by Alyssa Stark
“I must insist, milord. The babe is close and you really must not see…”
“My wife wishes me to stay,” Tristan said with authority as he glowered at the midwife. “And there is nothing here to see that I have not seen already. How do you think my wife finds herself in this condition?” he asked with irritation.
Isobel’s scream set his blood on fire. He turned his attention back to his wife. If the midwife wanted him to leave now, to leave when Isobel needed him the most, she would have to move him herself.
“I’m right here, love. You are so brave. Fight through it, it will be over soon,” he reassured as he leaned over his wife and whispered honeyed words into her ear.
Tristan’s heart was secretly gripped with fear. He shielded his emotions so that Isobel would not see the terror that resided in his heart.
He could not bear to lose her.
Isobel’s breathing was ragged. Her face was flushed with color from the strain of her exertion. She looked into Tristan’s eyes, feeling stronger just by his presence next to her. “Stay,” she said, her voice raspy as she squeezed his hand.
Tristan leaned over her and kissed her forehead.
“I’m here, love. We will get through this together.”
Isobel collapsed against the pillows, weary from the overwhelming pain of her labor contractions.
“How long have you been laboring, love?” Tristan asked, his voice ridden with concern.
“Most of the day. I’m so tired, Tristan,” she confessed as tears welled in her blue eyes. “I worry that the baby might be stuck, or that I will not have enough strength to push him out…” Isobel stammered as the tears overflowed the rims of her eyes.
Reaching up to brush her tears away with his thumb, Tristan felt renewed fear bloom up within him. Isobel never admitted defeat. It pained him greatly to hear that she was exhausted. Women died in childbirth far too frequently when they were too exhausted to birth their babies.
Another contraction gripped Isobel and she cried out with pain. Her beautiful face was twisted with agony. “Help me Tristan! I do not want to die!” she screamed, her terror breaking Tristan’s heart.
“Is there nothing that you can do for her?” he asked helplessly as he looked over his shoulder at the mid wife.
“She is very close now, milord. Most women think that they will die at this point,” the midwife said softly, her words meant to assure Tristan that everything was progressing as it should. “She should be ready to push soon and God willing, she will have enough strength remaining to push the baby out.”
“Please don’t let me die, Tristan,” Isobel begged, her bravery evaporating in the midst of her pain.
“You will not die, Bella. I forbid it,” Tristan said harshly. The tone of his voice actually convinced Isobel that he would not let her die. “We will do this together. I’ll help you, love.”
Taking control of the situation, Tristan stood and rucked up his linen shirt, caring not for the modesty of the midwife and her maids.
“Milord, you simply cannot…” the midwife said in horror when she realized what Tristan had made up his mind to do.
Shooting the midwife a glare that dared her to defy him, Tristan clamored up onto the giant bed and situated himself behind his wife so that her back rested against his bare chest and her body rested between his legs. Isobel relaxed at once, melting into the comfort of Tristan’s strong arms.
He kissed her flushed cheek. “As I said, love. We’ll do this together.”
“I love you so much, Tristan,” Isobel said weakly as she allowed her head to loll back against Tristan’s muscular shoulder. She felt as though she had been enveloped with a warm blanket. She could actually feel Tristan’s strength bolstering her, flowing into her weakened limbs. They would do this together. Shaking her head in disbelief, the midwife lifted the bed sheets and was surprised to see the baby’s head crowning. Tristan’s presence had calmed his wife and the mere fact that she had relaxed had eased the babe into position.
“With the next contraction, bring your knees up and push out your baby,” the midwife instructed, unable to stifle a smile as she watched the young couple lying on the bed. It was clear that they were madly in love and the midwife suddenly wondered exactly why men had been shut out of birthing chambers.
Isobel moaned as the first wave of her contraction tightened around her belly, shooting dizzying pain up her spine.
