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Original Fiction:

Southeast Kansas Gothic

I hope he could see the weather changing, at least. I hope they’ve bunked down with the tenants. I mean, it wouldn’t solve anything for him to get himself frozen to death out on the hills.

The men had left three days before. They’d taken some oats, after all, even if it was only a token amount. More barley, and enough potatoes to spill over into another wagon.

“Tell them to eat the skins,” Leah reminded Dougal, pulling her plaid tighter against the wind. “Wash them well, but eat the skins.” She heard a distinctly Angus-like scoff from the other side of the wagons.

“And keep your kerchief wrapped tight,” she added. “You can’t snarl at everyone if you’re hoarse.” He probably could, actually. Maybe even better. But still.

Dougal’s eyebrows lowered as he turned to her. “Get ye back into the keep,” he said, gruff and low, “and quit havering ower me. You’re the one who can’t stand a cold wind.”

He was right about that, so she’d gone to the kitchens to stand by the doorway and get the worst of both words – steaming heat from the pots on the hearth and a driving wind just outside that promised snow or ice or both. But the almanack had said they had some time before the roads were impassable, so off they went into the west.

And maybe the sleet wouldn’t last long. Maybe they were almost back. There were a dozen of them, anyway; they could all pile up and keep each other warm, if they had to. And Dougal said they’d stop near Aultguish on the way out; they could do the same on the return.

She kept heating the granite he’d brought in, and slipping it down by her feet every night. It wasn’t warm enough.

He’s a goddamned furnace, and you’re going to hate it when summer comes, she told herself, without much believing it.

Her attention turned back to the drawing room when Eleanor sighed, her embroidery frame drooping in her hand as she looked out the window like she could see spring already.

“If it stops by morning, we can take a walk around the gardens,” Leah offered. “Maybe down to the village, if it warms up.”

Eleanor made a noncommittal hum and turned her attention back to her stitches. Well, no she didn’t – she turned her eyes back to the embroidery, but her mind was still clearly elsewhere. On William, Lady Tulloch’s youngest, maybe? Or still on the steward’s apprentice? Or on how much she didn’t want to be cooped up in a castle that most of her friends wouldn’t even visit, in weather like this?

Maybe on the moral complexities of Hume; I don’t know. She contains multitudes, probably.

But something had been eating at Eleanor even before the cold snap, her mood turning as sullen and suspicious as she’d been before the wedding, and Leah couldn’t put a finger on why.

A squabble with a friend, maybe. Laoghaire’s had a vibe about her lately, like she knows something about someone; that’d drive Eleanor right up the wall. Leah watched her from under her lashes. That could be it, actually; she’d been sticking to Margaret more than usual, even coming to the drawing room without Leah’s express invitation, and Leah’d wondered if the girls had gotten closer as everything settled down.

Maybe both? Multitudes, babe.

She tied off a sadly lopsided D and snipped the thread. “What’s Christmas usually like with your family?” she asked, hoping to draw out one, or both, of them.

Margaret bit, at least; out of the corner of her eye Leah could see Eleanor tense. “It’s quieter than Hogmanay. Father Bain will come to bless the animals on Christmas Eve, then we’ll have mass in the morning and then a little celebration at midday.” She paused, eyes softening. “When we were at home, we’d have dried apples and nuts. Even those bad winters, Mother found a way to save them for us.”

Leah smiled gently. “It sounds lovely. Her little treat for you.”

Eleanor’s hand tightened on her embroidery frame as she glanced up, her expression guarded. “It was Mother’s tradition,” she said, sharper than Leah had heard from her in a while.

Margaret made another stitch or two. “She’d save hazelnuts,” she offered, keeping an eye on Eleanor. “Walnuts, if she could get them.”

Dougal could have brought them to her, Leah thought, nodding at Margaret. I think Beannachd is too far from a real town for her to find them easily, but he could. Sugared, even. I wonder if he ever did . . .

“It sounds like your mother made wonderful memories for you,” she said softly, glancing at Eleanor, who’d gone back to staring at the window. “Maybe this year we can do something different. Make a new tradition.”

Eleanor’s fingers clenched around the fabric in her lap for just a second before she dropped her gaze again, returning to her needlework.

Margaret glanced at her sister, then at Leah. “How do ye mark it?” she asked, steady and polite and . . . somehow not quite Margaret. Well, if Eleanor was in a snit about something, maybe it was spilling over onto her sister.

“We used to visit my grandparents, when I was small,” Leah offered. Not a huge journey; they’d only lived down the road and the girls were there almost every day, anyway. But they’d walked when the weather was good, looking for a good luck sign in the red of a cardinal’s wing against the snow.

Not much snow, lately, Leah thought. At least it might be a white Christmas here. If it stops icing down long enough. “They had the biggest house,” she went on, “so the whole family would come there, all my grandmother’s brothers and their families.”

All gone, now.

Or never were.

“A big family, then?” Margaret asked, eyes on her sewing.

“Oh my god, yes,” Leah huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “She had four brothers, and they all had big families, and their families had big families. And they’d spill over into every room, so I used to hide in the hayloft when it got too much,” she confessed. And under the groaning table they used as buffet, more than once, the better to snatch a piece of fudge before she disappeared again.

Plus it was warmer than the barn, and had better lighting to read by, even through the tablecloth.

I wonder what it would take to make fudge here . . .

