by Pamela Clare
He glanced at the little cradle near the hearth, where his brother’s daughter slept. Only six weeks old, little Mara Ela said MacKinnon had been born in a matter of hours, Annie’s pains beginning in the early morn’ and her daughter’s lusty cry echoing through the cabin ere midday. Amalie had held Annie’s hand, and had come away from the birthing less afraid than before and awed by Annie’s strength. “Women are strong, too, but in a different way than men,” she’d told him that night, as he’d held her, one hand on her belly to feel the bairn move within her.
Och, aye, women were strong, for if giving birth were left to men, there’d be scarce a child born anywhere in the world. From the sound of it, giving birth was worse than being flogged.
Sweet Mary, Mother of God, help her! Dinnae let her or the bairn perish!
Then he heard footsteps on the stairs.
Rebecca, Joseph’s sister, appeared at the foot of the stairs, her dark hair piled atop her head, her face lined with worry. She met Morgan’s gaze. “Amalie’s womb has opened, but the child is not moving down. I fear the baby may be too big to be born.”
Morgan heard Rebecca’s words, tried to understand what she was telling him, the floor seeming to tilt beneath him. “Are you tellin’ me . . . she’s goin’ to . . . die?”
He felt Iain’s hand upon his shoulder.
“ Tis too early to tell, but I fear for her, Morgan. You are a big man, and she is very small. If the child cannot be born, neither of them will survive.” Rebecca took his hand. “Help me—both of you. Iain, I need you to help Annie hold her upright on the birthing stool. Morgan when the next pain comes, I want you to push against the top of her womb to try to force the child down. I’ll show you how.”
Morgan followed Rebecca up the stairs feeling more afraid than he’d ever felt going into battle, his mind filled with a silent prayer.
Mary, Blessed Virgin, spare my Amalie! Spare them both!
Clenching Annie’s hand, Amalie pushed with all her might, fighting not to scream as Morgan used his forearm to push hard against her belly, the pain unbearable. Teeth clenched, she looked into Morgan’s eyes, the strength she saw in them becoming her strength. She would not die. She would not let her baby die.
“A little longer . . . Feel your body open . . . That’s the way,” Rebecca crooned. “Your baby has lots of dark hair.” Then the pain passed, and Amalie sank back against Iain’s chest, barely able to stay awake, her body trembling from exertion, her mind exhausted by pain.
Morgan bathed her forehead with a cool cloth, murmuring reassurances. “It willna be long now, a leannan.” Amalie nodded, then fell into a doze.
Again and again her pangs came, and each time Amalie looked into Morgans eyes,clinging to the love she saw there, the pain between her legs turning to fire.
“The head is almost out, lass,” he said, pushing hard against her womb.
Unable to bear it, Amalie screamed—and felt the pain lessen. And there, between her thighs, was a baby’s face, its little eyes open, its tiny lips pressed in a frown.
“O, mon Dieu!” She reached down, stroked her baby’s head, even as Rebecca wiped its face with a clean cloth. And with one last push, her baby slipped into her hands, squalling.
“It’s a boy!” Rebecca helped Amalie lift the baby to her breast.
“And a strong one from the sounds of it,” Annie said, a relieved smile on her face.
Relief and elation washed through Amalie as she held her baby close, his healthy cries the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. She looked up at Morgan, saw tears in his eyes. She turned the baby so he could see its little face. “Your son.”
He reached out, took one of the baby’s hands in his, its little fingers curling around one of his. “Och, Amalie, lass! He’s so . . . so wee.”
Rebecca laughed, pressing her hand against Amalie’s belly to help drive out the afterbirth. “He’s a big one and .. . Oh! I think he’s got a brother or a sister.”
Another pang came, catching Amalie by surprise.
Twins?
The second baby came more quickly than the first, slipping into Rebecca’s waiting hands with an indignant wail. Rebecca held the baby up. “Another boy!”
And the room filled with laughter.
Amalie awoke to find Morgan beside her, rocking the two babies that lay side by side in the cradle he’d carved for one, a look of wonder on his handsome face.
“I think you shall have to carve another.”
Morgan glanced down at her, his gaze soft. “You’re awake already, a leannan? I thought you’d sleep the day away. God kens you need the rest.”
She tried to sit, winced at her soreness, her gaze settling on her two babies. “Do you know which is which?” He nodded, smiled. “The one in the blue blanket is Lachlan Anthony.”
It was the name they’d chosen if the baby was a boy, a name that honored both of their fathers—Lachlan MacKinnon and Antoine Chauvenet.
“What shall we name the second?”
“I’ve thought hard on that, and I’ve wondered how you’d feel about ‘Connor Joseph.’” He took her hand, his expression turning troubled. “Iain and I are out of the war now. Iain has a son. But Connor and Joseph are still fightin’. I thought that if we named our son after them, they would go into battle kennin’ that their names live on.”
It was a beautiful idea, one that touched Amalie deeply. She, too, hated to think of Connor and Joseph facing the danger of battle, their lives still bound to this war. She spoke the name aloud, her throat growing tight. “Connor Joseph MacKinnon. It is a strong and proud name. Connor and Joseph will be pleased.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “They’ll be insufferable.”
They laughed together, both knowing it was true. And for a moment, they sat in silence, staring in quiet amazement at their two sleeping babies. Then Morgan reached over and took Amalie’s hand.
He kissed her fingers, one by one. “There’s naugh’ I can say or do to repay you for what you’ve given me. If I could have taken your sufferin’ upon myself, I’d have done it gladly.”
She drew a breath to speak, but Morgan went on. “For a time, I was afraid I might lose you, and the thought struck fear inside me such as I’ve ne’er kent afore—not in battle, not when I was shot, not when I thought I might hang. I cannae fathom my life wi’out you, lass.” He drew a deep breath, his expression hardening. “I willna spend inside you again.”
Amalie saw the sincerity and resolve on his face and knew he was speaking such nonsense out of love for her. She raised her hand to his cheek, felt his stubble against her palm. “Am I to be content to live as your sister? No, Morgan. None of us knows what tomorrow will bring. Whether I die in childbed or Connor and Joseph are struck down in battle, we must take life as it comes.”
He ran his thumb down her cheek. “My brave, bonnie lass. Where does a wee woman come by such courage?”
“My courage comes from loving you, Morgan MacKinnon.”
He gazed at her as if in wonder, then drew a deep breath. “Then let us take each day as it comes, counting our blessings along the way.”
They turned as one and gazed into the cradle and counted—by twos.