Highland Belle

by Patricia H. Grasso

  “This is a sorry business that brings us together,” the duke remarked. “Who would've thought? So many of my dearest cronies are passin’ on. It's surely a harbinger of my own fate.” Old, painful memories rose up to torment the duke. “Before passin’ over, did yer father speak of—?"

  “Yes,” Iain cut him off, “but it's the recent past I'm concerned wi'. Takin’ my father's life will cost Menzies his own."

  “Iain. Percy.” Magnus shook their hands, then gently drew his bride forward. “This is my wife, Avril, Huntly's chit—I mean, daughter."

  Avril curtsyed. “My lords. Countess."

  “My lady,” Antonia corrected, smiling, pleased with the mistaken title. “The countess will be wi’ us shortly."

  “This is Lady Antonia,” Iain introduced the two women, “my brother Malcolm's widow."

  He led the group into the great hall, where the funeral supper would be served. Several moments later, Brigette appeared in the entrance, and beneath the amused eyes of all, Iain rushed to her side and escorted her to the high table.

  In friendly exuberance, Magnus hugged her. “Ye've grown since the last I saw ye."

  “Yes.” Brigette's face reddened. “Forgive me for failing to curtsy,” she said, turning to greet the duke. “As you can see, I'm incapable of such movements."

  “Ye look bonnie,” the duke complimented, long years of experience having taught him that breeding women required the gentlest of handling. “There's nae finer sight to a mon than a woman heavy wi’ child.” He glanced at Iain. “Especially when the woman is the mon's wife. I'm hopin',” he added, “it willna’ be too long before our Avril looks exactly like ye."

  Avril gulped nervously. Her blue eyes were large with horrified fascination as she stared at Brigette's enormous stomach.

  “Brie,” Magnus introduced, “this is my wife, Avril."

  “My best wishes on your marriage,” Brigette said, smiling. “I'm sorry we were unable to attend the ceremony, but my size does not allow travel.” Avril nodded and returned the smile, but her eyes never left Brigette's stomach.

  “Dear Brie has grown so outrageously large,” Antonia piped in, her voice dripping sugar. “One wonders if she might have miscalculated the time of conception.” The significance of the remark went unnoted by all but Iain and Brigette, who chose to ignore it.

  For obvious reasons, supper was a subdued affair. Salmon, mutton, sweetmeats, and bread were served.

  “What are ye plannin’ for yer revenge?” the duke asked.

  Iain opened his mouth to reply, but felt Brigette's hand on his arm. Dark eyes met green, and he was unable to resist her silent plea. “It's formin’ in my mind,” he answered the duke. “I'd like yer advice on it after the funeral."

  The duke nodded, his gaze drifting to Brigette. “Does that beastie of yers still abide hereaboots?"

  “Yes.” Brigette relaxed, thankful she need not listen to her husband's plans for war and death.

  “Beastie?” Avril asked, puzzled.

  “Sly is my pet fox,” Brigette told her. “He adopted me in the forest when I ran away from Iain."

  “Ye ran away?” Avril's eyes sparkled, and she glanced sidelong at her own husband. “There's a solution I never considered."

  “Ye've never needed solutions, hinny,” Magnus scoffed, “because ye never had any problems. Huntly spoiled ye rotten."

  Anger flared in Avril's eyes, but Magnus only chuckled and kissed her cheek. “Dinna whip yer temper into a frenzy,” he admonished, close to her ear. “Remember why we're here and behave yerself.” Avril kept her mouth shut, and Magnus turned to Percy. “Will ye return to Edinburgh, cuz?"

  “I'll be leavin’ in a few days."

  “Yer welcome to stay at Campbell Mansion,” the duke interjected.

  “And I'll be there sometime after Hogmanay,” Magnus added.

  Glancing at Avril, Brigette smothered a chuckle. High rage reddened the young woman's cheeks. Obviously, Lady Avril would be remaining at Inverary while her husband danced to the queen's tune.

  “Just be certain Avril has a bairn in her belly before ye get yerself killed on the queen's behalf,” the duke warned.

  “I canna promise anythin',” Magnus returned pleasantly, “but I'll give it my best effort."

  After supper, the pipers played a mourning lament. The MacArthur warriors, paying homage to their fallen leader, swirled around the hall in the traditional funeral dance. At its end, they drifted away, but the family remained for the death watch, guarding the earl's corpse until interment the following morning.

