by Jessi Gage
“Oh, I hope Janine hasn’t been a handful,” Malina said, her tone anxious. Her stride quickened, and she tugged him toward the room that was Constance’s favorite for playing with Janine and her grandchildren when her elder sons visited with their wives.
Constance was on her hands and knees on the vibrantly-colored oriental carpet, crawling alongside their nine-month-old daughter amidst a scatter of wooden toys.
The bairn squealed upon seeing her mother and opened and closed her chubby hands until Malina swept her up. The bonny lass had lips as lovely and pouty as her mother’s, and flopping silvery-fair hair. Her eyes were the only thing she seemed to have gotten from the man his wife referred to as “the sperm donor.” They were soft brown, and he could almost imagine the color had come from him instead of someone else.
Constance was not alone with Janine.
“Aodhan,” he greeted as Malina cooed to their daughter. His tone was just as surprised as the last time they’d met unexpectedly at Skibo, but far less wary.
“Darcy,” the war chieftain said with a nod of respect. “’Tis good to see ye, lad. Melanie, ye look well. I’ve met your bairn already. A fine wee lass she is, and lovely as her namesake.”
He warmed at the acknowledgement of his mother as well as at the friendly words from a Keith he admired so well. But caution held that warmth in check. “What brings ye to Dornoch? Are Edmund and my uncle well?”
Constance mentioned some chore that needed seeing to in the kitchen and asked Malina for her help. The women left, Malina with Janine on her hip and a concerned slant to her brows.
Aodhan watched them go, then cleared his throat. “Aye, your brother and uncle fare well. Verra well, in fact. They both have new bairns.”
His heart leapt to hear Edmund and Fran had a new wee ane. Then it occurred to him that Aodhan had said both. He turned stunned eyes to the blushing war chieftain.
“Ye heard me right, lad. I am a grandsire. And ye have a cousin at last.”
* * * *
“You’re certain they’re to come this way?” Anya peered through a scrawny bush to the narrow road below. Winding along the lichen-covered, ocean-side cliffs by Brora, this road was not only the shorter of the two a traveler might choose to go from Dornoch to Ackergill, but wide enough for a cart the whole way, and thus the more likely choice for the caravan she was hoping to intercept.
“Aye, An,” Glen grumbled. “Cease your fashin’. I didna risk my neck to spy for you these months to let ye down now. They’ll be leavin’ this morn’ and passin’ by this way soon. But ’tis early yet.” He pulled her back from the lookout and flipped her beneath him before wiggling his hips between her skirted legs. “There’s time for another tup,” he said with a grin.
’Twas with a great effort she kept from rolling her eyes. For months, she’d been meeting the cocky guard in secret and trading her body for news from the keep. Glen wasn’t her first choice in allies, but her selfish sister had left her no choice. Some time before she’d fled to Thurson, Seona had abandoned her post at the bawdyhouse. It was rumored she’d run off with a customer without leaving word as to where she’d gone, or when or if she’d ever be back. Since Glen was the only man from Ackergill who regularly visited the bawdyhouse, he was the only one left whom she could rely on for information. At least the randy bastard had proven useful. ’Twas because of him she kent Steafan’s wife had borne him a son and Steafan had invited Big Darcy and his wife back to Ackergill.
She had seethed with rage upon hearing the news. Her laird could forgive a witch for tampering with evil and his nephew for rebellion and murder, but he couldn’t forgive a fair lass such as she for giving him her heart and desiring to serve him as wife. Nay, he hadn’t even been given a chance to forgive her, since Aodhan had never revealed her part with the rose oil. And, much to her indignation, Steafan had never even asked where she’d gone, at least according to Glen. For all she kent, the man was deceiving her to keep her dependent on him.
