“Believe me, after I couldn’t get you to wake up and realized the horses were gone, the grim possibilities circled like vultures. But”—she twisted in his arms so she could see his face—“I couldn’t leave you. For a moment I was afraid you were dead.” She snaked her arms around his torso and squeezed his already tight lungs.
He swallowed past the lump jammed in his throat that didn’t seem to be associated with the knot on his head. Bryn might have died. For what? To save him? Jesus, no one would have come looking for him. No one would have missed him.
Just because a slip of a lass had risked her life to save his was no reason to turn mawkish. He cleared his throat. “While I appreciate the sacrifice, there would have been no use for both us to die.”
“I wasn’t planning on either one of us dying. Who shot at us, do you think?” Her voice was muffled against his greatcoat. He liked her arms around him even if she only sought his warmth.
“Most likely Dugan or someone he hired, wouldn’t you think?”
“It might have been Albert. He could have followed us from Riverwalk and waited until we entered the forest to attack.”
“Damn, we’re a fine pair, aren’t we?” Both of them had stirred the pot enough to have someone out to kill them. Or him, actually. Both Dugan and MacShane would want him dead.
“You don’t have to sound so amused that two factions have cause to murder us.”
“You’re safe enough. Everyone wants me out of the way. Of course, if Dugan gets his grubby hands on you, you’ll be dragged to the nearest blacksmith.” He sniffed the air. “Is it the knock to my head or is that smoke?”
Primrose picked up her pace, perhaps sensing oats and a rubdown in her near future. A small, well-tended farmstead appeared through the trees. He pointed, his arm worryingly heavy and numb. “We’ll slip into the barn.”
“Blast that. I’m going to finagle our way into the house. I would battle Beelzebub himself to sit in front of a fire.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“You see to Primrose. I’ll see to gaining us a place by the hearth.” She jumped down and clutched at Maxwell’s good thigh until she gained her footing.
“Wait for me, Brynmore.”
* * * * *
Bryn tipped her head back and met Maxwell’s shadowed gaze. The command in his voice was natural. No doubt, he had been used to having his orders followed in the army. But while she would never be comfortable calling on the Lady MacShanes of the world, she moved among farmers and herders with ease.
“I’ll be fine. I’m much less intimidating on my own.”
He broke their gazes first with a heavy sigh. Perhaps the bash on his head had addled him. “Do what you can then, lass.”
She waited until he was out of sight before approaching the cottage. Dormant roses were planted around the door. Good, there was most likely a woman of the house. Lantern light flickered through the shuttered windows. Odd that, but perhaps the family kept late hours. Whipping off her hat and fluffing her hair, she pasted on what she hoped was an I’m-not-a-murdering-thief smile and rapped on the door.
The door cracked open. A man peeked out, his eyes wide, his mouth agape, and his hair disheveled. “What in the world? Where did you come from? Are you a witch?”
Trepidation stole her bravado, but Maxwell needed a fire. He was cold and wounded, and she needed to tend to him. “A mere woman lost in the woods and desperate for a warm fire. My… husband is sheltering our horse in your barn. If it’s not too much trouble, could we bed down at your hearth? We’re nearly frozen through.”
A low, keening cry echoed out the door. Of all the farmsteads in Scotland, they had to wander into a madman’s. Bryn took a step backward. “On the other hand, perhaps we’ll move along.”
“No! Come in. You must help me.” The man grabbed her forearm, his fingers digging sharply into flesh. She planted her feet, but she was no match for his brawn. He dragged her through the door and slammed it shut.
A blast of fear heightened her senses. A blazing fire lit the room. Devilish shadows danced along the walls. A black pot hung over the flames, billowing steam. Sheets and blankets and strips of linen littered a wooden table. The tortured moaning renewed with fervor.
Bryn backed against the door and scrabbled for the latch. “Sir, my husband is a large, strong man. He’ll kill you if you hurt me.”
The man barked a laugh and dropped her arm to run a hand through his hair, standing more strands on end. “I’m not going to hurt you, lass. It’s my wife. A babe is coming, but something’s not right. It’s been going on forever. And I can’t ride off and leave her here alone to fetch the doctor. He’s a good ten miles away and stays half-drunk anyway. She’s in such pain, and I don’t know what to do. Please.” Desperation threaded his hoarse voice and shined in his eyes.