  “Why dinna ye take Avril to her chamber and then go to bed,” Iain said to Brigette. “It's unnecessary for ye to keep the watch."

  “I'm staying."

  “I'll show Lady Avril to her chamber,” Antonia offered, unwilling to lose sleep for a dead man and eager to befriend the future Duchess of Argyll.

  The family sat on a hard, wooden bench that had been placed beside the bier. An hour passed in silence. During the second hour, Brigette fidgeted uncomfortably. The baby was active, shifting her belly from side to side.

  “Yer uncomfortable,” Iain whispered. “Go to bed."

  “I'm staying,” she insisted. “The baby will keep me awake upstairs too."

  Iain shook his head, then stood and left the hall. He returned a few minutes later and handed her a dram of whiskey. “This will calm the babe's restlessness."

  Brigette pinched her nostrils together and gulped the whiskey, then grimaced and shuddered delicately. A short time later the baby quieted, and Brigette also drooped. Her eyes closed drowsily.

  “I'm takin’ ye upstairs,” Iain whispered, putting his arm around her, “and dinna argue wi’ me.” Brigette was too weary to protest. Her eyes opened at the sound of his voice, then closed again. He lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the hall.

  At dawn the great hall filled to capacity for the funeral procession. Eight MacArthur warriors, including Dugie and Jamie, served as the earl's pallbearers and led the way. Behind them was Father Kaplan, followed by the earl's family and invited guests. The pipers, clansmen, and retainers were followed by the crofters who'd come to pay their respects to their laird, a man who'd treated them fairly.

  The somber procession wended its way to the chapel, where Father Kaplan celebrated the solemn high mass of the dead. When the pallbearers lifted the earl's coffin to slide it into its vault, Brigette clasped both Iain's and Percy's hands. Entwining her fingers with theirs, she shared what meager strength she possessed.

  Instead of feeling relieved that the ceremonies were over, Brigette was restless. Leaving the others in the great hall, she headed for the garden, where Sly was wandering about.

  Sly rushed to her side with an offering. Brigette patted his head and accepted the stick, then threw it across the garden. Sly raced off to retrieve it.

  Life at Dunridge without Black Jack will be strange, she thought. His death has left a vacuum to which each must adjust.

  “Is that the fox?” Lady Avril's voice sounded behind her.

  “Yes.” Wearing a smile of greeting, Brigette turned toward the voice. Her smile froze and then vanished when she saw harsh condemnation stamped across the other woman's face.

  “I'll speak to the point,” Avril announced curtly. “Are ye carryin’ my husband's bastard?"

  Brigette was flabbergasted.

  “I said, are ye—?"

  “You stupid chit,” Brigette snapped, her eyes green slits of displeasure.

  “Stupid!"

  “You've been listening to Antonia's spiteful tales,” Brigette accused.

  “She's been honorable enough to mention the possibility,” Avril admitted.

  “If you heed her wild tales,” Brigette warned, “Antonia will ruin your marriage, as she's tried to ruin mine."

  “Why would she cause trouble for me?” Avril scoffed. “Besides, ye havena’ answered my question."

  “Antonia is causing me trouble, not you. The Countess of
Dunridge is a title to which she aspired. She cares nothing for your marriage."

  Avril was silent for several moments, digesting that bit of information. “I'll believe ye,” she said finally, “if ye swear that isna’ my husband's bastard."

  Before Brigette could open her mouth, a hand grabbed Avril's shoulder and whirled her around. With the flat of his hand, Magnus slapped her hard. “How dare ye! How dare ye accuse Brie of such a thin', and she eight months gone wi’ Dunridge's heir!"

  “B-b-but—"

  “Shut yer mouth,” Magnus roared. “Do ye actually believe I would've dishonored Iain's wife? Besides, ye could've questioned me. Yer behavior is unbecomin’ a Duchess of Argyll. Apologize at once."

  Avril's face was crimson. “I'm verra sorry for upsettin’ ye. Sincerely sorry."

  “Antonia's poison can be very convincing,” Brigette replied. “I've also fallen prey to it several times."

  “Accept my apology also,” Magnus added. “I wouldna’ have Iain or ye upset for anythin'."

