“Deirdre, you need to calm yourself.” Phoebe sponged her face with a cool, damp cloth. “The pain won’t be so bad if you relax.”
“I don’t care about the pain.” She deserved every bit of it. “It’s the future . . . My baby . . .”
That gave her more to cry about—her baby’s future. What kind of life would he or she have with a mother who couldn’t take care of her own and a father who didn’t believe he was the father? It didn’t deserve that kind of life. It deserved to be loved.
Resting on her side between contractions, Deirdre thought about the life she was about to bring into the world as what it was—a real son or daughter who would need to be nourished and taught, disciplined, and, most of all, loved. She had always known this, especially from the first quickening. Yet she had thought of the baby more as a nuisance, a weakness of her sex having to pay for passion’s fulfillment with such a burden. Then she thought about the child as a means to an end. A woman with child could get away with a great deal, like excusing herself from parties or creating distractions in prison markets. But this was far more. It was a creature demanding that she take notice and give it breathing life.
She lay her hand on the mound of her belly and tried to send the being within a silent message. I’ll do my best not to fail you. I will love you no matter what happens.
The next contraction left her gasping. When it passed, she lay drifting into a half sleep, thinking about her mother. How she must have loved her father to give birth on a ship, then stay aboard with her child. This then was why Deirdre did not include herself in plans to get her crew out of England, despite Kieran’s doubts regarding the baby’s parentage, in spite of him keeping her as imprisoned as he could, regardless of him putting his family before her. She had her mother as an example of true devotion.
Devotion and love. Heaven help her, but she loved her husband. She probably had for months, since before he questioned their baby’s paternity. His betrayal would not have hurt so much if she cared little for him.
So had her betrayal, setting her crew ahead of him, hurt him? He would have to care for her, maybe even love her, to be hurt and not merely angry that she endangered his family’s reputation or even freedom.
Suddenly needing to know where his heart lay toward her, she opened her eyes, glancing about the room. “Kieran?”
“I’m certain he’s about somewhere.” Phoebe held up a glass. “Drink a little water, child.”
“But he doesn’t want to see me?”
“This is women’s work, my dear. Men don’t know what to do.”
A shiver ran through Deirdre. “Was Tyne there for your children?”
“When Kieran was born,” Phoebe said with a laugh, “Garrett fainted when I screamed.”
“Tyne fainted?” Deirdre shook her head on the pillow. “I can’t believe that. Does Kieran know? Is that why he’s staying away?”
“Oh, I never should have mentioned that I screamed.” Phoebe began to fidget with items laid out on a bedside table—water glass, carafe, clean cloths. “I don’t want you to be frightened. This is all perfectly natural, and you’re a big, strong girl. But if the pain is bad enough, you go right ahead and scream. Mrs. Barnes is here. She and I both know—”
“It’s because he doesn’t think this baby is his, isn’t it?” Deirdre interrupted.
“Kieran will be a good father—”
“It is his.” The words emerged as the next contraction struck, turning them into a cry of anguish. “His. Oh, why isn’t he here?”
“I’ll go look for him.” Phoebe sprang from her chair and bolted from the room. She returned a few minutes later with the midwife instead.
Mrs. Barnes strode to the side of the bed and took Deirdre’s hand in hers. “How long since your pains began?”
Deirdre glanced at the darkening window. “Eight or nine hours.”
“It’s your first? They can take a bit longer.” She rested her small, blunt-nailed hand on Deirdre’s belly. “We can get you moving a bit and help things along.”
She kept up a stream of cheerful chatter as she helped Deirdre move about the chamber, having her lean on the mantel, a wall, a bedpost when the contractions struck.
Through it all, the midwife scarcely ceased speaking. “My mother delivered your husband and his sisters, you know. The women in my family have been midwives for generations. The tales that have been passed down—ah, now we’re getting somewhere.”
Warm liquid ran down Deirdre’s legs to puddle on the floor. She wanted to shrivel with humiliation. She leaned on the bedpost, gasping through another contraction. “I’m going to kill him . . . for doing this . . . to me.”
