Highland Tides (21 page)

He gave Fraser over to his mother and came to his feet when John Reade entered the room cautiously. He should be jealous of this man who loved his wife, but he owed the soldier a great deal. He offered his hand. “I’m obliged to ye, John, for keeping care of my loved ones in my absence.”

To his surprise, Reade embraced him, thumping him on the back. “Thank goodness you’ve returned safely,” he rasped. “You’ve been sorely missed.” He took Braden by the shoulders. “And you brought your brother and his wife with you.”

Braden’s joy knew no bounds when he caught sight of Callum and Lexi standing together in the doorway. Unlike him they wore fashionable clothing. “Looks like ye’ve been shopping already, Lexi Ogilvie,” he teased.

She smiled, smoothing a hand over the silk skirts of her gown, but her eyes betrayed her uncertainty.

The three shared a tearful embrace. “Dinna fash,” he assured his sister-by-marriage, “ye’ve already met my wife, Charlotte, and John, and Augusta.” He picked up his bairn. “And this young man is my son, Fraser.”

Fraser held out a hand to Callum. “Ye’re my uncle then. Pleased to meet ye.”

Everyone laughed.

Braden had no way of knowing how much his son knew of his time travels. Only time itself would tell if he would accept the notion once he was no longer a child. But they couldn’t pretend the realities of their situation didn’t exist. “Fraser, I was about to tell yer Uncle Callum and Aunty Lexi they needn’t worry about living in this time and in this place. It’s new and different from where they came from, but everyone of us here will help.”

“Aye,” John insisted. “We will.”

Charlotte and Augusta nodded.

“Me too,” Fraser declared.

~~~

A fit of giggles seized Charlotte as she lay in the warmth of her husband’s embrace in the bed where she’d dreamt of him so often.

The hysterics had started in the private dining room of Prestonfield, the opulent home of John’s friend, Sir Alexander Dick. Before Braden’s unexpected return, it had been arranged for Charlotte and John to dine with Sir Alexander that evening. John insisted the baronet wouldn’t mind if extra people showed up. Charlotte would have preferred to whisk her husband off to bed, but conceded the travellers were hungry.

Their host greeted them amicably, apparently unperturbed by the extra mouths to feed, but his face fell when he caught sight of Braden’s sixteenth century attire. She was proud of the assured manner in which her husband explained that he’d come from a re-enactment. The first giggle bubbled up then.

When asked what re-enactment, Callum interjected. “The wedding of Mary, Queen of Scots.”

Another suppressed giggle.

This delighted their host who pointed to a framed painting hanging on the wall. “Ah, as you see I have a portrait of the star-crossed queen.”

“Huh!” Lexi muttered. “Looks nothing like her.”

This time the giggle turned into a strangled cough.

Braden looked at her curiously. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m excited.”

His eyes smoldered. “Me too.”

Considering he was five and over-tired, Fraser listened with polite interest as Sir Alexander embarked on a long dissertation on the topic of his experiments with rhubarb. “I’m the first to cultivate the plant on a grand scale,” he boasted, “and mark my words, one day the world will recognise the benefits of its pharmaceutical properties.”

Charlotte had never heard of rhubarb, but supposed he knew what he was talking about since he was a renowned physician.

“And it makes for excellent eating,” he continued. “We’ll be having it stewed for our sweet this evening.”

By the time they’d eaten their way through several delicious courses, Charlotte sensed few needed a sweet course. She feared Fraser might fall sleep and lunge forward into the dish of rhubarb placed before him.

However, her son had never been one to forego anything sweet, and he dutifully picked up his spoon and put a healthy dollop of the stuff into his mouth.

It was as if he’d been struck by lightning. He screwed up his little face, his eyes watering and exclaimed, “Ugh!”

Judging by the sour expressions on the faces of the assembled adults, they shared his opinion of rhubarb.

She supposed Sir Alexander thought she should reprimand her son, but she couldn’t stop giggling.

Their departure from Prestonfield was something of a blur, and everyone in the carriage was laughing heartily as they made their way back to Dean Village. Fraser fell asleep in his father’s arms, oblivious to the uproar he’d caused.

“Feels good to laugh,” Braden said.

“Aye,” Callum and Lexi chimed in together.

Charlotte hiccupped and curled her arm in Braden’s.

John dropped them off, promising to return on the morrow.

Braden carried his son upstairs and lay Fraser in his bed. “He’s a fine lad,” he rasped. “Even if he doesna like rhubarb.”

Another hiccup escaped as she giggled again. “Stop,” she insisted. “I’ll show Callum and Lexi to the spare room.”

When she returned to her chamber, Braden was in her bed, covered only by the linen sheet. “This is a big bed for a single woman,” he quipped. The gleam in his eye and the certainty he was naked filled her with longing, but the hiccups refused to stop. “I never gave up hope,” she retorted.

His eyes burned into her as she quickly undressed and slid in beside him, consumed by the fire of his big body. “I lo…hic…ve…hic,” she tried.
 

He chuckled. “I love ye too,” he said.

She clenched her fists. “I’ve waited…hic…so long to tell you I…love you.”

He loomed over her. “They say if ye hold yer breath, it helps.” He pressed his mouth to hers, coaxing her lips open with his tongue and began a slow exploration of the inside of her mouth, her tongue.

Just as she thought she was cured, sounds came from the chamber next door that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than passionate lovemaking.

Laughter exploded.
 

“It seems Callum and Lexi are as much in love as we are,” she croaked.

Braden laughed too. His deep laughter echoed in her heart. “Aye,” he agreed. “Wait till I tell ye how they met.”

Her ribs ached after he’d told the tale of Callum landing unexpectedly in Lexi’s bed and complained of having to listen through thin walls to the sounds of their lovemaking once they were reconciled to their forced marriage. “I longed for ye then, my lass,” he growled.

When everything next door quieted, she gazed up at the ceiling. “They must wonder what we’re laughing at.”

Braden gathered her into his arms. “I love the sound of yer laughter, Charlotte. I missed it. But there’s something I missed more.”

Without warning he kicked off the sheet, knelt between her legs, lifted her bottom and put his mouth to her most intimate place. She writhed, luxuriating in the warmth of his saliva, the texture of his tongue. “Ye taste as delicious as I remember,” he growled. Then he grinned mischievously. “And much better than rhubarb.”

“Stop, you’ll make me hiccup again,” she said breathlessly, “although it seems to have stopped.”

He lapped her again then became serious. “Consider it. Braden Ogilvie, discoverer of a previously unknown cure for hiccups.”

She swatted him with the pillow.

