and she meant to give them one. She intended to finally give them all peace. Even if delivering that explanation in person meant losing Quint, his son, Brochel, and all the people she’d come to care for.
Instead of making the promise Quint longed to hear, Beth cupped his chin, drew up on her tiptoes, and gently kissed his lips. “What will be, will be,” she whispered. It was the best she had to offer.
Quint didn’t seem to recognize her discomfort, however. He simply nodded. “Aye, ye have the right of it, lass. What will be, will be.”
He turned to leave and then back toward her once more. “I’ll be going whaling on the morrow.” He held up a hand. “Aye, I ken ye opinion on the matter. We’ve discussed it ta death. But with the threat Telford may verra well be upon our shores shortly, we must gather provisions. People need ta eat, my Beth. They need light and warmth. I cannae take the chance of not being prepared for a siege. Ye do ken that, aye? The sea provides for us. It always has, and it always will.”
He did know well her opinion of the practice of whaling. And he was right. They had discussed its benefits, its disadvantages, and its dangers ad nauseam. Living in Alaska in the twenty-first century and being a history teacher to boot had brought her much closer to the subject of whaling than she’d ever hoped to be.
In Alaska, whaling was a way of life and had been for centuries. Entire communities counted on the bounty. If not for the whaling and salmon industries, people would go without food, without clothing, and without shelter. But at the same time, she couldn’t wrap her mind around the devastation to the species the practice would one day cause.
She’d been born and raised a PETA generation baby, and there were some things, even being transported back in time by four hundred years couldn’t change.
At least in Alaska, in Bethany Ann Anderson’s time, laws had been passed to protect the whales, and a number of yearly catches had been established in order not to hunt the various species into extinction. But in 1643 Scotland, there were no safeguards in place yet, and though Quint and his people certainly didn’t seem reckless or greedy, they’d already gotten one whale this year.
Beth opened her mouth to protest, but he again raised a hand for silence, and there was something in his eyes, something that prevented her from saying any of the things on the tip of her tongue. Was it sorrow perhaps, guilt, defeat?
She wasn’t sure. So she clamped her mouth shut, willing to at least hear him out before her own conscience made him feel bad for seeing to the welfare of his people. For looking out for the residents of Brochel even to the detriment of himself had always been first and foremost in Quinton’s heart. It was one of the reasons she loved him so much.
“I’ll not just be whaling. I mean ta bring home cod, seal, and otter, too.” He smiled, as if hunting the other creatures of the sea would somehow make up for the whaling part.
But he looked so sincere. And even in Alaska, in the twenty-first century, two whales a year were allowed. And it wasn’t as if the whales he would be hunting tomorrow were the really big, endangered kind. They weren’t bowheads, humpbacks, grays, and orcas, after all.
The waters around Raasay sported what would someday be known as the minke whale. They were probably the most abundant species of whale even in her day. Though only twenty to thirty feet in length and weighing approximately five tons, they were still a very abundant source of meat, oil, hide, and baleen. Most of the things the people of Brochel relied upon daily to survive.
So instead of complaining or once more giving her opinion as she really wanted to, Beth simply smiled back. “I only meant to wish you safe travels, husband, and fair winds and calm seas.” She patted her tummy. “And hurry back to us. We’ll be here, waiting for your return.”
Chapter Fourteen
November 1643
Quint had always loved the sea. Even as lads, he and Dougal couldn’t wait for whaling season to begin and with it the opportunity to board his father’s ship and be counted among the men.
And though Dougal could no longer be here ta feel the cold, salty mist wetting his face, fight ta keep his balance during the riding of a turbulent sea, or race him ta the top mast like they used ta do, his son Duncan could. It was the only legacy left from his father that Quint could give him. The right of every MacLeod man ta take care of his own from the bounty the sea had to offer.
He watched the lad work the ropes as every other MacLeod before him had done, and he thought of Beth. How did one explain the sea was nae a thing ta be feared, but more a proud
calling, a destiny so ta speak, in the verra blood of his people? More than simply a source of food, bounty, or adventure, the waters surrounding the Isle of Raasay were more a religion than anything else. They gave and they took away, like the good Lord Himself did. They sheltered, they fed, and in the end, if necessary, they even buried their own.