How could she turn her back and do nothing even if it was only to offer a bit of comfort? Words came tripping out of her mouth. “I’ve not had any experience birthing babes, but I’ve heard women talk.” My God, she sounded ridiculous. The only births she’d witnessed were lambings.
Instead of laughing, the man nodded. “Yes, just please help me.”
“When did the pains start?”
Words poured from the man, some relevant, others not. Bryn picked through the torrent. After an untroubled term, the woman had been laboring for almost twenty-four hours. Another long cry emerged from a side room. The man covered his mouth and turned away.
Taking a deep breath and blowing her hair off her forehead, she tiptoed toward the room. She poked her head around the jamb. The woman’s head was thrown back in a keening wail, the tendons in her neck standing out. Her dark hair was plastered against her forehead with sweat.
Bryn’s stomach tried to run for the door. Was this torture in her future? The fuzzy worry of a babe solidified into terror and slithered through her body, dizzying her. The woman’s pain passed after an interminable age. When she opened her eyes, she jerked into the pillows at the sight of Bryn in the doorway.
A hand at Bryn’s back propelled her into the small room, her numb legs moving on instinct. The man led her to the side of the bed, wrung out a cloth, and ran it over the woman’s forehead with gentle care.
“I’m Reese, and this is Meredith. Sweet, this is…” The man looked at Bryn, his face blank.
“Brynmore McCann, madam. At your service.”
“I’m very happy to meet you, Brynmore McCann. Are you a midwife, perchance?” Another pain took hold of Meredith, saving Bryn from answering.
Chaos reigned in her head. What had Cadell told her about labor in ewes? The pain was necessary and welcome. The pain grew the birth canal and expelled the lamb. The woman’s cry faded into a tired sob. This pain did not seem welcome, and the baby wasn’t coming.
Bryn stepped to the woman’s side and took her limp hand, chaffing it between both of hers. “I need to discover how close you are to delivering. May I?”
Meredith’s beautiful blue eyes looked into Bryn’s like she was a savior. Fear crawled out of her stomach and closed her throat to a river reed. At Meredith’s nod, Bryn lifted the sheet to the woman’s waist followed by her night rail.
Without urging, Meredith bent and spread her legs. As if in a dream, Bryn positioned herself to examine the birth canal. She squeezed her eyes shut and imagined Cadell at her shoulder. She popped her eyes open. The birth canal had grown round enough to accommodate a baby’s head, but none was visible, not even a hint of hair or scalp.
Examine the ewe. Ease the lamb out. But first always wash, Cadell whispered in her head. Soap and water. Cadell had always scrubbed his hands until they were raw. He’d rarely lost a ewe and was much sought after by the local herders.
“I need…” The words came out as a croak, and she cleared her throat. “I need soap and hot water to wash.” Reese shot out of the room.
“Is everything going to be all right?” The fear in the woman’s voice cut through Bryn’s own fears. This might very well be Bryn
in a few months. Did she want a hysterical midwife at her side admitting she didn’t know what in blazes she was doing?
Bryn slipped off her cloak and rolled her sleeves to her elbows. “Everything is going to be fine. I need to determine where the baby is positioned so we’ll have an idea of how much longer it will be before you meet your son or daughter. Do you have a name picked out?”
Bryn forced her lips to curl upward. It was enough to calm a pain-addled Meredith, who managed a weak smile in return and relaxed against the pillows. Before she could answer, another pain racked her body. Bryn’s imagination jumped from one horrid possibility to another.
Reese balanced a basin of steaming water in one hand and strips of linen and soap in the other. A pounding sounded on the front door. He started and spilled water over his hand. “That’d be your husband, I suppose.”
Reese set the water down and bolted back out of the room. Male murmurs undercut Bryn’s rising panic. Maxwell was here. The thought of him in the other room steadied her nerves, and her thoughts straightened into logical lines.