He noisily licked her ear as he shoved up her skirts, and she had all she could do to not grind her teeth. Granted, Glen was better at tupping than most of the men she saw at the bawdyhouse, where she’d taken on Seona’s duties in her stead, but he was a callous, wily bastard who she trusted as far as she could toss a caber, and he always had been. Glen had been the one to deflower her after Darcy had refused her, and he’d done it in a most unforgettable–and unforgivable–way. For her fifteen-year old self, the afternoon had been pure magic, until the lads Glen had arranged to hide in his parents’ loft boomed a chorus of cheers at Glen’s finish. She had paid him back, of course, by slipping a triple dose of bowel-loosener into his flask the day of his first skirmish as a warrior for Ackergill, but pay-back, no matter how satisfactory, did not equal forgiveness. Now, her life lay in ruin, and Glen was her only hope to begin setting it to rights.
’Twas all the fault of Big Darcy’s wife. She was the one to warn Ginneleah of the quinine. She was the one who would pay most dearly for ruining her dreams. Even though Seona had abandoned her without a word, leaving her to plot revenge all alone, she was sure her plan was sound and that the trollop would suffer dearly. The thought was enough to coax her body into taking a bit of pleasure from Glen as he sated himself on her, again.
After he finished, she busied herself applying the disguise he had helped her acquire.
“Ye look like my grandam,” he said with a chuckle when she turned to show him the results.
He lay atop his plaid on his back with his hands clasped behind his head, flaunting his brawny arms and barrel chest. He wasn’t a bad looking man if a lass didn’t mind acres of thick hair everywhere but on his face, which was as smooth as a bairn’s behind. She preferred a man to boast his vitality with a hearty beard and no’ to shave his most masculine feature clean off, and she’d told Glen so often enough that she suspected he shaved twice in a day merely to annoy her.
“Are ye so complimentary wi’ all the lasses?” she asked, noticing how the mask distorted her speech. ’Twas made of beeswax and stuck to her cheeks and forehead with tallow. If she moved her face too much, she risked popping it loose.
“Only with you, An. Only with you.” He winked, counting his charm worth far more than it was in truth.
“Well, lookin’ auld is the goal, so I thank ye.” She sketched a mocking bow.
Glen sat up on his plaid and pulled his shirt on over his head. He tugged her to stand between his spread knees. She let him because she wasn’t quite through with his help just yet. “But ye dinna sound auld,” he said as he scrutinized her. “And the mask willna fool aught but a blind man upon close inspection. I say it again, ye risk too much for your vengeance.”
“Nonsense.” She’d planned this encounter perfectly. Besides, Glen had no right to fash over her. At his raised eyebrow, she said, “I’ll pull my plaid up as a hood to shadow my face, and I’ll alter my voice. Not even Aodhan shall suspect I am aught other than an auld villager selling spring apples.”
Glen shook his head, clearly lacking even the barest hint of faith in her. “Och, I fear ye are more confident than is wise,” he muttered as he crouched to fold his plaid.
As if Glen had any experience with wisdom.
Once fully dressed, he strapped on the small armory of weapons he liked to carry. While he did so, he looked her up and down as though considering her in a new way. He stroked his barely-shadowed chin in thought and then nodded as though he’d decided somat.
“I shall make ye an offer. If ye forget this foolishness and leave wi’ me now, I shall take ye to Torroble, where my cousin has settled with his wife’s people. There I shall suffer to take ye to wife. Ye’ll be a faithful wife, mind, and ye’ll stop wi’ the oils that keep ye from catchin’ a bairn. If I find ye makin’ a cuckold o’ me, I’ll truss ye up and bring ye back to Aodhan myself. But so long as ye do right by me, I shall do right by you, and ye can forget about that flea-infested bawdyhouse.”
She scoffed. Glen might as well have
shoved table scraps at her like a master to his mangy pup. “Och, ye make a lass blush with your honeyed speech, Glen. How can I possibly refuse such a gallant proposal?”
“Ye best no’,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. He crowded her in a move that might intimidate a woman who didn’t ken all the places he was ticklish. “Because I willna make the offer again, and ’tis a better one than a whore in her twenty-fifth year is likely to get again.”
She let her hand fly. It connected sharply with Glen’s cheek.
His eyes blazed with a moment’s anger and then he shrugged one shoulder. “So be it. I shall help ye no further. Ye are a destructive woman who doesna even recognize how deserving of pity she is.” He began saddling his horse.