It hadn’t been enough that his pregnant little wife refused to understand the importance of the sea and his need ta take Duncan with him, but she’d even tried her best ta make him feel guilty about catching ta many fish. As if that were possible.
The lass simply didn’t understand. Ye didn’t take anything from the sea. The sea gave what it wished ta give ye and nae else.
And right now, the sea was being a verra greedy mistress. Though over the last four days, she’d blessed them with an abundance of cod, salmon, otters, and seal, not one single whale had been sighted let alone pursued. It was as if the sea itself were taking Beth’s side over his and punishing him for defying his little wife and taking Duncan against her wishes.
After all, the only thing she’d asked, well demanded, really, was he leave Duncan behind with her. He’d tried for hours to explain why he should take the lad, but on that point she’d adamantly refused ta budge or see reason. They’d parted still angry with each other, a fact that ate at Quint’s soul.
Not that his Beth had cared one whit about him taking any of the other MacLeod males along with him. On the contrary, she seemed more than happy ta be rid of the lot of them and the mess they brought inta her castle. Oh no, she hadn’t cared enough about any of them ta keep him awake all night ranting and raving. It had been only his taking of Duncan she’d objected to vehemently.
Quint sighed. Why hadn’t he simply given in to her this once? After all, she was getting quite large with his child and as emotional as most women carrying tended ta be. What would it have hurt?
He chuckled as he remembered exactly why the stubborn little chit hadn’t gotten her way.
His wife, his Beth, had actually stomped her delicate little foot, as if the limestone beneath it wouldn’t dare ta not shake with her wrath. She’d fisted both her hands upon her hips and glared at him when he first tried ta inform her Duncan would nae be present for their daily lessons for a while. She’d had the audacity ta tell him no, as if she were laird instead of him. She’d looked so adorable in her rage, kissable, and if he hadn’t been afraid she’d bite him if he’d tried, he would’ve.
It wasn’t as if any of her dictates had made a bit of a difference in the end anyway, because they hadn’t. He’d still taken the lad with him as he planned. After all, it was important Duncan learned what it meant ta provide for the needs of the people of Brochel. Especially if he was someday expected ta become steward as Beth wished.
Didn’t the lass realize there was more ta running a keep than what could be learned within the pages of a book? And were lads so coddled in the time she’d come from that she couldn’t see her fears, her verra kindness, kept Duncan more a cripple than his foot ever could?
Though he’d not be the one telling her that.
What had really happened in the four hundred years between his time and hers? Not that he truly believed every single word she said about that either, because he didn’t.
Men could nae possibly ride around on moving carts without horses, and there was no way anyone would ever be able ta cook food without first starting a fire. Let alone talk right ta each other while nae even being in the same keep. Or fly ta the moon or fly anywhere as far as that mattered. Had future man somehow sprouted wings? He thought not.
Still, he’d listened to every word, wanting only ta hear more. If his Beth was telling half-truths at most and making up the rest, her stories still made her the best seanchaidh in all Scotland ta have ever spun a tale.
But then maybe he enjoyed her stories so much because he really wanted all of it to be true. Maybe he wanted ta believe that someday Scotland and England really could come to live in peace, and that the MacLeod name, even four hundred years from now, did still Hold Fast and stand for something.
Either way, the lass had certainly burrowed deep under his skin and straight into his heart. She was his first thought in the morning and his last thought at night. And if she were really that concerned about Duncan’s welfare, he’d keep an extra vigilant eye on the lad. He’d even make sure they only took as many damn fish as they needed ta survive a siege and not a single one more.
He shook his head and smiled. It must really be love he felt for his little Beth, because what else could occupy a man’s mind so completely, and at the same time, drive him stark raving mad?
“There she blows,” a deck hand shouted.
Quinton grabbed his harpoon and headed across the deck. So the sea obviously wasn’t as angry with him as he’d feared. And it was time ta show her the respect she deserved for the bounty she was about ta provide.
He grinned again. There’d be blubber a-boiling in the vat come the morrow.
****
It was everywhere, the oil, that is.
