Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)
Page 41
Rolf smiled and shook his head. “Don’t ask me, Thomas,” he said good-naturedly. “I’m here strictly as an observer.” And he did give every appearance of being relaxed—as long as one didn’t notice the tightness around his mouth, or the constant clenching and unclenching of his hands.
“Don’t forget, the next one will be yours,” Nicholas reminded him darkly. “Then I’ll be the one sitting back relaxing, while you wear out the floor.”
Nicholas suddenly stopped pacing, his body going rigid. “Listen.”
Thomas frowned. “I hear naught.”
“Exactly.” Nicholas nodded. “What—?”
There was a sharp slapping sound followed by a lusty, angry cry that came rolling down the stairs.
Nicholas’s face took on a look of sheer wonder as tears stung his eyes.
“Listen to that!” Thomas crowed proudly. “The lad’s got quite a set of lungs on him.”
Nicholas couldn’t respond. His heart was clenching painfully in his breast. That was his child crying. His babe. The babe he and Kathryn had created together from the love they had for each other.
She had had a difficult pregnancy. Twice she had begun bleeding, and they had feared that she would miscarry. Both times Sir Richard had insisted she remain in bed, not even allowing her to sit up. Rolf and Nicholas had both neglected their work to stay with her, reading to her, rubbing her aching back, massaging her feet and swollen ankles, rubbing her enormous belly with fragrant creams and soothing unguents, or just lying in bed with her, holding her, loving her. It was during one of these times that her father had died, his passing making barely a ripple in her awareness. She had not mourned him.
When Sir Richard had finally allowed her to sit up, she had been so bored with naught to fill the endless hours, she had continued her lessons on the recorder, becoming as accomplished as any troubadour. And the juggler, Giuseppe, a homesick lad of thirteen, had not only spent long hours reading to her in his lilting Italian accent, translating Marco Polo’s amazing account of his travels to the mysterious East, but had also continued teaching her to juggle, until she became quite adept at maneuvering the three small leather spheres.
And now, if the sounds issuing forth from the upstairs solar were anything to go by, she had just presented him with a healthy babe.
Rolf jumped up and he and Nicholas embraced, slapping each other on the back. Odin be praised, Rolf thought fervently. They had been so worried about her. So great was his relief, he feared he might pass out. As it was, he sat down abruptly to cover his sudden dizziness.
Thomas smiled, struggling against his own tears as he watched his Duke, the young man he had practically raised as his own son, glow with the miracle of what had just taken place in the solar above them. The miracle of a new life coming into the world.
Their attention was drawn to the sudden appearance of Sorcha in the doorway. She looked disheveled, tendrils of fiery red hair escaping her neat linen barbet. Her apron was streaked with blood, and she was out of breath, but she was beaming from ear to ear.
“’Tis a girl, Nicky,” she said, followed by a little shriek as he lifted her into his laughing embrace. He twirled her around before setting her back on her feet.
“A girl,” he breathed.
“Oh, aye, a beautiful girl. With a head full of black hair.” Sorcha was crying, too, as Thomas came and put his arms around her.
Nicholas laughed. “Black hair?”
“Oh, aye. I’ve never seen so much hair on an infant before,” Sorcha said, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of Thomas’s tunic.
“Is Kathryn all right?” he asked anxiously. “When can I see her—them?”
“Kathryn is fine. And you can see them both as soon as we’ve cleaned everything up,” Sorcha replied, moving out of her husband’s embrace and back toward the doorway. “I’ll come and fetch you when we’re ready.”
An hour later, barely able to contain his nervousness, Nicholas followed Sorcha up the winding stairs into his solar, Rolf right behind him. He was greeted with a handshake, a slap on the back and a hearty “Congratulations, Your Grace! ’Tis a fine, healthy girl!” by Sir Richard Martin, followed by a hug from Ellen and a deep curtsey from the midwife. Rolf moved to stand beside the bed.