“Ye canna leave now! Ye agreed to escort me back to Thurson!”
“An auld woman such as you shouldna attract trouble on the road,” he goaded with a smirk as he mounted.
“Ye bloody bastard!” she called after him as he rode off. “Ye coward!”
“Come with me, An,” he called back. “Last chance.”
“Go to hell, ye…ye deserter! Ye ungrateful cur!”
“’Tis not me who is bound for hell’s fires.”
Shaking with indignation, she stuffed her few supplies into the saddlebag and wrapped her lady’s plaid about her shoulders in the way that made a large hood for covering her head. “I dinna need him,” she hissed as she saddled her borrowed mare with jerky movements that agitated the beast.
After several moments’ indulgence in her rage, she willed her hands to uncurl. The horse she could afford to agitate, but not her unawares passenger. Carefully, very carefully, she lifted the crate that held the key to her vengeance and tied it behind her saddle. Inside the crate was a bag of rare spring apples she’d spent a full week’s pay to acquire and at the bottom of the bag was the thing she’d purchased from a turbaned man in Inverness: a viper of one of the most poisonous varieties on God’s green Earth, deep in a digestive sleep and due to wake by nightfall.
* * * *
Darcy loved the briny scent of the ocean. ’Twas with great joy he turned the cart onto the seaside road that would bring them through the village of Brora. In fact, ’twas with great joy he did everything since Aodhan had delivered the news that Steafan had invited him and Malina home and promised they would face no consequences for their “unfortunate misunderstanding.”
The war chieftain rode ahead on his gray warhorse, and Malina sat beside him on the driver’s bench with wee Janine bouncing happily on her lap. The few possessions they’d acquired in their year at Dornoch filled the cart he had bought for the journey. ’Twas mostly gowns for Malina, dresses for Janine, and supplies they’d collected as the Lady Constance imparted the ways of a wife in this time.
Already, she could spin yarn, sew clothes for Janine, and cook delicious meals from the most basic of ingredients compared to the offerings of a “grocery store.” He fondly remembered the laughter they’d shared over her early attempts at each of those tasks.
“I am fair proud of ye, lass,” he said, nudging her elbow with his.
“For what?” She turned her bonny face to him, her eyes wide with curiosity and bright with happiness. He’d feared she would regret leaving Dornoch, but she’d bounded into his arms with a delighted squeal when he’d told her of Steafan’s change of heart. And for the days they’d been packing and saying their goodbyes, she’d chattered without ceasing about her plans for Fraineach.
“For being who ye are,” he said. “For being mine.” He wanted to pay her a dozen compliments, but noticed Aodhan drawing his mount to a halt to speak with a bent auld woman standing in the road. He slowed the cart horse and stopped just behind Aodhan.
“…but mayhap my companions would like some,” he was saying.
The auld woman turned in their direction, all but the tip of her hooked nose hidden beneath her hood. “Apples,” she mumbled in a voice dusty with age and disuse. “Spring apples, ripe and ready for baking. Treat for your lady, sir? Just a half groat for a bag.”
He suspiciously eyed the bag she held out with a filthy, trembling hand. It being only the first of June, he worrit the spring apples would be too green to be of worth. But if they were truly ripe, he’d happily buy the treat for his wife. “Let me see the fruit,” he said, leaning over the arm of the bench.
“Ooh, I could make a pie to share with Fran and Edmund,” Malina murmured as she tried to peer around him.
The auld woman loosed the tie on the bag, her dirty fingers shaking to make her clumsy at the task. Finally, she pulled the bag open and he bent close to look inside. Though a touch of green remained, the apples were mostly red and yellow. He fingered out a half groat from his sporran, and didn’t bother to haggle with the poor woman, who likely needed the coin far more than he.
“Thank ye, sir,” she said as she took the coin.
He curled his fingers in the rough fabric of the bag.
Malina put Janine on his lap and reached for it while Janine let loose a gurgling laugh and clapped her hands.
The auld woman tried to pull the bag back, but he didn’t relax his grip. “Ye canna change your mind now that I’ve paid ye,” he quipped, giving the woman a smile, but she didn’t tilt her face up to see it.
