The Highlander's Lost Lady

by Anna Campbell

  When her hosts said they’d do anything for Diarmid, the words were no idle promise. At dinner, Diarmid had told her how the connection began. Mr. Mackinnon had rescued Diarmid and his cousin after the younger boys became lost in the hills behind Achnasheen. It was clear that this friendship established twenty years ago was deep and enduring.

  “I told you, ye owe me nothing. In fact, if you help to bring my wife safely through tonight, I’ll be eternally in your debt.” He turned to Diarmid. “It’s the middle of the night, and you’ve been in the saddle all day. Why no’ go back to bed?”

  Diarmid gave a contemptuous snort. “And leave ye all alone to fret yourself daft? Not likely, my friend. I’ll see ye down in the library, where a dram or two of Bruce Mackenzie’s finest awaits.”

  Mr. Mackinnon didn’t even try to hide his relief. “I willnae be long. Dinna drink it all before I get there.”

  Diarmid laughed, as he was meant to. But Fiona had come to know him over the last week, especially over the last days when they’d hardly been apart. She read the concern in his dark eyes, as he studied his friend. Concern they all had a right to feel when a first baby arrived early.

  “Come away with me, Mrs. Grant.” Mr. Mackinnon gestured for Fiona to precede him up the stairs, as Diarmid descended to the hall.

  She would have preferred to change out of her nightgown, but the only other dress she had was that elaborate silk gown. When she was in the bath, the maids had whisked away her plain gray dress. Once she’d checked what was happening with Lady Achnasheen, she would set about finding something suitable to wear.

  Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she wished she’d waited to put on the slippers Marina had sent along with this pretty white lawn nightdress. Despite it being summer, the stone stairs were cold under her feet.

  They climbed higher and higher, and she realized they must be entering one of the castle’s towers. When they reached the landing outside a closed door, she heard a long, broken groan from within.

  “Marina!” Mr. Mackinnon cried out and pushed past Fiona. He shoved the door open so hard that it crashed against the wall.

  As he rushed forward, Fiona took in a candlelit room. Lady Achnasheen was bent over the back of a wooden chair, gripping the top railing with white-knuckled hands. She wore a white nightdress, and her black hair snaked around her shoulders in a wild tangle. She was pale as milk, and her great dark eyes looked like bruises in her face as she panted for air.

  “Marina, mo chridhe.” Mr. Mackinnon slung an arm around his wife’s swollen body. A flood of urgent Gaelic escaped him as he supported her through her pain.

  While her parents had only ever spoken English, Fiona had picked up some basic Gaelic at Bancavan. She heard him call his wife his heart and his darling. But she only made out a few words of his desperate pleas, which seemed to combine prayers to the Almighty with encouragement to his wife.

  “Fergus…” Lady Achnasheen rasped out, straightening gingerly from the chair and sagging against him. Tearstains marked her cheeks, and Fiona didn’t need to recall her agonies with Christina to know what the woman endured. “Madonna, you shouldn’t be in here.”

  The room contained four women, other than her hostess. Three maids and an older woman who must be Jenny, the local healer. This woman turned away from the sideboard where she was setting out an array of vials and bottles and marched up to the laird.

  “Aye, my lady is right, Mackinnon. It’s nae proper for ye to be here. Bringing bairns into the world is women’s work.”

  Fiona’s eyes rounded at the peremptory tone. If anyone spoke to Allan Grant that way, they’d be lucky to escape with a clout around the ears. She’d seen her husband’s brother kill a servant boy who wasn’t quick enough bringing him his wine at dinner.

  “It’s my bloody house, ye old besom.” Mr. Mackinnon tightened his grip on his wife. “Cannae ye see she’s in pain?”

  “Och, aye, she is.” Even more surprising, the woman didn’t quail at the angry response. “And she’ll be in more pain before she’s done. It’s nature’s way. If the Good Lord wills, the mistress will come through like the braw lassie she is. She’s strong, and she’s got a lot to live for.”

  “The bairn is early.”

  “Aye. He’s an impatient wee laddie, just like his daddy was. Dinna fash yourself, Mackinnon. It will all work out in the end.”

  “He?” Marina asked in a breathless voice.

  Jenny shrugged. “Just a wee feeling I have. Ye carried the bairn just like the Mackinnon’s mother carried him. High and forward.”

  “Per dio, so I’m to welcome another stubborn male into my life?” Fiona was glad to hear Lady Achnasheen sounding more like herself, although she still leaned heavily on her husband.

  “Aye, that goes without saying, my lady. Now, away with ye, Mackinnon, and leave us to get on with things without ye fidgeting around us like a cat on top of a hot stove.”

  “She needs me,” he said with the stubbornness his wife had mentioned.

  “No, my bonny laddie, she doesnae.”

  Lady Achnasheen turned her dark head to stare up into her husband’s face. His features were strained with worry and love. “Jenny’s right, caro. Trust that everything goes as we hope.”

  He leaned in and kissed her, clearly not reassured at all. “I hate to think of ye suffering, mo leannan.”

  “Per pietà, it can’t be helped, tesoro. Although I wish it were otherwise.” She looked past her husband to see Fiona. Fiona realized that until now Lady Achnasheen had been so focused on what was happening in her body, she hadn’t realized her guest had come upstairs to join her. “Signora, what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve assisted at every birth at Bancavan since I arrived there.” She stepped forward. “I’m here to help.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  Jenny surveyed her with sharp blue eyes. “I’m no’ sure a fine lady is what we need, lassie.”