  * * * *

  A Highland blizzard, the first of the season, swept through Dunridge the following week, forcing Brigette and Glenda to pass their leisure time sitting in front of the hearth in the great hall. Afternoon playtime was very much different than it had been previously. The shrieks of blindman's buff and other wild games no longer echoed in the chamber.

  Dunridge was a ghost keep. Black Jack's presence was sorely missed. Returning to Edinburgh, Percy perched at court like a bird of prey, ready to swoop down at a moment's notice upon Sheena Menzies. Iain was especially busy with his new duties as the Earl of Dunridge and head of the MacArthur family.

  As Christmas approached, Brigette's burden dropped, making her even more ungainly. Her waddle was slower than a snail's pace.

  Brigette tried to make the holiday cheerful, but failed dismally. She did manage, however, to elicit hearty laughter from Glenda and Iain when she presented Sly his gift. The fox became the not-so-proud owner of a doublet, fashioned from a MacArthur plaid.

  Supper on the eve of Hogmanay passed quietly, although the MacArthur warriors drank heavily and began dicing as soon as the trestles were pushed aside. Lady Antonia was noticeably absent, preferring to greet the new year alone in her chamber. When Moireach called Glenda to bed, Iain and Brigette sat alone at the high table.

  Glancing sidelong at him, Brigette thought how tired he looked. “I'm going to bed,” she announced, drawing his attention. “I've a raging headache and my back hurts. Stay and share a few cups with your men."

  Iain helped her stand, but when he would have escorted her upstairs, she refused, saying, “Spring shall see to my needs."

  “I willna’ be late,” he assured her, then kissed her cheek.

  Clad in a heavy robe, Brigette sat in front of the blazing hearth. After helping her change, Spring had left, but returned a few minutes later with a cup of warmed wine. Moireach had ordered it to ease Brigette's lower backache. Not only did it ease her discomfort, but her eyes closed drowsily in sleep.

  Iain, feeling more relaxed than he'd been in over a month, climbed the stairs to his chamber. My father has been taken from us, he thought, but my son will soon fill that void. Or daughter, he reminded himself, entering his bedchamber.

  “Ohhh...” A low moan sounded near the hearth.

  Iain crossed the chamber quickly and knelt in front of Brigette, then nudged her awake. A sharp cramp gripped her lower abdomen and doubled her over, leaving her breathless.

  “I'm wet!” Fear and confusion leaped from her eyes.

  “It's the baby. I'll fetch Moireach.” Iain stood, but was rooted to the spot.

  “Don't just stand there.” Brigette's voice rose in panic.

  “Will ye be all right alone?” he asked nervously.

  “Get Moireach or you'll be playing the midwife. Ohhh!"

  Iain sprang to life and flew out of the chamber.

  A few minutes later, Iain returned with Moireach and Spring. “Firstborns are notoriously slow,” the housekeeper said. “This will be a long night."

  “I've wet myself,” Brigette told her.

  “Fetch a clean nightshirt,” Moireach instructed Spring. “Then wake Kevin and tell him to keep water boilin'."

  “Ohhh!” Another spasm gripped Brigette. She moaned like a wounded animal and clutched at her husband's hand.

  Moireach chuckled, noting Iain's pallid complexion. The fiercest of warriors was quaking, helpless in the face of his young wife's labor. “Perhaps it willna’ take so long as I thought,” she remarked, helping Brigette into the clean nightshirt. “Iain, help her up. I want ye to walk aboot wi’ her."

  “I cannot walk,” Brigette cried. “I'm in heavy labor."

  “Heavy labor?” Moireach grinned. “Dinna be a ninny. Walkin’ aboot will make yer delivery easier. When the pain grabs ye, hang onto Iain and pant. Ye'll ken when yer labor gets heavy."

  “Worse than this?"

  “Dinna be frightened.” Moireach patted her shoulder. “Yer in capable hands."

  Time passed slowly. Within the protective circle of Iain's embrace, Brigette paced the chamber. Each time a contraction trapped her in its agonizing grip, Brigette groaned and leaned heavily against his solid frame.

  “I hear bells,” she said at one point.

  “Ye know,” he replied, “Father Kaplan welcomes the new year wi’ the tollin’ of the bells."

  “A new year and a new life,” she murmured. An excruciating pain, worse than any other, stabbed Brigette. She cried out and nearly fell to her knees.