“Why’d ye come here, then, if it was so grand?” Eleanor stared hard at the cloth she was working on, sadly crinkled around the edges now.

I wanted to see if I could survive without grocery delivery and a multi-step skincare routine. The fuck kind of question? But it was a question, at least; Eleanor was sort of trying again.

“I wanted to see where my people came from,” Leah said slowly, wondering what a highland girl would think of women traveling for their own enjoyment. Maybe Eleanor dreamed of adventures of her own. Maybe she only wanted the dreams.

You should have kept them in dreams.

“Do they no’ want ye back?” Eleanor asked, too smoothly, trying too hard to pretend she wasn’t watching Leah’s reaction.

Margaret’s little gasp was just loud enough to hide any sound Leah might have made, and drew Eleanor’s scowling attention just long enough for Leah to bite her lip, hard, and hold her face still.

“They’re gone,” she said shortly, tried to take another stitch and found she couldn’t see, and stood abruptly. “Excuse me, ladies.”

She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, hands pressed hard to her mouth. There was no reason to be hiding behind the dressing-screen, but she’d tucked herself back there anyway, perched uncomfortably on the stool to cry in as much privacy as she could get.

Screaming was out. The castle walls were thick, but probably not enough to muffle everything that wanted to spill out of her.

Got too comfortable, didn’t you? she mocked herself. Should have run the day he left, told everyone you were sick then and snuck out.

And gotten stuck when the rain turned to ice?

Better than being stuck here.

It was some self-pitying nonsense, and she knew it. But she had gotten comfortable, with Dougal, with the girls, with everything at Leoch. She thought they’d turned a corner, and try as she might she couldn’t see what had gone wrong – if she’d overstepped somehow or what had crawled up Eleanor’s ass and died, or anything else.

She could use a little bit of pity. She could use –

Aren’t you cute? You think your husband gives a damn about your feelings? You think he’d just cuddle you right up if he were here? He’d chuck a rock at your feet and tell the servants you were sick.

Which was a kind of care, low-effort as it was. He’d keep her as safe and comfortable as a person could be in this god-forsaken century, but he’d never be the kind of man who’d let a woman weep in his arms, and no amount of Stockholm Syndrome would make her believe it. The very idea made her snort.

Which, given her state, was pretty gross.

She leaned her head against the cool stone wall and let herself cry a bit longer.

Leah was groggy and stuffy and headachey when she heard Beitrice shuffling about the next morning, bringing a pitcher of fresh water and re-lighting the fire. She’d sent her apologies via Annie the night before and lay curled up on the bed through supper, alternating between weeping and snarling, mostly at herself.

“Mistress MacKenzie?” Leah blearily pulled back the bedcurtains to see Beitrice standing near the table. “Shall I have one of the kitchen lassies bring ye Mrs. Fitz’s restorative and some oatcakes again?” she asked.

Leah started to shake her head, winced, and managed to croak out a “No, thank you. I’ll go down to breakfast this morning.” A miserable prospect, but it was no good wallowing (more), and it might cause some worry if she didn’t.

“’Tis a fine idea, Mistress,” Beitrice nodded, with a little smile. “There’s no good will come of skipping meals; ye’ll need yer strength.”

“I’m sure,” Leah said, sliding out of bed to pour a cup of water. It’s fatten-up-and-hibernate season for all sensible creatures. “Thank you for the offer, though, Beitrice.”

Everyone was out of sorts that morning, it seemed; even Hamish was subdued, and Colum wasn’t “so well as he’d like,” according to Letitia, and would have his meal taken up to him. He’d done that a few times since Leah started breakfasting with the family; he’d done it earlier that week, in fact.

“Perhaps something’s going around,” Leah offered, ignoring any teenage glances in her direction.

“Aye, perhaps,” Letitia answered quietly, before turning to the girls with a lighter voice. “The sun’s out this morning; shall ye enjoy it before it’s lost again?” she asked.

“We thought we’d go down to the village, if the lane isnae too boggy,” Margaret answered, glancing at her stepmother, then at her sister. “We’d like to look in on Mrs. MacVinish’s daughter Fiona; her mam sent for the howdie just before the storm hit.”

“That’s a fine idea, mo uan,” Letitia said. “I cannae go while yer uncle is resting, but the duty must be seen to.”

Eleanor pushed a bit of oatmeal around in her bowl, then let out a gusty breath. “Would ye come with us, Mistress MacKenzie?” she asked, not as entirely sullen as Leah might have expected.

I would rather chew off my own goddamn toenails. “Thank you, no,” Leah said, smiling, or at least curving her lips. “But you’re welcome to go as long as you have a guard,” she added, when Eleanor bit her lip. “And Annie may go with you if she’s free.”

“We’d like ye to come,” Margaret said firmly, then flushed when four heads turned toward her, even Hamish’s attention drawn by her unexpected tone. “Wouldn’t we?” she asked, looking directly at Eleanor.

Ok, big-sister vibes. She could hardly refuse again, after that show of backbone, so apparently she was off to Cranesmuir.

If everyday Mrs. MacVinish was kind of a lot, first-grandchild Mrs. MacVinish was a lot in all-caps sparkle-font. But she was so happy, near-incandescent with pride, that Leah could hardly fault her. And they’d managed to miss any interaction with Father Bain, so that was a relief.

“Got him right to the kirk this morning, as soon as the ice had stopped,” Mrs. MacVinish was telling them. “Christened him Eòin, after his grandfather.” She ran a hand over the baby’s downy head, then patted her daughter’s cheek. “We washed him in salt water the very instant he was born, to be safe.”

