“The poor thing. I would so hate to be giving birth all by myself, out in the elements,” Bernadine said, cooing at the beast at her side.
“Aye, but she is made for this, lass. It takes about five hours for a sheep to give birth. It’s what she and every one of her kinfolk back in the barn do, and have done for thousands of years.”
“And just how do you know so much about the birthing process of ewes?” Bernadine asked him, her eyebrow raised sceptically.
“Because me faither taught it to me,” Donnan said, and then, before he could really process what he was doing, he found himself telling Bernadine about his childhood. He told her of his parents, what warm, generous people they had been.
He related stories of his father giving away all the livestock during the worst of the raids, trusting them to clansmen on the outskirts of the fields, far away from the fighting. It was at one of these houses where he had learned about lambing.
A year later, the house and family inside it had been burned to the ground, and all the sheep had escaped, crowding around the disused barn at the castle, no doubt looking for shelter and safety.
Brodie’s father, then the game’s keeper, had looked after the poor things, many of which died that year. The ewes wouldn’t breed, the rams wouldn’t rut—like the humans that cared for them, they were traumatized by the fighting.
“That sounds horrible,” Bernadine said when Donnan told her of hearing the cries of women in the night as they were carried away, their children and husbands slaughtered in front of them. The castle guards had been powerless to stop the thieving, violent men invaders, who slain them before they could so much as raise a knife.
“Aye, it was. And it was worse when they took my parents away from me,” he choked out, patting the ewe absentmindedly as he thought back.
He had been little more than a child then, a boy of fourteen summers when his parents had been slaughtered while he slept. Donnan had found them the next morning; their chambers eerily quiet for so late in that hour. It was by far the worst day of his entire life.
“While I cannot profess to even contemplate the violence you have seen, the tragedies you have suffered, I do know a little something of what you feel,” Bernadine told him, her voice soft and quiet in the still night.
“Aye?” Donnan asked, his eyes clearing of the fog of memories as he turned to look at her.
“Yes,” Bernadine said, nodding. “You see, my mother died giving birth to me. It was a difficult birth, or so I’m told. Three days she was in bed, trying to have me, and the doctors told my father the strain was simply too much for her. She was rather petite, like me,” Bernadine said, nodding at her body sprawled out on the grass.
“They warned against her bearing children at all, but of course it is rather difficult to prevent that, especially when two people are as in love as my mama and papa were,” she said, her eyes sparkling as she spoke the last sentence, a small smile playing at her lips.
Bernadine paused, giving a quick laugh that was followed, Donnan was startled to see, by a tear making its way down her face. He was about to lean forward and wipe the moisture away, but Bernadine looked at him and shook her head, swiping at the tear and laughing again, though it was decidedly without any real mirth.
“I’m sorry. I don’t normally cry, but then, I suppose, I don’t normally talk about my mother, either,” she said, swiping at her face again to catch any errant tears.
“It’s all righ’, lass,” Donnan, his voice laced with sympathy.
“Anyway,” Bernadine said, sitting up straighter. “After mama died, it was just my papa, Guinevere and I. Guinevere had been mama’s governess, and she became mine, though she is rather a lot more than that. She is like a mama to me, or perhaps a grandmamma. She indulged my childish whimsies, played with me. Though I suppose she had to, since there was never anyone else about to perform the task,” Bernadine said.
Donnan quirked an eyebrow at her in question, and to his surprise, Bernadine continued.
“My parents were both only children, so there were no cousins to play. I never went to school, so I never met any friends that way, and we lived so far removed from the other estates that interacting with any neighboring children would have taken more than half a day’s drive. It was just the three of us, and more often than not, just me,” she said, a bitter laugh punctuating her last statement.
“It sounds like ye and Guinevere were close. I imagine ye and yer father are as well, then?” Donnan said, hating the words the moment he said them, for they made him feel sorry for Lord Nibley. This was becoming something of a habit, empathizing with the man, and Donnan did not like it, but nor could he seem to stop himself from doing it, especially when Bernadine spoke the man’s name with such reference and love.
“Oh, very much so. I know you think my father a tyrant, Donnan,” Bernadine said, looking him in the eye as though she dared him to protest.
Donnan stayed still and silent, and she nodded, clearly grateful he had refrained from any insults, and continued, “But to me and Guinevere, he has never been anything other than kind, warm-hearted and loving.
“I know that it was not easy raising me, buried as he was in his grief at my mother’s passing, but my father never made me feel like I was a burden. He never blamed me for my mother’s death, never made me feel anything other than cherished. He was lovely and…” Bernadine’s voice caught in her throat.
“And you miss him,” Donnan finished for her. Bernadine nodded, bowing her head as fresh tears began to flow down her soft, rounded cheeks.
“Yes, I miss him. So much. You have no idea, Donnan. This is the first time we have ever been apart for more than a week. I…I cannot bear it,” she croaked, her head bowing as she began to break breaking into quiet sobs. Slowly, she drew her knees to her chest and buried her head in the fabric of her nightgown, and the sobs grew louder and more violent, her shoulders shaking, her breath halting as she cried.