  “Put her to bed,” Moireach said. Iain lifted and carried Brigette across the chamber to the bed. Without a thought to modesty, the housekeeper pushed up Brigette's nightshift, exposing her distended stomach and swollen breasts, then gently examined her. “Go downstairs, Iain, and send Spring wi’ the water.” lain nodded. “I willna’ be long,” he assured Brigette.

  “Ye must remain in the hall wi’ yer men,” Moireach insisted.

  “But—"

  “Yer wife willna’ thank ye in the mornin’ for watchin’ her laborin'."

  “Don't leave me,” Brigette wailed as another contraction knifed through her lower regions.

  “I willna’ leave ye, hinny."

  “Humph!” Moireach snorted in disgust. The wife was falling to pieces beneath the husband's kind encouragement. At this rate, the baby would take days to be born. “Lady Brigette,” she chided, “yer behavior is unseemly. A Highland woman bears her burdens bravely."

  “I'm not a Highlander, you old crone! I'm English! Tell her, Iain. Tell her I'm English.” The absurdity of her statement split Iain's face into a broad grin.

  “You bastard,” Brigette screamed. “You dare laugh at your dying wife? You did this to me. Ohhh!” Another contraction ripped through her.

  “Pant,” Moireach ordered. “Pant against it.” Through her pain, Brigette heard the voice of authority and obeyed.

  “Relax,” Moireach crooned, massaging Brigette's stomach. “I'm sendin’ Iain for the water.” Brigette nodded, too weary to protest.

  “Dinna return until I send for ye,” the housekeeper whispered out of the side of her mouth. “Ye ken?” He nodded and left.

  Battle-fatigued, Iain found Spring and then retired to the great hall. Several groups of men still drank and diced in the far corners of the chamber. Iain beckoned Dugie and Jamie, then sat at the high table and called for ale.

  “How fares Lady Brigette?” Dugie asked.

  “Sufferin’ horribly."

  “It's expected in a laborin’ woman."

  “She's in capable hands, though,” Jamie interjected.

  “Women die in childbirth,” Iain said miserably.

  “Yes, but many dinna,” Jamie countered.

  “Our mother safely birthed two,” Dugie offered, “and she's alive and breathin', helpin’ Lady Brie."

  Iain's expression cleared somewhat. “My own mother safely birthed three."

  “Lady Antonia safely
birthed wee Glenda,” Jamie added.

  “Mary of Guise safely birthed our bonnie Queen Mary,” Dugie upped his brother.

  “And the Pope's mistress safely birthed—"

  Iain burst out laughing, then suggested they sit in front of the hearth. This time he called for whiskey.

  Hours passed. Instead of emptying, the hall filled as news of the impending birth passed through Dunridge.

  Just before dawn, Iain left the hall with Sly. He paused in the foyer and looked anxiously toward the stairs, then headed for the snow-carpeted garden.

  Sly darted here and there while Iain, sick with dread, paced furiously. Bloody battles were nothing when compared to his wife's torment. Not knowing what's happening is the worst part of it, he told himself repeatedly. Given a choice, I'd prefer being the one in labor. He smiled inwardly, thinking his wife would certainly disagree.

  Tentacles of light crept into the eastern sky. Iain called Sly, and the two returned to the great hall, now filled to capacity with MacArthur warriors and retainers.

  “My lord!” Iain whirled around at the sound of Spring's cry. “It's a boy!"

  A deafening cheer shook the rafters. Iain's mouth dropped in shock, but his feet moved. He dashed out of the hall into the foyer, then took the stairs two at a time. As his hand touched the doorknob, Iain heard the lusty wail of a baby. My son! he thought, filled with wonder, then walked in.

  “Congratulations,” Moireach smiled. “Black Jack would've been proud of ye.” Then she was gone.

  Brigette was sitting up in bed. Her breasts were bared, and attached to one was a tiny dark head, leisurely working a nipple.

  “Meet our son,” she said, a tired yet triumphant smile on her face. She detached the baby from her nipple and turned him around to face his father. “Isn't he perfect? He resembles you."

  Perching on the edge of the bed, Iain scrutinized his son. The baby was large for a newborn, dark-haired and ruddy, and wrinkled like a wizened old man.

  “Well,” Iain hedged, “he does have my colorin', but I was never that ugly."

  “Iain!"