Fiona looked like she could have used more than a few day’s rest before she traipsed through the wet cold to be glowered at by a cranky priest. She also looked like she couldn't be any older than Margaret, and a bit shell-shocked by the whole experience.

“He’s got fine braw lungs, Fiona,” Eleanor said, flinching back as the baby began to make his infant opinions known.

“It'll be yer turn soon enough, my lassies,” Mrs. MacVinish said, cooing a bit before handing him back to his mother to be fed. “Just as soon as yer faither finds good fitting husbands for ye both.”

Eleanor glanced sideways at her sister, who looked on the baby with a gentle smile. Well, they would expect it, wouldn't they? Tabitha wasn’t much older than Margaret, and Leah didn't know how long ago she'd been married, and Molly before her. But good god. Fiona’s parents were well-off, as tacksmen went, and her young husband ran the blacksmith’s shop with his father; she was better-fed and probably healthier than most of the local girls, and she still looked like she’d been run over by an ox-cart.

Tbh, so did Jen, and she was in her 30s when Jordan was born. It just takes everything you’ve got, and that’s before you get to all the postpartum stuff. Leah glanced at her stepdaughters. I don’t care what passes for grown around here; I’ll fight Dougal into hell if he tries to marry them off so young.

“‘Tis a shame yer puir mother didnae live to see ye wed,” Mrs. MacVinish added, and oh yeah, this is why we don’t like Mrs. MacVinish, Leah thought, then fought down a spark of panic when the woman nodded toward her and continued, “but at least ye’ve a fine –”

“Father,” Leah cut in, staring hard at Mrs. MacVinish. “A fine father. Who’ll make sure you’re safe and happy.”

“Oh, aye,” Mrs. MacVinish nodded, as if she’d never been heading in a completely different direction. “And perhaps he’ll have another one soon enough.”

It took a moment – her first thought was of Bridget, and she had to fight down an inexplicable wave of red mist – but finally she clocked Mrs. MacVinish’s knowing look and the girls’ stone faces.

“I very much doubt it,” Leah said sharply. I don’t know if it would count as a Father-Bain miracle, but it would definitely be a medical one, she thought, too annoyed to catch Eleanor’s sideways glance.

“No? Well, plenty of time left,” Mrs. MacVinish said, as cheerfully as if Leah hadn't just tried to shut her down, “and nae man would refuse a son if ye handed him one. And a man like Chief MacKenzie –”

“Chief MacKenzie is very proud of the children he has,” Leah said firmly. “And I doubt he'd want a little one running around at his age.” And whatever I used to want, I'm pretty sure my bits were incinerated when the pathologist was done with them, so good luck with that anyway. “How are you feeling, Fiona?” she asked rather desperately, refocusing on the reason for the visit.

Like a watermelon just exploded out of a grape, probably, but the girl gave a wan smile and murmured something polite, looking down at the baby as if he were still a surprise.

Something black, buried in the swaddling cloth, caught Leah’s eye. “What is that . . .?” she wondered, and Fiona’s eyes lit up just a fraction of a spark.

“My Ranald made it for me,” she said, holding up a small cross made of what looked like pig iron.

“It's . . . very nice,” Leah offered, though she wouldn't have kept a hunk of metal in a baby blanket. C'mon, it's sweet. He made a little cross for his wife and baby. 

And it's iron, she reasoned. Protection against fairies, probably. Dougal can’t be the only one who still believes in magic. And the rest of them were nodding, so it must have been a known thing. I wonder if it has to be the husband who makes it. Or if it has to be a cross, or if any iron would do. Annie would know.

They stayed long enough to make sure Fiona drank some of Mrs. Fitz’s restorative broth, then Margaret held little Eòin and put a bit of salt onto his tongue (to which he took very loud exception) while his mother watched anxiously, before checking in on old Mrs. MacBeolain and then wandering down the high street for a bit, greeting acquaintances and peeking into shop windows.

“Ye’ve dropped yer skirts into a puddle,” Margaret murmured to Eleanor, looking into the baker’s shop.

Eleanor huffed. “They can take a bit of damp.”

“It’s the servants who have to clean it,” Margaret reminded her, earning another huff.

“Och, listen to the little mam,” Eleanor snipped, but she twitched her skirts up off the ground anyway. “Practicing for when ye’ve a bairn of yer own?” She cast a knowing look toward her sister. “Ye did seem taken with Fiona’s.”

“Aye, well, he’s a sweet little lad,” Margaret shrugged, but her cheeks colored just a bit. She stepped up to the baker’s window and looked in at the buns.

“He’s loud,” Eleanor corrected.

Margaret raised an eyebrow. “Ye were louder, by far,” she answered. “Screamed yer fool heid off until mama shoved a bit of honeyed cloth in yer face.”

Eleanor gasped as her face turned red, and her head swiveled to see if anyone had heard. Leah stared so hard into the glass she could have melted into it, trying to keep her mouth from twitching. “I did not,” Eleanor insisted, snapping off the end of the word.

“Ye did, and ye can ask Tibby and Molly. And Mrs. Boyd. And Mrs. Seadhg. And probably half the home farm heard ye, too,” Margaret responded, not even trying to hide her own amusement. “A wee gowk, ye were.”