“I’m sorry, lass,” Donnan said, not knowing how else to respond as he watched the woman cry. Or rather, he knew what to do, but he did not know how she would react.
He knew she needed comfort, a warm embrace, some soothing words. But he did not think she would take kindly to such things if it was him who offered them. He was, after all, the reason for this sadness, the reason for the tears tracking down her sorrowful face.
Still, as Bernadine continued to cry, Donnan could not help himself. He reached out to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, running over in his mind what he might say to provide comfort, anything to ease her suffering, but then the ewe made a noise, her first in quite some time, Donnan realized. And then, abruptly, the labor started.
It was quick, thankfully, taking no more than a quarter of an hour. The lamb came out forefeet first, as usually happened, and the ewe immediately set to cleaning the small thing, her tongue gliding along the lamb’s soft wool as the two huddled together, the maternal bond linking them clear in the moonlight shining down on them.
Bernadine’s sobs had quieted as the process continued, and by the time the cleaning was finished, she and Donnan were silent, staring at the wonder of nature before them.
“Do you have something with which to cut the cord?” Bernadine asked after a few moments more, and Donnan whipped his head around to gaze upon the lass’ face. He had avoided doing so while the ewe was birthing, figuring that Bernadine needed time to set herself to rights.
Her lovely face was now free of tears, the only sign of her previous emotions was a slight red tinge to her nose and a slight stuffiness to her voice that bespoke of a blocked nose.
“Aye,” Donnan stuttered out, nodding to his boots. “My dirk is in there. It’s clean enough, and sharp. I imagine it’ll do the job jus’ fine. Can ye reach for it, lass?” His hands were outstretched as the lamb struggled to a standing position and rounded its mother’s flank, walking toward her teats.
Donnan knew the little thing would be fine on its feet after a few minutes, but it
looked so small and fragile that he could not help worrying it would fall and hurt itself.
Bernadine nodded and, without any further adieu, stuck her hand into Donnan’s boot and retrieved the small, sharp knife. Donnan hated how good it felt to have her hands on his skin for even a moment. Her fingers tickled the fine hairs on his ankles, and he had the strangest urge to giggle, something that men of his size and status never did.
He quickly sobered as Bernadine handed the knife to him. The ewe barely noticed as he slipped the sharp edge through the cord tying her to the newborn, her breathing slow and steady as she let her lamb gain strength from her milk.
“What happens now?” Bernadine asked him quietly as she sat back, watching the lamb hungrily feed.
“We wait for her to pass the sack, then carry her and the lamb back to the barn so she can rest,” Donnan said, his eyes trained on the small little lamb, looking slightly unsteady on its legs. He could not bear to look at Bernadine. The honesty, the closeness they had shared only moments ago seemed to have shattered, leaving behind an uncertainty thick in the air. He did not know what to say to her, and he could tell the lass felt the same.
“Shall I go and get Brodie, do you think?” Bernadine asked after a moment’s pause. “Perhaps he could help move the lamb, and then the two of us could return to the castle to rest. It’s nearly daybreak,” she said, and Donnan looked up to find that she was indeed correct.
The early golden light of dawn was just beginning to skirt the horizon. They must have been out in the fields a good hour or more. His legs and back felt stiff from sitting on the cold, wet, grass, and he could only imagine the lass was even more uncomfortable in her thin muslin nightgown, covered only by a silken robe. Did Ilene have no warmer bedclothes, or did the lass run warm when she slept?
Why am I thinkin’ of how the lass sleeps? Donnan wondered, shaking thoughts of Bernadine in far less suitable bedroom attire from his mind.
“I shall get him, lass. You stay here and watch over these two,” he said, nodding toward the ewe and lamb as he rose from the ground and brushed wet grass from his legs.
Bernadine said nothing, simply nodding at him and turning back to the animals at her side. And yet, as her eyes fell away from him, Donnan thought he saw a hint of the vulnerability that he had glimpsed earlier during their conversation.
And that alone gave him hope enough that perhaps the lass was not so entirely averse to his person. That perhaps she might one day come to share more of those moments with him, that one day she might not think him a brute, but, perhaps a term more fitting of who he was, or, at least, who he wanted to be.
I can only hope, he thought to himself.
Chapter 13
Donnan walked into the barn two days later to find Bernadine kneeling down beside the ewe. While he was giving Brodie a stern talking to for neglecting his flock, Donnan had found out from Brodie that the ewe was apparently named Bridget. Bridget was lazing on the hay-strewn floor while her lamb sucked at her teats, both of them looking completely at ease with the human female presence at their side.
“I see ye’ve come to check on our wee one,” Donnan said as he approached the threesome. Bernadine glanced up at him with a look of pure contentment that quickly faded when she recognized his voice and took in his figure.