While she washed, she talked about the weather and the beauty of the snow. When her hands were red from the hot water and soap, she dried them and positioned herself between Meredith’s legs once more.
Bryn closed her eyes and explored with one hand. Expecting to feel the dome of a little head, she grabbed something smaller and squirmy. A foot.
Meredith’s baby was breech. Remember the two choices? Cadell whispered. She could turn the baby in the womb or try to pull it out by its feet. She had seen both done—to ewes. How did Cadell decide which course to take? She moved back to Meredith’s side and pressed on her belly. Meredith moaned, but the baby moved, still high.
Bryn bit her lip and washed a small amount of blood off her hands.
Meredith’s eyes brimmed with tears. “What is it? Tell me.”
“The good news and the bad news is that I felt a very wriggly foot.”
Meredith’s head fell back against the pillows. “He’s alive. Can he come out like that?”
“He can, but I only felt one foot. It might be one leg is up and one is down. I can try to turn the babe in your stomach, but it might be painful.”
“Painful? It can’t be worse than what I’ve already endured. Do it.” Determination hardened the woman’s eyes and voice.
“I’ll need the men to press on your belly while I push his little foot back up.”
Meredith nodded her assent, another contraction stealing her attention. Bryn slipped out the door. Maxwell stood inside the door, his gloves off but his coat still on. His eyes were protective and questioning. Without saying a word, he infused her with confidence.
“The babe is breech. I’ll try to coax the fellow around but require some muscle.” Bryn didn’t take her eyes off Maxwell.
Reese cursed and strode to his wife.
She shuffled toward Maxwell. “I need you.”
The admission crashed around them, encompassing more than just help with the birth. Finally he nodded, shrugged out of hat and cloak, and limped toward her. His forehead was crusted with dried blood, dark red against his unusually pale cheeks. His pain radiated to her and made her ache in concert. But he was in no danger of dying. The same couldn’t be said for Meredith and her babe.
“I can’t do this.” Her voice was at a whisper. Panic centered in her chest radiated to her extremities, causing them to tremble. Not now. She couldn’t deal with one of her episodes now.
Maxwell took her shoulders and squeezed, drawing her focus to his face. “You can. You saved one life already today. Mine. I have faith in you.”
It was as much the confidence in his eyes as his words that beat the panic back to manageable levels. “You’ll be at my side?”
“Always.”
The word made her breath catch, but she had no time to tease out the meaning. Another wail drew her back into the birthing room.
She directed the men to stand on either side of Meredith’s belly and demonstrated. “Maxwell, push from the top and around. Reese, you push from the bottom. I’ll tuck his little foot back up. You must keep pushing until I tell you to stop, no matter your wife’s cries.”
Both men looked like she was forcing them off a cliff at sword point. She waited until Maxwell and Reese were in place, their hands on Meredith’s belly.
“Are you ready, Meredith? Try not to tense,” she said. The woman nodded. “Gentlemen? Here we go. Push!”
While the men pressed, Bryn poked the little leg upward. Meredith writhed, her screams ringing in the small room. Bryn lost her grasp on the babe’s foot, and a sob cracked her composure. She tried again, pushing the foot even higher. Everything shifted.
Maxwell eased off. “I felt the babe move. Is he in the right place now?”
Black hair appeared from the birth canal. Bryn jerked backward. For a moment she couldn’t move. Meredith bore down with a long, animalistic yell. The babe emerged, and as if watching someone else, Bryn caught the warm and slippery body with both hands.
The black-haired babe squalled. Shock held her still as she stared at the cherubic-faced, screaming, bloody devil. Maxwell wrapped the babe in a swath of linen and took him from her. Reese tied the cord and cut it with a knife. She stood with her bloodied hands out as if she still held the baby.
Maxwell swayed with the babe, and the screams reduced to a whimper. A genuine awe-filled smile curled his lips before Reese scurried around the bed to take the baby out of his arms.
Meredith laughed. “Let me see. Is the babe a boy or girl?”
Bryn hadn’t had the wits to check between its legs.
“A fine baby girl,” Maxwell said.