She ought to step in, Leah supposed, but Margaret was more animated and adolescent than Leah had seen her in . . . ever, probably. Maybe she’s finally getting comfortable enough with you to pull her shoulders down from her ears. Maybe she’s just giddy at not being cooped up. Maybe seeing Fiona made her happy to be young and single, still.

Maybe Eleanor is going to throttle her, here in the High Street.

But Eleanor’s color was fading, and she cut her eyes toward her sister. “And how would ye ken that, ye daftie?” she asked, tapping her foot against Margaret’s leg. “No more than a bairn yerself.”

“They still tell stories about ye,” Margaret answered with a little smile. “A hundred years hence, all the highlands will tell their children of the Wailing Bairn of Beannachd.”

Eleanor’s snort turned to a laugh halfway through. “Ye silly baggage,” she said, leaning briefly against her sister.

It was . . . it was nice. It only hurt a bit, watching them, and the fondness eased the hurt a little. And when Eleanor slowed her steps on the way out of town, matching her pace to Leah’s, she felt a little warmth chase away most of the rest.

Leah hissed as she pulled the stone from the hearth, wrapping it quickly and awkwardly, then went to dip her fingers into the cold water from the pitcher. “Just like a man,” she muttered, shaking out her hand and inspecting her fingertips. “Get you used to them, then they ride off somewhere, and you have to manhandle rocks to stay warm.”

She turned back to the bed, pulling back the covers and unceremoniously dumping the stone down by the foot. Hopefully he’d be back before she was too blistered.

Hopefully he’d be back before she needed another blanket.

Hopefully he’d be back before she admitted she was listening for him.

Chapter Three; Part 4: Reflection drops on Sunday, July 12!

She glanced up from her extremely poor sampler with its lopsided letters, eyes drifting to Dougal standing by the hearth in his shirt and trews, coat and waistcoat discarded. He’d been in a normal mood at supper, teasing Hamish and talking with Colum; now he leaned heavily against the mantle, a tankard in hand and shoulders tense, a faint scowl on his face.

“You’ve been restless since you came back,” Leah said, keeping her tone light. “What’s bothering you?”

His eyes scanned her briefly, then returned to the fire. “Nothing you need trouble yerself about,” he muttered, taking a long drink from his tankard.

Leah shrugged and made another stab at her sampler. “Jesus H.,” she muttered, shaking out her left hand and sucking the end of her finger, where a drop of blood welled up.  Another victim of the patriarchy, she thought grouchily, and glared at its only nearby representative.

Gaze upon this specimen of masculinity, brooding broodily under the weight of the known world, poor fella. She frowned. “Yeah, this –” she gestured broadly toward him “– isn’t like you. What’s going on?”

Dougal made an inarticulate noise, his jaw tightening as he set his tankard onto the mantle with a little thump. For a moment, she thought he might brush her off again, but then he spoke, his voice low and gruff. “It’s no’ true winter yet, and some of the tenants are hurtin’,” he said. “The small tenants just south of Loch a'Bhraoin sent a fellow to say the land’s no’ yielding enough, as if I could change the damned weather. Some fools are threatening to hold back their rents next year.” He let out a low growl. “Colum’s got his notions, but promises willnae fill their bellies.”

Leah set her work aside with just enough gratitude to feel guilty about it, and considered the problem. “If the harvest was that bad for them, withholding next summer’s rents won’t help them right now.”

“Aye,” Dougal growled. “Colum thought to cut their rents a bit, but that won’t see them through the winter.”

She tilted her head, brow furrowing in thought. “Loch a'Bhraoin?” she asked, trying to remember that part of the rent collection journey the summer before. A dramatic region, if she recalled correctly, where pleasantly rolling hills turned suddenly into a near-vertical range of mountains. Not many trees, not much farmland. It probably was hard to farm there, especially without modern equipment. “Was that the little collection of houses where the goat bit Angus?”

Dougal snorted a laugh at the memory. “Aye, that’s the place.”

“We can’t be talking about many people, then,” she said, rising and searching for the inventory she’d been working on that week. “Can’t have been more than half a dozen houses; but with the problem we had before the harvest our own oat surplus isn’t, like, super robust.”

“Colum will get the steward working the numbers on it tomorrow,” he replied.

“How’s the livestock holding out?” Leah asked, looking critically at her neat rows of figures. “They’d have culled the weak, right? So they’ve got protein, at least.” But they’d be counting on their healthiest stock to survive the winter and help them rebuild the herds in springtime. And a steady diet of dried meat and lard would play hell on their health; they might not shit until Easter.

She turned to an unused page and found her pencil. “Do they pickle, out there? Or have dry storage?” She rolled her eyes at Dougal’s blank look. “It couldn’t be much, anyway. So they need a starch, and some kind of fiber . . .” she muttered to herself, “something with Vitamin C if they can get it.”

She tapped her pencil against the page. “If they kept back any surplus stock, they can slaughter those.”

“And d’ye think they’ve no’ thought of that, lass?” Dougal scoffed. “But a goat slaughtered now means less milk come spring.”

“Unless Colum will make up the losses,” she pointed out. “Or even part of them. How are Leoch’s herds?” She could find the numbers for herself, but what they meant in practical terms, she still couldn’t say. How many cows does it take to run a castle? she wondered. James would know; she wasn’t the livestock girl.

Dougal made a noncommittal noise that she took to mean he was loathe to part with any livestock.