“You can do this love. You are so brave and strong,” Tristan whispered lovingly into his wife’s damp hair. He leaned forward and grabbed underneath Isobel’s knees, taking one of her thighs into each of his massive hands. Her legs trembled in his hands, her muscles spent from exhaustion. He knew that Isobel was mustering every ounce of strength that she could find. “Push out our baby, love,” he coaxed as he helped Isobel position her legs.
Garnering strength from Tristan’s encouraging words, Isobel bore down and pushed. She gritted her teeth together and pushed with all of her might.
“That’s it! That is the way!” the midwife said enthusiastically as she watched the baby drop down. “A few more like that and you shall see your baby!”
“Well done, Bella,” Tristan praised. His muscles were tense. Never before had he felt more helpless. He wanted to take away Isobel’s pain, bear it for her himself.
“Watching you right now makes me love you even more,” Tristan whispered as he kissed Isobel’s temple. “You are so brave, love.”
“Argh!” Isobel gritted as another contraction gripped her womb.
“Push out our baby,” Tristan said sternly as he grasped Isobel’s legs and held her as the contraction racked her small frame.
His familiar voice broke through Isobel’s pain and she centered her mind upon his command.
Push out our baby.
Mustering the last of her strength, she grasped Tristan’s forearms and bore down, pressing her chin to her chest and clenching her eyes tightly shut.
The midwife squealed with delight as the baby spilled forth like a cannonball, eyes open and screaming bloody murder. She caught him and held him up for his astonished parents.
“A boy!” she exclaimed. Laying him gently on the bed, she began to wipe the remnants of blood from the baby and then swaddled him handily in a lengthy strip of cloth.
Isobel collapsed against Tristan’s chest. She relished the joy of the moment, safely enclosed in her husband’s supportive arms. When the midwife handed her son to her, she thought that her heart might explode from the depths of the love that she felt for the tiny being. Isobel settled the tiny bundle into the crook of her arm and smiled down at him proudly, swimming in the bliss that accompanied his arrival.
“You did it, love,” Tristan said warmly as he kissed her hairline. He cupped his tiny son’s head in his palm. “Can you fathom that we made him?” he asked, his voice filled with wonder.
“Now that he’s here, I scarcely cannot,” Isobel said as she began to unwrap the tiny bundle. She needed to count his fingers and his tiny toes, ensuring that he really was as perfect as he seemed. “Part of you and part of me, together forever in him,” she said warmly as she admired their creation.
The baby’s eyes opened and he looked up at his parents, blinked twice and then settled back into his peaceful slumber.
Tristan and Isobel giggled.
“Are you happy?” Isobel asked, wondering if Tristan was feeling the same overwhelming joy that had rooted itself within her soul.
“Happy?” he asked, huffing incredulously. “Happy is hardly the correct word to describe the way I feel. I am over the moon, love! I am so damn proud of you, and of him and of myself for that matter that I feel like I should go strut about the grounds, prouder than a peacock.”
Isobel laughed gently, afraid that she might wake the baby.
“When you do begin to strut about, may I watch?”
“I do believe that when a peacock struts, he does it mostly for the benefit of his mate anyhow,” Tristan said, chuckling as
he gathered his family more firmly in his arms.
“Aghem,” the midwife cleared her throat, intruding into the couple’s intimate moment.
“Yes?” Tristan asked coolly, not appreciating her interruption.
“I’ve allowed you to stay thus far, milord, but I absolutely must insist that you leave now. I’ll be needing to clean up milady so that she can get some proper rest.”
Tristan clenched his teeth and fought to retain his patience. The midwife had allowed nothing. He would have liked to have seen her try to remove him from Isobel’s side during her labor.
“May I ask one favor from you first?” he asked, smiling sweetly so as to increase the chances that the midwife would comply with his request and garner a few more precious moments with his new family.
“Yes milord?”
“I’d like a moment alone with my wife and new son,” he said, smiling as he glanced proudly at Isobel.
“Gladly, milord,” the midwife responded, having grown a soft spot for Tristan Finnegan. Any man who had done for his wife what he had just done had earned himself high esteem in her eyes.