Seemingly reluctantly, she released the bag and the significant weight of it surprised him. Mayhap he’d gotten a bargain for such a weight of rare spring apples. He let Malina snatch it from him and peer inside. Her exclamations over the fruit made him preen.
“Look, baby girl,” she cooed to Janine. “Apples for Mommy! I can make you some nummy apple sauce and a pie for daddy!”
When he went to thank the auld woman, he found her already hurrying away without looking back. He shrugged and nodded to Aodhan, who urged his horse onward. He slapped the reins, thinking vaguely that the woman smelled strange. For her tattered cloak and threadbare plaid, she ought to have smelled of dirt and decay, but what had pricked his nose instead had been the feminine fragrance of roses.
Chapter 24
Never in her former life would Melanie have imagined a burlap bag of apples in early June would make her nearly weep with joy. Gone were the days of simply driving to the store and picking up a perfectly-ripened pint of strawberries or a juicy honeydew melon or a slightly-green bunch of bananas regardless of the season. She still missed that kind of convenience, but what she’d traded it for was well worth it.
That night in her office back at the museum, she’d made a tongue-in-cheek wish for a sexy Highlander to sweep her off her feet. She’d gotten her wish and then some. She’d gotten a treasured friend, a passionate lover, and best of all, a wonderful father to her child–their child.
She had her heart’s desire. Everything was perfect.
Except she hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to her parents. If she could have changed just one thing and left everything else the same, it would have been that. She wished she could tell them she was happy, that she missed them and loved them so much her heart ached when thoughts of them snuck up on her. She wanted to tell her mom how much she loved being a mom herself, tell her that having a baby without an epidural had been the worst kind of torture but the moment Janine had been placed in her arms, she’d forgotten the pain. She wanted to tell her dad that she’d married a good man, a man just as responsible and loving as he.
Breathing the moist, salty air deep into her lungs, she leaned on Darcy’s arm and stroked Janine’s baby-fine hair as she took her afternoon nap in her arms. White-gray cliffs rose to their left, and to their right, the ocean stretched pewter and choppy into the mist. Brora lay about an hour’s easy pace behind them. While she gazed out over the North Sea, Darcy tried to sneak an apple from the bag at her feet.
“Oh, no you don’t,” she said with a swat. “I’ve got big plans for those apples.”
He pulled his hand back as if stung. “Mayhap, but I’m the one who bought them for you,” he answered with a smirk. “I only seek my fair share.” Ho
oking a long foot around the bag, he inched it toward his side of the foot well.
She hooked her foot around his ankle, impeding his attempted thievery. They grinned at each other as they played their high-stakes game of footsie.
Suddenly, he jerked his leg away. “Christ! Get away with ye!” He grabbed her shoulder and pushed her away from him until she clenched the rail to keep from tumbling out of the cart with Janine.
“Jeez, Darcy. If you want one that bad–”
His face turned red as a beet before her eyes. With jerky movements and labored breaths, he grabbed the sack of apples and threw it out of the cart.
The fruit pattered onto the road and rolled in every direction. The burlap thrashed, seemingly of its own accord. Then a huge brown snake slithered out and disappeared into the roadside bracken.
Darcy tried to call for Aodhan, but his hands went to his throat, the reins forgotten. Froth formed at the corners of his mouth.
A wave of horror doused her as a scream built behind her sternum. “Aodhan! Snake! Help! I think Darcy’s been bitten!”
She set Janine behind her in the cart and caught him as he swayed. Struggling with the weight of his limp torso, she laid him along the bench and yanked the horse to a stop.
“Calf,” he choked out, spittle flying.
She followed his panicked gaze and ripped the loosely-tied boot from his foot. It took all the strength in her fingers, since his foot had already swelled until the skin was tight and painful looking. Blood trickled from a pair of puncture wounds several inches above his ankle.
“Oh, God, Darcy!” Her heart pounded. She clutched uselessly at his kilt, and looked desperately at his face only to find his handsome features disappearing behind the puffy evidence of poison coursing through his veins. His wild eyes darted to Aodhan as he jumped up into the cart.