~~~

Braden loved his wife’s playfulness, but tasting her again drove everything from his mind except one thing. He needed to be inside her, to feel her sheath pulsating on his cock.

If he sucked and played a little while longer, he was confident she’d fly apart in the way he remembered.

After swatting him with the pillow she lay back and he recognised the moment her eyes glazed over.

The hoarsely whispered
Braden
confirmed she was close.

“Aye, Charlotte,” he whispered in reply. “Come for me.”

Seconds later she was calling his name in the guttural way he loved. It was time. He pulled her on top of him and impaled her. “Ride me, wife,” he growled.

She threw back her head and arched her back. He clamped his hands on her hips and soon she matched his thrusts in the timeless rhythm of a man and woman made for each other. They rode together until she keened out her release and his seed erupted into her womb.

She collapsed on top of him. He sifted his fingers through her damp curls, and kissed her ear, relishing the rise and fall of her breasts on his chest. He put a hand on her bottom and pressed her to him, intent on pumping the last drop of his essence deep inside.

They drifted together in their own world of intimacy.

It might have been his imagination but when he regained his wits he was sure he heard laughter from the guest chamber.
 

The travellers had been at Dean Village for a month. Charlotte was happy Braden and his brother had been reunited, but sensed her husband’s growing impatience with too many people sharing the small house.

Lexi was as much of a screamer as Charlotte when in passion’s thrall, and Fraser had wakened more than once alarmed by the noise.

Work on her latest novel had been impossible, and a deadline loomed.

While Braden was proud of her success, he was a man. He’d said nothing, but she sensed he was uncomfortable having her provide for them.