The midwife nodded to the maids, giving them the signal that the new family needed a few moments of privacy. When she opened the door to the chamber, Eleanor almost fell over, having been leaning against the door and trying to figure out if all was well within the chamber.
“Is everything alright?” Eleanor asked worriedly.
“Quite,” responded the midwife warmly.
Eleanor beamed at the midwife’s words.
“I must compliment you upon your son, milady. Never have I seen a man behave as wondrously as he did just now. If more women were blessed with husbands of his character, I do believe that the world would be a better place.”
Eleanor had no notion of what the woman spoke about, but her heart warmed when the kind woman sung her son’s praises. Tristan had grown into a fine man, and Eleanor was right proud of all that he had become. He would be an excellent father, and she was overjoyed that fatherhood was again in his future.
Inside the small chamber, Tristan leaned against the headboard, naked from the waist up with Isobel wrapped in his arms. Her head rested on his shoulder and in her arms slept the most perfect, precious little boy. Both parents stared at the baby contently with looks of absolute wonder on their faces, unable to believe that they had created such a miracle.
Tristan’s heart swelled with love and pride as he held his family in his arms.
He kissed Isobel softly on the hair and stroked his fingers lightly down his son’s tiny face. In this tiny bundle lie his future, lovingly intertwined with Isobel’s.
In his arms, he held everything that he had ever wished for.
..ooOOoo..
Thank you for reading my debut full length novel, Tournament of Hearts!
I do sincerely hope that you enjoyed it.
If you enjoyed Tournament of Hearts, please consider reading my next title,
A Promise in Midwinter. I’ve attached the first two chapters for your reading pleasure.
http://www.amazon.com/A-Promise-Midwinter-Alyssa-Stark-ebook/dp/B00GPWDS2O/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1384829728&sr=8-2&keywords=alyssa+stark
A Promise in Midwinter
By: Alyssa Stark
..oo Chapter One oo..
“Come closer, Daughter. The walls of this canvas tent are thin,” Lady Olivia Campbell whispered through parched, bloodied lips. Speech was difficult for her now. Lady Olivia swallowed hard and began again, “And if he hears my secret we shall both soon be dead.”
Lady Olivia’s breathing was ragged from the effort of speaking.
Her breath came in shallow, raspy gulps.
They were the labored last breaths of a dying woman.
“Shh, Mama,” Elizabeth soothed in a hushed voice. She took her mother’s hand and kissed the pale bony knuckles before lowering her ear to her mother’s chapped lips. The disease had overtaken Lady Campbell with remarkable speed, withering her lithe body into a weakened shell in only a matter of days. The tell-tale fever had come first, sending Elizabeth to her knees to beg the Lord’s mercy for her mother’s life.
Elizabeth knew what would happen next.
She was no innocent.
She had seen far too many of her step-father’s soldiers die from the same condition.
First came the fever and then the bloody flux.
No one survived the bloody flux.
“What is it Mama?” Elizabeth asked as she leaned closer to her mother.
Olivia Campbell pursed her lips together and closed her eyes briefly. Her pain was unbearable, but no pain was worse than admitting the truth to her beloved daughter. She had lived her life as a coward, always denying the truth that beat with every pulse of her heart.
“Your father lives,” Olivia whispered sternly to her daughter, being ever so careful to secret her words. “Listen to me carefully, child. John can know nothing of this! If he discovers my secret, your very life will be in danger!” Olivia’s blue eyes pierced Elizabeth’s, imploring her daughter to understand the full implication of her words.
Elizabeth shook her head in blatant denial.
“This is madness, Mama!” she said in wild disbelief. “My father died before I was born! You always told me that-
“I lied to you, daughter!” Olivia said, shame weighing on her fragile voice. “I lied to protect you.”
“But how could you-
“Elizabeth, please listen! We have but precious little time. You must listen!” Olivia scolded as she squeezed her daughter’s hand.