“Well, it’s an option. The potato harvest was strong,” she added thoughtfully. Starch and fiber, if they eat the skins, and a good amount of vitamins. “Don’t give me that look; you weren’t complaining when they were loaded with butter. And we can spare those easier than oats. It’s just getting it to them before the weather gets awful.” She nodded decisively, then thought better of it and added a smile.

“You men think about it,” she said sweetly. “But there are ways to help that won’t put Leoch in any danger. You might even get some defectors, if word spreads,” she mused. “Letitia said some of the clan chiefs aren’t so helpful when things go wrong.”

He made a noise that sounded like wry agreement, running a hand over his beard. “It’d buy some time.”

Leah huffed a laugh and stepped behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. “You see?” she said, fingers pressing gently into the tense muscles there. “Sometimes a different perspective is helpful.”

Dougal made a grunt of approval, as she began to knead. “That’s good, Leah. Keep doin’ that.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Maybe I should charge you for this,” she teased, digging a knuckle into a particularly stubborn knot.

He let out a low hum, his broad shoulders shifting beneath her hands. “Aye, well,” he muttered, tilting his head just enough to glance at her. “I’d think a wife would find it in her best interest to keep her husband from cracking skulls out of frustration.” He huffed, somewhere between amused and begrudging. “Dinnae think I’ll look to ye for counsel on every matter.”

Oh, god forbid. But his voice had lost some of its sharpness, and she didn’t miss the way his hands relaxed at his sides.

“Well, you should,” she said firmly, pressing harder. “You’re wound up tight as a bowstring,” she muttered, then ran her hands down his arms and tugged at him. “You’re too tall. Come here.”

Dougal arched a brow, smirking as he turned toward her and let her pull him toward the bed. But as he reached for her waist, she pressed a firm hand to his chest and pushed him back. “Take your shirt off and lie down on your stomach.”

“Seems a thing I should ask of you,” he grumbled, but reached up to yank his linen shirt over his head while Leah retrieved her little bottle of almond oil and slipped off her dressing gown.

Dougal grunted as she climbed up to straddle his back, rubbing the oil into her palms and digging her fingers into his shoulders with renewed purpose, before working down along his spine. After a moment, he let out a rough chuckle. “If this is a punishment, wife,” he muttered, turning his head to the side to try and look at her, “I’d prefer ye just take me across your knee and get on wi’ it.”

Leah’s lips quirked, and she swatted him lightly before leaning her weight into the massage. “There. That’s your punishment for grumbling at me. Now relax and let me take care of you.”

He’d once thought that if his wife had any witchcraft in her, she’d use it to keep him at bay. But she’d used it tonight, and here he lay near-boneless, eyelids heavy and mind unfocused, feeling her warmth tucked up against him. She’d worked a miracle with her small hands, lifted the weight he carried an inch at a time, until his only worry was that she’d stop. And when she did at last, he’d had no worries at all.

Dougal turned his head, looking down at the vexing creature whose curls brushed his shoulder, whose hand stroked his chest. He’d half-wondered, more than once, if she were made to be a wife. She might run a household well enough, but he’d meant it when he said she didn’t act like she’d spent much time under a man. She still didn't, truth be told, as though the time she spent under him was little more than a pleasant diversion. But he liked her sharp little teeth, and if enduring them from time to time was enough to win her sweetness, he could bear a scar.

And every woman had her ways.  Maura had, god knew, and though she’d never flown at him with such ferocity, she’d also never made him burn with her. And Geillis – she’d made him burn for her, but not, he thought now, with her. Not until the end. And her sweetness had been a honeyed trap, laid with care to lure him like a dumb animal, unearned, untrue.

By god, he’d earned Leah’s sweetness.

He shifted, easing her head from his shoulder and ignoring the sleepy, quizzical sound she made. His lips trailed a line of kisses down her neck and along her collarbone, tasting the hollow of her throat where her pulsed jumped suddenly.

“Dougal . . .” she whispered, but he silenced her with a soft kiss to her lips.

“Hush, lass,” he murmured, kissing his way down her body, his hands sliding up her thighs to push her nightshift higher and let him gaze upon her.

Damp, already, and warm. Had she enjoyed putting her hands on him as much as he had? His thumb traced the seam of her, and she breathed out a little whimper. His breath on her mound made her arch; a kiss to her thigh made her tremble. And when he finally shouldered his way between her legs, pressing her knees to the bed to make room for his bulk, he found her glistening before his tongue touched her.

She writhed for him until at last he took hold of her, to keep her sweet and steady for his pleasing. Soft thighs in his hands, silky curls against his cheeks, a desperate gulping moan in his ears as her sweetness flowed over his tongue, and he pressed harder, closer, until he felt her fingers scrabbling at his head and her voice breaking on his name.

He urged her through it, then teased with slow licks as the wave receded, until her moans sounded too like sobs, and her shaking hands pushed him away. He sat up, wiping his mouth, his beard. Christ, he’d be smelling her on himself for a week; longer if he lost control and dived into her again.

And he might, at that.

There was nothing in the world quite so bonny as a woman in her pleasure, loose-limbed and soft-eyed and overthrown, nor anything that could make a man feel so powerful. He heard her little whine when he climbed off the bed, and if he’d been half-hard before, he could batter down a door at the sound, at the way her hand flopped toward him, half-reaching and half-weak. And the way her eyes drifted shut when he trailed the damp cloth across her, the contented little sigh, the way she curled into him when he lay beside her and pulled her close . . .