On the brighter side, her uncle, the Duke of Argyll had sent good news from Fort William concerning the land in Oban on which the ruin of Ogilvie House sat. He seemed confident Braden might be able to claim ownership since the land had never been sold out of the Ogilvie family. Research had uncovered the last occupant as one David Ogilvie, brother of the owner, Braden’s father. The Duke promised to pull strings to get Braden declared the rightful owner.

After spending hours pouring over documents pertaining to the Hepburn family, John Reade was fairly certain he could establish Lexi’s right to the abandoned Halis Castle on the banks of the Scottish Tyne. She recalled wistfully that her uncle James had once entertained Queen Mary there.

Charlotte decided there wasn’t much point worrying about the future. The here and now was important, and she intended to do everything in her power to make Braden's life in her present perfect.

She was jotting down the observation in her journal one morning when Braden entered the parlor holding a letter.

“A messenger,” he said. “John sent him. He’s at the University Library. Wants us there forthwith.”

“Now?”

“Aye. Sounds urgent. Wants Callum too.”

She smiled. “Your brother and his wife aren’t up yet.”

He turned and bounded up the stairs. She chuckled at the sounds of protest from within the guest chamber when he rapped on the door, insisting they come down.

After a brisk half hour walk they located John pouring over old documents. Memory washed over Charlotte. “This is where he unearthed the guest list with your names on it,” she said.

John greeted them, his face redder than she’d ever seen it. “Wait until you see what I’ve found,” he chortled.

He gathered them around a large table on which sat a very old scrolled document, faded with age, watched over by a library docent.

“This,” John announced, gesturing to the parchment and making no effort to whisper, “is a copy of The Treaty of York.”

They gaped at him as he basked in the whispered words of awe relayed around the library by other neck-craning patrons.

He faltered slightly when none of the Ogilvies reacted.

“Finalized in 1465 at Newcastle-upon-Tyne,” he explained.

“Then why is it called the Treaty of York?” Callum asked.

John took a deep breath. “The negotiations began in York the previous year.”

“Negotiations to end what?” Braden asked. “A war? This is only thirty years after—” He glanced around cautiously, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. “—After we drowned.”

“Exactly,” John beamed. “I got to thinking maybe I was looking in the wrong places. I went back to the start of my line, or as far back as I was able. To Rheade Robertson. In his lifetime, and certainly during the youth of his sons, there was a conflict going on in England called the Wars of the Roses.”

“Roses?” Lexi squeaked.

John carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. “There were two powerful Houses in England, the Lancastrians and the Yorkists. The Lancastrians had a red rose as their symbol, the Yorkists a white rose.”

Braden scratched his chin. “And both wanted the throne of England.”

“Did this treaty end the war?” Callum asked.

“No,” John explained. “Scotland had supported the Lancastrians, even sheltering the exiled Lancastrian king after a disastrous defeat at the Battle of Towton.”

Some of this sounded familiar to Charlotte. “Henry the Sixth,” she said.

“And his wife, Margaret of Anjou, who was the real strength in that marriage,” John added. “She recruited many of the young Scots who died fighting for the Lancastrian cause. Anyway, I digress. This treaty ended Scotland’s part in the war. Scotland and England under Edward the Fourth agreed to a forty year truce.”

“Why is this important?” Braden asked.

John gestured to the bottom of the document. The docent winced. “Don’t worry,” John assured him with a hint of irritation in his voice. “I don’t intend to touch it.”

Seemingly chastened, the docent stepped back.

John continued. “At the end is a list of the commissioners from each side. The script is medieval. I’ll read them out.”

“What does this
medi evil
mean?” Braden whispered in Charlotte’s ear as John intoned the first name.

She chuckled inwardly. “I’ll explain later.”

“Andrew, Bishop of Glasgow," was the first of several names John read quickly then he paused and said, “And lastly….Bishop Donal Ogilvie.”

“What?” Callum exclaimed, peering at the document.

“It canna be the same man,” Braden said.

John sat on one of the hard wooden chairs. “For this Donal Ogilvie to be a bishop in 1465, he’d have to have been born around 1410.”

“Our brother was born in 1415,” Callum said.

“A bit young, then, but around the right age,” John observed. “Consider another possibility. What if your brother didn’t drown? What if he was rescued?”