Elizabeth nodded once and forced her questions to wait.
“I’ve sent word to him, to your father,” Olivia said as her eyes searched Elizabeth’s face for understanding. “He thought that you were dead. He thought that we were both dead,” Olivia admitted as tears welled in her eyes.
“But why-
“I loved him, Beth,” Olivia confessed as a tear rolled down her cheek. “Your father and I were handfasted. You were conceived in love and he would have wanted you had he known of you,” she said, her voice breaking off into a sob as she spoke of the heartbreak that she had repressed for so long. “He would have loved you so much, just as I have done, sweet child,” Olivia said as she raised a shaky hand to brush her daughter’s cheek.
Elizabeth bit her lower lip, a habit that betrayed her effort to hide her emotions.
“Your father is a MacFarland,” Olivia whispered, revealing the dire nature of her deadly secret. “John believes that your father raped me and that you were a product of that coupling, but it was all a lie,” Olivia said as she cried freely now, revealing her sins to her daughter. “I was betrothed to John Campbell before I met your father. We met by chance in a battle camp just like this one,” she said as her eyes flitted up to the ceiling of the canvas field tent. “I loved him from the first moment that we met. The brief time that I spent with the McFarland was the happiest time of my life.”
The flap of the tent was suddenly cast open, causing both women to jump visibly.
“I can tell you no more, daughter,” Olivia whispered hurriedly. “Tell no one of what I have said, but know that I have sent word to him. He will come for you,” Olivia said with a forlorn look as she squeezed her daughter’s hand reassuringly.
There were so many things that Olivia had wanted to say to Elizabeth. There were so many words that would go unspoken between them now. Olivia’s eyes held her daughter’s gaze, telling her without words the burden that her silence had rift upon her heart.
“Come,” John Campbell barked at Elizabeth. His presence loomed in the entrance to the canvas tent.
Elizabeth’s step-father was a commanding man. His broad shoulders filled the entrance to the tent. He stood with his arms crossed and gave not a hint of care towards his wife Olivia. John Campbell ruled his clan with an iron fist and not even the impending death of his wife could take his mind away from the aftermath of the battle.
Campbell was growing
impatient.
Elizabeth knew better than to hesitate.
She had paid the lofty price of disobeying John Campbell’s orders on more than one occasion.
Elizabeth stood and placed a gentle kiss atop her mother’s knuckles. Olivia squeezed her daughter’s hand in response, the effort causing her fragile hand to tremble. Elizabeth bent down and kissed her mother’s cheek. She shuddered at the sound of the raspy breathing that emanated from Olivia Campbell’s chest. She knew that her mother was not long for this world.
“I love you, Mama,” she whispered as she brushed the auburn hair back from Olivia’s face. Reaching up to wipe the unshed tears from her eyes, Elizabeth brushed off her skirts and moved towards the canvas door.
“And I you, Daughter,” Olivia said as she fought to restrain the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.
Elizabeth turned without looking back and followed John Campbell into the gray twilight. She knew that this was the last time she would see her dear mother alive. She clenched her teeth and prayed for strength.
Her mother’s secret was a talisman of hope burning deep in the pit of her belly.
She dare not let John know of her precious secret or the hope that kindled with it.
..ooOOoo..
“His life is worth more to me than yours,” John Campbell spoke harshly as he regarded the warrior that lie tethered to the base of the massive oak tree. “Do not allow him to die,” he commanded as he glowered at Elizabeth.
Elizabeth looked down at the MacFarland warrior. A lump settled in her throat as she contemplated the enormous task that her step-father had charged her with. The man was slumped against the base of the tree, crusted with so much blood that she could not readily identify the nature of his wounds. His hair was plastered to his face, partially concealing a myriad of scrapes, bruises and cuts. There was a large gash spanning from his muscular neck across his pectoral muscle which was still seeping a steady stream of blood. His head was split open above his temple, the wound crusted with dirt and debris.