“You sound sweet when ye beg, mo leannan,” he murmured. “I should keep ye like this.”

She huffed at him, but he felt her heart still racing. “You’re unbearable,” she muttered.

“Aye,” he agreed, nipping at her ear. “But would ye have me elseways?”

When she was silent, he shifted himself down to look into her face, her eyes fluttering in near-sleep. She traced her fingers idly along his jaw, brushing soft against his beard.

“You keep looking at me like that, mo nighean,” Dougal rumbled, watching her with amusement, “and I’ll think ye have a fondness for me.”

Leah snorted, fingers lingering just a moment longer before she pulled away and yawed. “You should be so lucky, Chief MacKenzie.”

But as she drifted toward sleep, she tucked herself under his chin, and let his arm settle heavy over her waist.

Chapter Three, Part 3: Multitudes

In fairness, he owed me. It's in the contract.

You notice he didn’t actually give it to you until you pitched a fit about drowning. Maybe he thinks it’ll buy you a raft. Or maybe he didn’t think of it until Letitia announced her shopping-slash-political-statement trip.

If she'd failed to keep her face controlled when Dougal handed her the little pouch and told her it was for her “wee luxuries,” he'd been in too much of a hurry to notice.

Which was just as well.

Wee luxuries. Eat my ass.

But it wasn't a bag of nickels, or if it was, it was a bag of nickels back when a nickel could buy a pound of beef. She'd put the pouch into the box with her brooch, tucked into her clothespress, and when he left she'd pulled it back out and poured it onto the table, counting each piece.

She had a better handle on the currency, at least; she didn't have to think in terms of how many ribbons something would buy anymore.

Her allowance would buy about 140 ribbons, actually, if they were wool; fewer if they were silk. He'd given her £7 in various coins, mostly shillings and sixpence. For anything bigger, he said – if she wanted to freshen up her drawing room or something – she'd have to go through the chamberlain to make sure her account would cover it.

‘What account?’ she didn't ask, didn't think of until Dougal had left to go . . . somewhere, to do some Dougaly thing. If Leoch used a bank, she'd never seen evidence of it. There were banks, down in Edinburgh, though; and her account didn't have to mean a bank, it could just as easily be a line item out of Beannachd’s harvest. More easily, probably; she'd seen enough of the account books to know that money was a pleasant fiction compared to the hard currency of grain and cows. ‘How much is it worth?’ she also didn't think about right away, though the coin alone was more than enough to buy a nice little chair; the full allowance could be triple what he'd already given her.

It was autonomy.

With £7, she could hire a coach to Inverness, though it might not be enough to keep them from ratting her out. It might be just enough to make them rob you and drop your corpse into a half-frozen loch, so, you know. Maybe don't be stupid.

Alright, then, with £7 she could buy gifts for her husband and stepdaughters, and give Annie a bonus, and leave alms in the poorbox, and still have more money than some of the tenants saw all year.

She heard Rupert’s great bellowing laugh ring out, and looked up to see Letitia’s quick, rare grin. She’d been surprised to see Rupert and Angus waiting at the stables, to guard the ladies on their little jaunt; they weren’t the most polished guards Leoch had to offer. But they were unquestionably loyal, MacKenzies through-and-through, and deadly as a knife in the dark, if it came to that – if there were any danger in leaving MacKenzie land, it’d have a hard time getting to her through them. And it seemed that Letitia had an unexpected soft spot for them both, as she’d been quite a young Lady MacKenzie when they came to foster at Leoch.

And Angus was on his best behavior, far better than Leah had ever seen of him. Of course, he was riding in rear guard; he could be making every obscene gesture his mind could devise as long as the ladies were facing forward, but he’d been quite gentlemanly with Margaret, letting her step into his hand to mount Brimstone, a sweet-natured chestnut mare.

Rupert had half-tossed Eleanor onto her mount, but she’d laughed out loud, a quick, girlish squeal and giggle that made Leah’s heart jump.

Don’t be weird. She’s not a child, and she’s sure as hell not your child.

Things had been awkward for a day or two after the drawing room incident, as if all three of them were holding their breath to see if Dougal would stomp across their fragile peace in his big muddy boots again. And when he hadn’t (yet, her mind warned), it felt like they’d all let out a collective breath.

But it would be harder to repair the next time, if there was one. And harder still, the time after that. Leah hoped he’d take it to heart, for the girls’ sake.

And hers.

Lady Tulloch was a proper Highland hostess, Leah decided, her still-gloved hands wrapped around a steaming bowl of beef broth. The ladies had no sooner dismounted and crossed her threshold than they were bustled into a cozy little inglenook by the fire, rugs folded over the arms of their chairs just in case the morning ride had been too frigid (Leah was apparently the only one who thought it was. Gealach, the traitor, had barely fussed at all, even when they crossed the river). She’d been reaching for the rug, in fact, ready to curl herself into a roly-poly to fit as many limbs as possible under it, when she caught herself. No one else was even shivering. Letitia looked positively invigorated.

Dammit.

So she’d contented herself with scooching as close to the fire as she could without being noticed, and concentrated on sipping the broth slowly and enjoying the way it unfoze her spleen.

It was damned good broth, too. Lady Tulloch’s cook had added ginger to it, so it settled slow and warm in the chest, and Leah nearly hummed with the pleasure of it.