Kathryn was leaning back against the headboard, propped up on dozens of pillows, her hair spread gloriously about her in a golden cloud. Nicholas’s breath hitched in his lungs. She had never looked more beautiful. She was holding their infant in the crook of her arm against her breast. At that moment she was the living embodiment of the Madonna and Child, and he was filled with a love for her that knew no bounds. A love that pierced to the bottom of his soul.
As he moved toward the bed, Ellen, Sir Richard, Sorcha, and the midwife all withdrew, leaving him alone with Rolf and his wife. And his daughter, Lady Caitlin Elizabeth Herron. Named after no one in particular, but simply because her besotted parents had loved the sound of those two names together.
As Nicholas crossed the floor, he could see the black curly hair on the tiny head nestled at Kathryn’s breast. He came up on one knee onto the bed and took his wife’s lips in a deep, lingering kiss that was a joyful rediscovery of the sweet treasure of her mouth.
He pulled away, breathing hard, sinking down into a sitting position, one large hand dropping to stroke the black curls on his newborn daughter’s head. He looked down at her, swathed up to her eyes in a soft white blanket, which Kathryn had woven herself in Weavers’ Lane.
Kathryn smiled and nudged the tightly swaddled infant forward. “Would you like to hold your daughter, Your Grace?” she asked, lifting her so he could take her in his arms.
He took her easily, settling her tiny head expertly in the crook of his arm, grinning at Kathryn as he did so. He was an expert at holding babies. He had, after all, had plenty of practice over the years as godfather to Thomas and Sorcha’s seven children.
Kathryn watched him, her eyes twinkling with mischief as Nicholas unwrapped his daughter. First he counted Caitlin Elizabeth’s ten tiny toes, then her fingers, then he kissed the silky black curls on top of her head. Then, finally, he pulled the blanket down and looked at his infant daughter’s face.
And immediately burst into peals of laughter.
At some point during the previous nine months, Kathryn had cut two locks of hair from Nicholas’s head. She had stuck the hairs together with pine pitch, then she had carefully trimmed and shaped them into a tiny mustache and goatee, which she had pressed onto her daughter’s elfin face, giving the infant a rakishly insouciant expression.
When Nicholas was finally able to stop laughing, tears were streaming down his face. He leaned forward and gave his wife another rapturous kiss.
“Thank you,” he whispered, placing his forehead against hers, finally able to let the nine months of unconscious torment drain from his soul. The baby was his. Not Robert Walford’s. His. Now he truly could forget that the man had ever existed. Robert Walford, dead these four weeks, would haunt them no more.
He looked at Kathryn. He had never loved his wife more than he did at this moment. “I love you so much,” he choked out. “And this sweet babe, too.”
“She’s definitely yours,” Kathryn said, looking down between their bodies at the sleeping infant, safely snuggled in the crook of her father’s powerful arm.
“Nay, beloved,” Nicholas breathed on the tail end of a sigh. “She’s ours.”
Rolf joined them then, coming up onto the other side of the bed to stretch his long, lanky limbs out beside her. He gave her a tender kiss first on her forehead, then each eye, then, finally her lips. When he finally raised his head, she smiled up at him, lifting her hand to stroke his cheek. Then he leaned across her to kiss Caitlin Elizabeth’s tiny little rosebud mouth. He laughed when he saw the mustache and goatee, before lifting them gently from her tiny face. “You and Nick have made a beautiful babe,” he said with no trace of envy or sadness. Only joy for the two people he loved most in the world.
“As we love thee, yndling,” Rolf murmured, placing a gentle kiss against her brow. “As we love thee.”
THE END
WWW.JULIESHELTONAUTHOR.COM
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julie has always loved stories, both reading and writing them. A career as a children’s librarian eventually led to her dream career as a freelance storyteller and puppeteer, a business she operated successfully for twenty-five years. During that time she created and wrote all the original material for a monthly language arts resource newsletter for early childhood educators. For that endeavor she won the prestigious EDPRESS Award, given by the Educational Press Association of America. She has also written other resource materials for preschool and early elementary teachers.
Now she writes erotic romances, thus following the basic children’s-performer-to-erotica-author career path blazed by so many of her fellow writers.
For all titles by Julie Shelton, please visit
www.bookstrand.com/julie-shelton
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com