“Who, my dear?” Phoebe asked from near the fire, where she was spreading freshly laundered and aired quilts in the bottom and along the sides of a cradle that had rocked Ashfords for generations.
“Your—” The next contraction hit so hard she sank to her knees. “Your son.”
“I think,” Mrs. Barnes said, “we need to get you onto the birthing chair.”
“What’s the time?” Deirdre asked, not moving.
“One of the clock,” Phoebe said.
“Kieran?”
Phoebe looked concerned. “I’m sorry, Deirdre, he isn’t here.”
“Up you go,” Mrs. Barnes said too brightly.
Deirdre fell forward onto her hands and was sick with the next contraction. She felt as though the pressure inside her womb would tear her in two and couldn’t stop the cry that erupted from her lips.
“Your son,” she said between gulps for air, “is a misbegotten son of a mangy cur. He did this to me and now runs. He denies . . . responsibility. I’ll snatch him bald. I’ll—”
She couldn’t speak any longer. The pain was too intense, each spasm too close together.
“Lady Tyne,” Mrs. Barnes said as though Deirdre hadn’t just insulted her mother-in-law along with her own spouse, “please help me get her onto the chair.”
Among the three of them, Deirdre ended up safely settled onto the birthing chair with solid oak arms for her to grip, sloping back to support her, and cutout seat for the baby.
The baby. It was about to enter the world with a father who couldn’t bother to be there and who probably wouldn’t care when he couldn’t avoid staying away any longer.
But I’m here, little one. I care.
At that moment, she wasn’t so sure about caring about the father after all. Not then with the midwife and her mother-in-law crouched before her, giving her softly spoken instructions to bear down, to push, then not to push. The pressure so great she didn’t bother to suppress her moans, nor invectives against Kieran for putting her through the agony.
Then the pain eased and Mrs. Barnes and Phoebe were exclaiming in tones of joy, nearly drowning out a high, thin wail.
“It’s a boy,” Phoebe cried. “He’s small as early children are, but he’s perfect. Oh, Deirdre, my daughter—” Her voice broke on a sob.
Deirdre opened her eyes and stared at the protesting bundle of smeared, red humanity in amazement. “He’s mine? I produced a son?”
Phoebe laughed. “Yes, my dear, an Ashford heir.”
“I’d like to hold—” Another wrenching spasm gripped her, and she cried out. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, my lady.” Mrs. Barnes massaged her belly. “All is well. It’s just the—hello. Keep pushing, my lady. Come on, my lady. Harder. Don’t stop—”
“I can’t. No strength.”
“You must. You—”
Through a haze of blinding pain, Deirdre heard Phoebe exclaiming and Mrs. Barnes declaring, “This explains why you went into your confinement early.”
“Someone stole my purse.” Shrieking the accusation, Chloe charged into the prison yards. “Who was it? Who was it?”
“Get back here.” Kieran paused at the startled guards and offered them an apologetic smile. “Our mam spoils the brat.”
The nearest red-coated militiaman sneered. “We don
’t care. Just get ’im outta here. We gotta be closin’ the gates.”
“Yessir. Right away, sir.” Head down, Kieran charged into the middle of a hundred enemy combatants.
He could not see Chloe, but he could hear her, yelling about her purse, about pickpockets, about ungrateful Yankees. All too conscious the men nearest him babbled in French, Kieran sprinted for the ruckus. On the far side of the yard, Chloe gripped Ross’s shirt and shook it like a terrier attempting to move a wolfhound.
“Stop it.” Kieran yanked her away. “Your purse is gone and you need to come along if you don’t wanta get locked in with these scurvy knaves.” He cast Trenerry and the other Americans a meaningful glance.
At least he hoped they caught his meaning.
A nod from Ross said they had, and Kieran tossed Chloe over his shoulder to make her shout again.
“Let me down.” She pounded his back with more force than necessary. “I want my purse back.”
“Stop being so lazy and earn the money back.” Kieran raised his voice to match Chloe’s. Beneath his breath, he muttered, “And stop hitting me so hard or I will leave you inside here.”