“Tulloch’s like Colum” Dougal had said, feet stretched out before the fire in their chamber. “Walks the line so carefully no one knows where he’ll fall. He’ll split himself in two, some day.”

They’d warmed up enough to let a maid take their cloaks, and for Lady Tulloch to grasp first Margaret’s and then Eleanor’s hands and tell them what bonny young lassies they were, when Lady Munro was ushered in, all pink cheeks and careful coiffure.

“It’s absolutely dreadful out there,” she announced, sailing toward the hearth. “One might as well be in Orkney. Or directly in the North Sea.”

Lady Tulloch and Letitia turned to her with identical bright smiles and cheery voices, laughing about her “southern constitution,” which was apparently the very polite way to say “English weaksauce.”

“And Munro’s a bloody Hanoverian, after all the Stuarts gave to his family. Married an Englishwoman. Keep your wits about ye around her,” Dougal said, fixing Leah with a stern stare.

“Uh . . . maybe I . . . shouldn’t go?” she’d said, pausing in her poor attempt to thread an embroidery needle. No little threader tools here, apparently. “The girls and I could go to Cranesmuir instead,” she offered.

“Munro’s a bastard, but he’s no’ a Campbell,” Dougal snorted. “And there’s no price on your head, just a pair of fools who ken a name ye no longer carry.”

It shouldn’t have stung; that was why she’d married him, after all. So when Letitia introduced her as “my sister-in-law, Mistress MacKenzie,” she’d only smiled just like the rest of them, and exclaimed brightly how glad she was to meet them; oh, hadn’t Lady MacKenzie just said the nicest things about them all, and what an enjoyable day we’re all going to have, tra-la.

“Who’s arriving first?” Lady Munro asked, peeling off her gloves and passing them to a servant. Her lady’s maid, probably, just as Annie and Letitia’s maid had ridden along with the Leoch crew.

Warm enough to think straight, Leah looked around and spotted Annie and Doirin coming out from some back room – the kitchen, probably, where they’d have warmed themselves and gotten a bit of broth, too.

“Mackay, with the fine cloth,” Lady Tulloch answered, and the capital-L Ladies hummed amongst themselves, as civilized as if Lady Munro’s husband hadn’t whipped up a mob against Lady Tulloch’s brother-in-law, and gotten some relation of Lady MacKenzie killed in the process.

Annie’d told her about that – some local election shenanigans twenty years before. Leah discreetly passed over her little bag of coins (less than £3; no reason to tempt fate, bringing it all) just like they’d practiced.

She’d put on her big girl panties and asked, the night after Letitia announced that “arrangements had been made” to have the mercer and draper and candlestick-maker call on them at Tulloch Castle. If Letitia wanted to use her as a distraction again, fair enough, but she’d go into this one with her eyes open.

She’d tapped her fingers on the mantle, worrying at the inside of her cheek. “It – I mean. Does it feel like –?” And when Dougal raised an eyebrow at her dithering, she’d just blurted it out – “I just think it’s interesting that Letitia wants the wife of a suspected Jacobite to sit down and shop with the enemy – who’s also an Englishwoman, and the Provost’s wife – and do it in a castle of fence-sitters. I mean, I guess it could look like the ladies not bothering their silly heads with politics –” Dougal snorted, and she continued, tone sharpening with irritation “– but with this family, I’m guessing it’s a misdirection. ‘Oh look, Dougal MacKenzie’s letting his wife sit down with a Hanoverian, maybe he’s not fomenting rebellion after all.’ Like my being there lets Colum walk the line a little easier.”

“Aye,” he’d said, and gone to pull back the bedclothes and stick her granite foot-warmer at the bottom.

“And you’re alright with that?” she’d asked, and felt immediately foolish. Of course he was. It would take some heat off him, make some people question any rumors they heard.

“Now, explain to me,” she’d said grumpily, climbing into bed and turning her back to him, “how putting me on your chessboard is keeping me safe?”

He hadn’t had a good answer for that, or indeed any answer; he’d just waited until she looked over her shoulder at him and then kissed her, and she forgot the question for a little while. And if the memory of it warmed her more than the fire, well. She wouldn’t complain about it.

He’d answered most of her questions, though, and between him and Letitia, and Annie’s more gossip-infused intel, she felt about as ready to move across the board as she could be. At least they don’t let me drown where anyone else can see . . .

The two boys with Mr. Mackay must have been his sons; they all looked like ginger Ichabod Cranes. She watched the ladies nod thoughtfully as each sample was held up, until Letitia beckoned one of the boys forward so she could run a length of fine-weave linen through her fingers.

“Our very best quality,” Mr. Mackay said eagerly, which Leah took to mean expensive. Not a cloth meant for the table-linens, then, but maybe for a fichu or a fine night-shift. The other ladies looked over various samples, nodding quietly and exchanging unreadable glances, and at last the Mackays withdrew to another room.

I wish I could take notes, Leah thought, watching with curiosity and mild delight as the three Ladies bent their heads together. They all wanted some of the linen, after all, and Lady Munro wibbled a bit over some silk, until Letitia said something like “Oh, but that would look so bonny against yer complexion,” and then she very firmly had to have it.

That was worth considering, too. The politicking went both ways, surely – if the Munros would stand for Hanover over Stuart, they must prefer to have the MacKenzies standing with them. And if Tulloch only wanted to be left alone, they couldn’t possibly love the idea of their much larger neighbors scrapping again. And if alliance – or just peace – could be helped along by following Lady MacKenzie’s lead, they might be happy to do it.