It was in her nose, her ears, her hair, her eyes, and had even seeped deep into every pore of her skin. Not to mention, the smelly substance coated every single surface of every single table, chair, and the floor itself of the room she stood in.
Beth cringed as she wiped her oily hands upon her oily apron.
No matter how much oil covered everything, the large copper cauldron in the middle of the big processing shed still boiled on and on and on as the raw blubber was rendered into yet more of the odious whale oil.
It didn’t matter in the least to her that the oil would provide hours of much needed light come winter or that the MacLeod men, and especially, Quint had spent five full days and nights watching and waiting, capturing and working their fingers to the bone to bring back what the sea had gifted to their people. Oh, no. The only thing that mattered to Beth, that occupied her mind, was the need for a long hot bath she wasn’t going to get and didn’t have the time to take even if it was offered.
She sighed and felt guilty. She should be grateful they’d returned with such an abundance, but she simply couldn’t be. Whale processing was disgusting, all of it. For at least the tenth time in the past hour, she wished desperately for a twenty-first century grocery store where she could hop into her car and go pick up a few packages of light bulbs and a couple dozen candles instead of dealing with one more drop of disgusting whale oil.
God, how it stank, and if she didn’t get out of this room soon, she was going to lose what little food she’d managed to keep down since starting the harvesting process first thing this morning.
Beth shuddered.
Not that she didn’t like seafood, because she always had. But her problem today was that, in her present condition, the sight and the smell of so much raw fish in so many different forms and in such a confining place was more than a little overwhelming.
On one table alone sat huge slabs of whale meat right next to filets of cod, chunks of otter, and large deep-sea salmon with their heads still intact. Their cold, dead eyes stared up at her accusingly, as if she’d been the one to pull them up from their deep-sea home and to toss them willy-nilly upon the deck to flop around until eventually suffocating.
The memory of twenty-first century grocery stores once more flittered through her mind with their neat, clean aisles and shelves stocked with whatever food stuff one could dream of wanting. A place where all forms of seafood were packaged neatly under tight layers of see-though plastic wrap or easy open cans and pouches. One had no need whatsoever to even contemplate where it had all come from and what it had taken to process it. It was simply there to be placed into one’s shopping cart, paid for with plastic, and taken home to be consumed.
Though rife with many other problems like disease, hunger, war, and plain old-fashioned cruelty, the twenty-first century had certainly become very civilized as far as food packaging went. Not once in her many years of walking up and down grocery store aisles had the
re been a single sight of bloody entrails on display when she arrived at the meat and seafood section, let alone bits of gore upon the floors, barrels of fermenting guts sitting around and spilling onto the floor, or anything else unpleasant to the eye and nose. And the local deli sure as hell hadn’t been covered with stinky whale oil.
She made the mistake of glancing back at the gut barrels and gagged once more as a big yellow-striped cat sat licking his bloody paw. Though she truly didn’t want to, she found herself both grossed out and mesmerized by the sight.
And though she completely agreed there should be as little waste as possible, the thought of what the inside of those particular containers would smell like come spring when their contents would be mixed into the compost used to fertilize the vegetable gardens and fields had bile rising. She ran for the door.
She wanted to help with the processing. Really, she did. After all, as lady of the keep, it was her responsibility to make an accounting of all food stores. But today, she simply couldn’t stand one more minute in this place.
Beth hadn’t taken more than three steps outside the door of the shed before she was reminded of her duty.
“What good is a lady of the keep who cannae complete the most basic of tasks.” Marta’s lip curled with malice. “Perhaps our laird should be looking for a more sturdy wife. One who isna so delicate he fears he’ll break her while plunging deep inta her cunny with his fine cock.”
Beth glared at Marta, then smiled. She wasn’t in the mood to let the other woman see weakness on her part today. “I haven’t heard any complaints from Quint concerning my sturdiness as the lady of this keep or in his bed either. As a matter of fact, from the smile on his face this very morning, I’d say he’s quite content. But if by chance, in the future, he does voice any such fears, I’ll be sure to pass yours along also.”
Time For A Highlander (Real Men Wear Kilts) Page 16