“You would not dare.”
“Do not tempt me.” Kieran strode toward the now grinning guards.
Chloe kicked her legs and continued to beat at his back. Around them, Somerset militia and prisoners alike laughed and called advice as to how to handle the recalcitrant youth. At the gate, Chloe flung herself off Kieran’s shoulder, knocking into the guards. They landed in a heap of arms and legs and muskets flung aside.
“A thousand pardons, sir.” Kieran extended a hand to the closest guard.
“It’s his sister,” the other redcoat shouted, getting an armful of Chloe. “Brazen hussy. If you’re wanting to refill your purse—”
While scrambling away from him, Chloe managed to drop one knee into his middle. The soldier released her with a whoosh of expelled breath. “Assaulting an officer. I could have you arrested—”
Chloe, Kieran, and a throng of visitors to the prison set off toward Princetown. Eleven American prisoners headed down the gorge toward freedom.
“We did it.” Chloe flung her arms around Kieran’s neck. “We got them out.”
“We have not done anything until they are in the caves at the least.”
Out of England would be better, but that was days off.
“They are straggling.” Kieran pressed a hand to the small of Chloe’s back. “We need to get them out of here faster.”
“Lead the way.”
They loped after the prisoners. Kieran shouted to the slowest ones, urging them forward. He commanded Chloe to go ahead with him. They needed to be on the moor in the right place or who knew where the Americans would end up. Likely in British hands.
Kieran charged ahead, calling encouragement and threats in equal portion. He scrambled past the boulder Chloe had pointed out, and up the side of the gorge to help the first of the escapees.
Thanks to Chloe’s machinations, moorland ponies awaited. The weakest of the Americans would ride the ponies in a circuitous route across moorland and down to the cliffs and the caves beneath. Kieran had marveled at Chloe and Deirdre’s planning. Now he thought of everything that could go wrong.
Thus far, nothing had gone wrong. Three prisoners reached the rendezvous along with Kieran. He turned back to assist a fourth and look for Chloe—and the clang, clang, clang of a bell began to toll across the land.
The faces of the Americans whitened.
Chloe staggered to a halt in the midst of five more men. “The alarm. That’s the alarm.”
“They know we’re out.” One man began to spin in circles.
Kieran grabbed him and pointed. “Go. I will catch up with you. Chloe, you can lead—”
But Chloe was gone, leaping back down the track toward the last two prisoners—Ross Trenerry and Wat Drummond.
“Just go.” Kieran shoved the nearest prisoner in the right direction. “Take two of the ponies for the weakest of you.”
He did not like leaving the Americans on their own, but he could never leave his sister behind to be caught. That would condemn his family for sure, Deirdre and his baby included. As for Ross and Wat, Deirdre would never forgive him if he let them fall into the hands of the soldiers.
And soldiers were coming. Sprinting in Chloe’s wake, he glanced up the gorge. Someone had to have noticed the Maid’s crew leaving, had sounded the alarm. Now, more than half a dozen men from the Somerset militia who guarded Dartmoor were marching down the gorge.
“Where are you?” he cried out in anguish. “All of you.”
Something flashed well ahead of the soldiers, three of them running, Chloe going toward the others, one lagging behind the other. Wat, of course. He seemed to be stumbling forward more than racing—stumbling and falling against a rock.
“No.” Kieran started down the steep side of the gorge. “Less than two minutes until the soldiers catch up with us.”
Ross stopped, turned, ran toward Wat.
“Keep running,” Kieran shouted to Chloe and Ross.
Of course they could not hear him. Of course they would not obey if they could. He would not expect them to. Trenerry heaved Wat over his shoulder. It slowed him down; prison had weakened him, too. But the soldiers were strong and well fed. They pressed on, marching faster.
Then a shot rang out. Trenerry fell, Wat slipping to the ground, the wound on his back so terrible he had to be dead.
“Get up.” Kieran headed down the slope to the gorge floor. He had to help his sister escape. Trenerry, too, though that was harder. Trenerry and Deirdre . . .
He would not think that. He would get them out, free her men as a gift of love to his wife.