And, of course, Letitia mattered in her own right – wealthy and fashionable, wife to one of the biggest landowners in the Highlands and mother to the next in line, and connected through birth and marriage to half the clans in Scotland –

Holy shit, is Letitia the Regina Geoge of Easter Ross? I mean, she’s nicer. Even if she did prop me up to shield her family.

And thank god for Mrs. McTavish; I don’t have to worry about buying any of this stuff after the solid month she spent at Leoch, Leah thought, watching the ladies send their maids over to the other room to handle the actual purchasing. No sordid money ought to touch the hands of the capital-Ls.

Then came a man called Dingwall, which nobody commented on, who sold furniture, which nobody bought. Although Leah was sorely tempted by a pair of mahogany claw-footed tables that were only just a bit over £3, and Annie had told her how to have things billed . . .

But no; she had no idea when her next allowance would come, and she ought to sock most of it away, anyway, in case she had to buy her way to safety during the Rising.

She did pay more attention to the third merchant, who came with an assortment of sewing notions and ribbons and hair combs and a tiny prayer book, for some reason, and some salves and oils, all rolled up in cloth that could be unrolled across the table for the ladies to peruse.

Along with a small box of honeyed walnuts, which made one of the girls (Eleanor. It was Eleanor) let out a little squeak, so when Leah sent Annie off with the other maids to buy a small vial of almond oil, she bought a bag of confections as well (and a selection of embroidery silks that had made Margaret’s eyes widen when they spilled over the cloth like watercolors, but the girls weren’t to know that yet).

“Thank ye, Mistress MacKenzie,” Margaret murmured, when Annie returned with the treats in her hand and the silks hidden in her pocket.

“Yes,” Eleanor added, eyes sparkling as she plucked a walnut from the little bag. “Thank ye, Mistress.” At a nudge from her sister, she looked up and blushed. “Please do have one, ladies,” she offered, holding the bag out to the group, looking rather impolitely relieved when the capital-Ls demurred.

At least I know what to get her, if I can’t find a better gift. I bet Mrs. Fitz can show me how to make honeyed nuts. Or I could do caramel-covered; I know how to make that. I wonder if she’s had caramel before; I’ve never seen it at Leoch . . .

The final merchant reminded Leah of a younger Ned Gowan, with the spectacles perched low on his nose and the thin little ponytail at the back of his head. He brought out his wares in groups – first the looking-glasses, gilt-and-silver frames polished to sparkling, then a group of trinket boxes, carved and inlaid and lovely, then sketches of the kinds of jewelry he could procure from the Lowlands, and finally, almost an afterthought, a dozen or so leather-bound books. Letitia had him line them up by the spine, and asked Leah and Margaret if there were anything Colum’s library was missing. There were, in fact, one or two, along with a not-new but still nice copy of Gulliver’s Travels, “much read by learnéd gentlemen,” Mr. Gillanders said, “for its warning against pride and poor governance.”

Which was true, but seemed a hell of a way to describe a story with floating islands and necromancers. Leah glanced over her shoulder to see Eleanor distracted by the sudden appearance of Lady Tulloch’s younger son. Too old for you, my girl, Leah thought, but your dad and uncle would probably like him better than the steward’s clerk. But it gave her the chance to nod at Annie, and when Mr. Gillanders withdrew to the other room, Doirin and Annie both followed.

“But you have more room at Leoch . . .” Leah said coaxingly, patting Gealach’s withers. The mare had been quite displeased to be led from the Tulloch stables back into the wind, and was still shaking her head and stamping her little hooves when the group turned back out onto the road.

At least she hadn’t done anything Leah need apologize for.

“The sooner we get home, the sooner you can get brushed down and take a nap.” The sooner I can take a nap. I might even skip supper, Leah thought. Lady Tulloch had fed them very properly, a late luncheon of cold chicken and mutton, pickled vegetables, and even wheat bread with cheese; she’d survive without supper for one night.

Beitrice won’t have banked the fire yet; it’ll be so toasty. Ooh, I’ll take a bath first – wish I could call ahead and have it ready, lol. But it won’t take long to boil a couple of pots.

Listen to you. ‘Oh, it won’t take long.’ It’ll take an hour. You used to turn on a tap and boil yourself red in minutes.

Probably why I can’t get warm now. But I’ll haul the water myself if I have to.

A full belly, a warm bath, a warmer bed, a warmest husband – she could be content.

And they’d had a successful outing, after all. Political equilibrium maintained, holiday gifts discreetly purchased (she’d seen nothing for Dougal, but frankly he ought to count her presence as gift enough), stepdaughters cheerful, capital-Ls content.

Leah leaned forward, stroking a hand down Gealach’s neck. “You can have an apple and a carrot,” she murmured, “and even a bite of Angus, if you like.”

The horse snorted, and to Leah’s right, she heard Eleanor do the same. She straightened, trying not to feel like an awkward middle-schooler. “She doesn’t like the cold,” she said defensively, as if the girl would care. “Or damp,” she added, for some reason. Definitely not cold and damp. She shrugged, semi-apologetically

But Eleanor was looking at her with something like recognition. Then she sniffed and turned her head. “Well, Angus is no treat,” she said. “Best give her a handful of oats instead.” She nodded decisively, then urged her horse forward to ride by Letitia, leaving Leah to stare after her with a little smile.

Chapter Three; Part Two: Mìlseachd