“Indeed,” was her short, clipped answer. Donnan was tempted to deflate at her dismissive tone, but he resisted. If they were ever to break down the barriers between them, he was going to have to be strong, even if her harsh, clipped words never failed to cut him like a knife.
And so Donnan unceremoniously dropped onto the ground beside her, intent on restoring some of the bonhomie they had briefly experienced two days prior. Bernadine looked at him quizzically, but Donnan only smiled at her in response, baring his white teeth to her suspicious stare.
“Look fine and healthy, they both do,” Donnan observed, tilting his head to get a better look at the ewe. He had heard from Brodie that Bridget had a small infection after the birth, but it was being managed with regular poultices and warm baths, and the ewe was said to be improving every day.
“I suppose, yes. I confess I would not be able to tell the difference between a healthy ewe and a poor one, but Brodie tells me she is strong and healthy. She hardly looks as though she’s been through a birth at all, does she?” Bernadine observed, reaching out and ruffling the soft wool of the ewe’s flank.
“Aye, well, she’s made for it, lass. Womenfolk and their animal kin are made for birthin’ bairns. It’s what their bodies do,” Donnan said offhandedly. It was a throwaway comment, an easy response to an easy observation. Donnan was not, therefore, expecting the fierce vitriol that assaulted him when he glanced over at Bernadine, whose eyes looked like the darkest sapphire as she glared at him openly.
“It is what we are made for, is it?” she spat at him, the color of her cheeks turning a burnished red as she continued speaking. It was a fetching look on her, though Donnan thought it best not to say so at that particular moment. “That and nothing else, hm? Just birthing and letting the men in our lives ride us and rule us? Is that what women are to you, Donnan Young?” she asked. “No wonder you discard women so easily. You obviously value us not at all,” she continued, her voice rising.
Donnan blanched at the use of his full name. Spoken in that way, it sounded much more like a curse than anything else. He had flashbacks to his mother reprimanding him in a similar tone, adding his two middle names when she wanted him to know he was in far too deep for capitulations to ease the punishment he was about to face.
“Lass, that was no’ what I meant,” he started in a placating tone, trying for a jesting tone to ease the tension, but Bernadine cut him off, her eyes alight with anger as she lowered her voice, no doubt worried about scaring the ewe and her lamb, who had raised their heads and were now staring at them both.
“Of course it was. You meant that I, as a woman, am good for nothing more than having children, that it is my only purpose in life. That we women are simply machines made for birthing progeny and after that is finished, we are useless.
“Well, I shall tell you, Donnan, that is far from our only purpose in life. I am a woman, as you well know, and I have hopes, dreams, ideas like any other person, any man. Childbirth occupies few, if any, of my thoughts, I can assure you.”
“I ken that, lass. I ken that and more. Ye dinnae let me finish, let me explain,” he pleaded, leaning toward Bernadine, his voice lowered, his face the picture of penitence.
“Ye ken that, dae ye? she bit back, mocking his Gaelic slang. “Ye ken that I am nae just an object?” she sniped at him.
“Aye, lass. Especially after our talk in yer chambers after the ride, believe me, I ken. I’ve thought of little else this last week than what ye said that day,” he told her, being more honest with her than he perhaps had ever been.
He was gratified to see Bernadine pause at that, clearly surprised by the confession.
“If you know that,” she said, the anger disappearing from her eyes, replaced by blatant need. “Then why haven’t you let me go? Why are you still keeping me here, away from my family and everything I have ever known? What are you still using me as an object with which to hurt my father? Why are you still using me for revenge? If you know how I feel, if you know how wrong it is to keep me, then why haven’t you let me go?”
Her voice grew lower, softer, almost hoarse as she finished her questions, breaking on the word “go.” Donnan was afraid she would cry again; he knew that he would not be able to resist comforting her this time, would not be able to stand not touching her, caressing her, if tears were to once again mar the beauty of her mien.
He paused, awaiting sign of her impending emotions, but none came. She simply kept staring at him, clearly awaiting his answer.
And so Donnan gave it, barely thinking before uttering the words. “Because I want ye!” he whispered loudly, unable to keep his voice from rising in the peaceful quiet of the barn.
He
knew it was the wrong moment to say those words, not that he was sure there would ever be a right one for them. He only knew that he could not for a moment hold them in any longer, especially not when the lass was needling him so. He felt thick with emotion, his chest swelling with heaving breaths, his fists clenching and unclenching as he looked away, afraid to see what disgusted expression the lass no doubt wore in response.
He hadn’t felt like this in years, so acutely attuned to the wills of his heart. Donnan had spent years burying his emotions deep inside him, knowing he would not be able to go on if he were to face the grief, the sadness, and more recently, the love that clogged the veins crisscrossing his body.
It was unbearable, feeling so open, and yet he felt lighter knowing he had finally shared his feelings with the lass. The weight off him was nearly worth the recriminations he was no doubt about to face.
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