Below, Chloe reached Trenerry and helped him to his feet. They ran together down, down, down to the rock Deirdre prepared. But another soldier raised his musket. Muskets were so inaccurate. He could hit Chloe.
The musket ball struck Trenerry. His body jerked, but Chloe’s arm around his waist seemed to be holding him upright.
“Get out of there.” Kieran could not shout the admonition. He could not make a target of himself when Ross and Chloe would be unlikely to hear him anyway.
Kieran ran toward Chloe and Trenerry. Keeping low, Chloe and Ross from one direction, Kieran from the other, slipped and staggered on the steep hillside toward the marked boulder, the gate to safety.
The soldiers drew nearer. They aimed. The report of musket fire reverberated through the gorge. Dust sprang from the boulder Chloe, Ross, and he were trying to reach, needed to reach.
Not fast enough. They could not keep out of view and move swiftly. Another minute and the soldiers would be upon them. They would be caught. The Ashfords would lose property, perhaps their lives . . .
Chloe and Ross reached the boulder, shoved. It did not move. They were too late—
Kieran risked exposure to increase his pace. Half a minute. Only half a minute until the soldiers reached Trenerry and Chloe.
A rumble joined the clamor of alarm bell and more musket fire. The boulder began to tilt, fall, roll. The soldiers checked, shouted warnings, staggered back from the avalanche of rock, shrubbery, and earth raining down from the hillside.
And Ross Trenerry grasped Chloe’s shoulders and kissed her.
Kieran reached Chloe and dragged her away. “Get moving. That landslide will not hold the soldiers forever.”
Trenerry nodded and turned to the moor where a straggly line of ponies headed toward the sea. Chloe started to join him, but Kieran caught hold of her arm and swung her away.
“Go home, Chl—Juliet.”
She merely looked at him and snorted before fixing her attention on Trenerry.
Not liking the way the American gazed upon his sister, Kieran glowered at the younger man. “As for you—”
“Later,” Trenerry said.
They ran, a hail of musket balls and curses raining behind them.
Kieran and Chloe knew the m
oor. They had grown up there. The soldiers had not. Kieran and Chloe could navigate the tumbled rocks and treacherous marshes in the dark. The soldiers could not. As darkness descended upon them, the soldiers fell behind.
The Maid’s crew began to falter, stumble, fall. They took turns with who rode the ponies, except for Ross. He was bleeding badly but would not let them take the time to stop and bandage his wound, so he rode a pony all the way. Chloe held the reins to guide the mount. To stop himself from dwelling on the way his sister’s face glowed each time she glanced at Trenerry, Kieran concentrated on shepherding the others toward the cliffs and caves beneath. That way he was not tempted to push Trenerry off the highest peak and directly into the sea. He was shaking with his need to lash out at the man for loving Deirdre, for toying with his sister.
With thoughts of Deirdre in travail nearly a month early.
Once beyond the opening to the caves, so narrow only those who knew about it could find it, Chloe dropped back from the head of the line. “I will lead them inside. I know where I have hidden lanterns and strike-a-lights.”
“And food and blankets?” Kieran made no effort to disguise an edge of bitterness that this had all happened behind his back.
Her teeth flashed in the darkness. “Of course.”
“All right, go, but stay away from Trenerry.”
Chloe simply laughed and darted forward.
“Minx.”
But a good companion in a crisis. A sister to be proud of.
She vanished into the cliffside like the Pied Piper, followed by the men. Kieran remained outside, straining to hear above the hiss of the sea at low tide and whistle of the wind overhead for sounds of pursuit. Nothing. Silence. Safety.
He slipped through the slit in the rock and followed the pinpricks of lights ahead. He guessed where Chloe would take them—caves deep beneath the cliffs, but with exits in two other directions. With food and water they could live there for days. Kieran did not know how they were supposed to get the men away to France or return the ponies to their owner, but he guessed that Deirdre had worked that out, too. The risk to the Ashfords was far from over, but lessened as long as the men stayed put until time to leave.
My Enemy, My Heart (The Ashford Chronicles) Page 33