“A girl,” Bryn whispered. By the way Meredith and Reese cooed and stroked her face in wonder, a baby girl who would be well-loved. Tears stung the back of Bryn’s eyes as a long-held pain reared in her heart.
Meredith’s soft murmuring was interrupted by a groan as she curled over her belly. The afterbirth. Bryn resumed her position between Meredith’s legs. “One more push will see it done.”
Bryn guided the afterbirth out, her stomach roiling at the blood. But not too much, she didn’t think. Cadell had always said birthing was a beautiful, bloody experience. Not convinced of the beautiful aspect, she wrapped up the afterbirth and set it aside for burying later.
She washed in the basin she’d used earlier, mesmerized by the swirling pink water. Drying her hands, she glanced at Meredith. Although shadows ringed her eyes and her hair was a sweaty mess, she smiled as she nursed her little girl and leaned against her husband.
“I’ll return in a bit with fresh water to clean you and the babe.” Bryn backed away.
The heat she craved earlier threatened to overtake her. Nothing could hold her panic at bay now. Her forehead prickled with sweat, and her stomach heaved. Stumbling out of the room, her vision narrowing, she thought to make for the door, but all she could see was Maxwell, and she veered toward him.
Chapter Ten
Bryn was ashen-faced, her freckles standing out against her pale, smooth skin. And she looked at him like a shelter from the storm. Part of him wanted to run from her, from the responsibility, but another part of him wanted to snatch her against him and bury his face in her hair. He felt like a hunted hare, not sure which way to turn until the decision was taken out of his hands. She fell into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her to keep her upright.
Her trembles cascaded through him, and he pulled back. Was she crying? Her face had splotched, and prickles of sweat dotted her forehead, but no tears. She pulled at the neck of her gown, her eyes unfocused.
He swept her into a cradle hold and sat in an oversize, leather armchair with her on his lap. He pushed her hands away and unbuttoned the neck of her gown. Her shudders diminished with each heaving breath. Not knowing what else to do, he took his handkerchief and wiped her face.
Her color evened. She fingered the floppy edges of her gown and shimmied to rise. Her voice was cre
aky, not quite back under her control yet. “I’m so sorry. Let me—”
“No, don’t move.”
Her squirms ceased, and she leaned back into his arms with a sigh. “I’m not sick. My attacks have come less frequently over the years. I can usually tame them on my own.”
“Attacks?”
Her breathing was still too rapid, as if she’d run across the moors. “Mary calls them nervous attacks. It’s one reason she’s never taken me to circulate in Edinburgh. She’s afraid I’ll cause a scene because I’m so weak. Plus my looks.”
Nothing in her explanation made any sense. His gaze coasted over her hair and face. Her silky hair begged for his fingers. Her beautifully full lips called to his own without a word being spoken. And her lithe body… well, it didn’t bear discussion what part of him answered that call. He could hardly admit any of it to her, but he could dispel Mary’s other argument.
Weak? Hardly.
“Let’s review the day, shall we? You blustered your way into Lady MacShane’s drawing room, leaped off your horse to save me from a man—or men—with evil designs, and single-handedly delivered a breech babe. Sweetheart, you are the furthest thing from weak.”
“But I panicked—”
“A completely normal reaction. I’ve never seen anyone as cool under pressure as you were with Meredith. She drew on your strength.” It was the truth. Even in the midst of war, he’d rarely come across a man as collected as Bryn had been directing them in the birthing room.
Her head lolled on his shoulder, and she grabbed his biceps, pulling his arm around her. He didn’t hesitate and gave in to his desire, burrowing his face in the hair at her neck. Her body turned lax, and she heaved a sigh, her breathing slowing.
Too soon she rolled off his lap and stood. He let her go with an embarrassing amount of reluctance. When he’d held the babe, a sense of marvel crashed into his terror, resulting in confusion. In a scant few months, he might be holding his own babe. His and Bryn’s babe.
A roil of emotion he’d assumed long dead left him rattled. He clenched his hands around his thighs to keep from reaching for her. Now he was the one close to panic. The throb in his leg and head reared higher, and his stomach knotted. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.
A Reckless Redemption (Spies and Lovers Book 3) Page 11