  Fiona bit back a contemptuous snort. “Believe me, I know what’s required. If you find I’m more trouble than I’m worth, I’ll go away again. But if I were you, I’d welcome an extra pair of experienced hands.”

  Jenny still inspected her, as if waiting for her to swoon at the first sight of blood. Fiona raised her chin and returned the old woman’s steady gaze.

  “I’d like Mrs. Grant to stay, Jenny,” Lady Achnasheen said. “She sounds like she’s used to bringing bambini into the world.”

  “As long as she’s willing to take orders,” Jenny said doubtfully.

  “You’re in charge,” Fiona said.

  Lady Achnasheen gasped and bent against Fergus’s arm. The faint color that had returned to her face drained away.

  “Marina!”

  “Mr. Mackinnon, really you should go.” Fiona came around to support her hostess from the other side, rubbing her back in firm circles. “She’s more worried about frightening you than she is about the work she has to do.”

  “There’s…” Lady Achnasheen stopped to draw a shuddering breath. “There’s a reason they call it labor, you know.”

  The small joke didn’t make her husband smile, although Fiona had noticed that her hosts communicated with a fond teasing that did nothing to hide the love flowing beneath the humor. “I want to stay.”

  With a tenderness that made Fiona’s heart clench in envy, Lady Achnasheen touched his stricken face. Nobody had ever loved her like this. She’d borne Christina among people who had no affection for her at all, and her husband had cared only if she delivered a boy. His disappointment at the arrival of a girl had been unconcealed. A disappointment the whole clan had shared.

  “Per favore, amore mio, go downstairs. I’ll send for you if I need you.”

  His gray eyes troubled, Mr. Mackinnon stared into his wife’s face. Then with a reluctance Fiona could see, he gave a brief nod. “I love you, Marina. I hope ye know how much.”

  The tension leached from Lady Achnasheen’s body, and Fiona braced as the weight shifte
d from Mr. Mackinnon onto her. “Sì, lo so. Ti amo anche, caro. Tutto va bene. All will be well.”

  Fiona saw that he wanted to argue, to insist on his place at her side. She didn’t mistake that it was an act of enormous devotion when he slid his arm from her waist and stepped back. “God keep ye, mo chridhe.”

  “And you, my beloved husband.”

  “Do you want to walk?” Fiona set her arms more firmly around Lady Achnasheen. “It might ease the pain.”

  “Aye, that’s it, my lady. We willnae see anything to carry on about for another couple of hours yet.” Jenny sent Fiona an approving glance. “Ye have done this before, it seems.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And borne a child of my own. You won’t be sorry you let me help.”

  “You should call me Marina.” Her hostess’s smile was tight-lipped with strain. “Oddio, I have a feeling we’re soon going to be on very close terms indeed.”

  So did Fiona. She smiled back at the tall, dark-haired woman. “I’d be honored. And please call me Fiona.”

  Chapter 17

  Diarmid glanced up as Fergus trudged into the library, and his greeting died unspoken. His friend always bestrode the world as if he owned it, especially here at Achnasheen where he was master. But tonight trouble weighed him down and cast a pall over his powerful personality.

  Reminder, should Diarmid need it, of the price love extracted from its victims. Look at his father, destroyed by his enduring love for a woman who didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  But when he looked at Fergus, he couldn’t maintain his habitual sourness on the subject of love. The circumstances here were different. The love Fergus and Marina shared had enriched both of them, brought out a generosity of spirit in her and a humility in him that had made them better people. On their own, both had been strong, but together they were stronger.

  He found himself saying yet another silent prayer that the birth went well. Fergus had been married a little less than two years. He and his beloved wife deserved many happy years together, and God willing, a tribe of healthy children to bring up to find happiness of their own.

  “Here.” He stepped forward to offer his friend the dram he’d poured earlier. “Ye look like you need this.”

  As he accepted the glass, Fergus’s hand was shaking. Diarmid had never seen his friend afraid, had never imagined he could be. “Thanks.”

  The raw anguish in Fergus’s expression as he raised his eyes shocked Diarmid. He turned away to stoke the fire, to give him a moment’s privacy. After a decent interval, he set down the poker and picked up his whisky.

  Fergus had already drained his glass and now poured another. He lifted the decanter in a silent invitation, but Diarmid shook his head as he sank into his chair. “How are things upstairs?”

  “How the hell would I know?” With a helpless gesture, Fergus slumped into the chair opposite Diarmid’s. “It looks like life and death to me, but Jenny looks to be taking it all in her stride. Mrs. Grant seems verra capable.”

  “She’s stronger than she looks. Nobody knows that better than I do. Through all that rough travel, she never uttered one word of complaint.” Diarmid stared into his half-empty glass. “Between Fiona and Jenny, I’m sure Marina will be all right. She’s got everything to live for, after all.”

  Fergus hadn’t yet started his second whisky. Instead he dangled the hands holding the glass between his spread legs and stared blindly into the fire. “Diarmid, I dinna ken what the hell I’ll do if Marina doesnae make it.” His voice cracked with emotion. “I never thought I could love anyone the way I love that lassie. She’s my soul, the reason behind my every breath.”

  Diarmid had never heard Fergus talk like this. In other circumstances, he might have been uncomfortable. But he could see fear for Marina drove Fergus to the brink of his control.

  By God, he envied his friend. Whatever happened tonight, Fergus had experienced a great love. Diarmid wondered whether he was so clever after all to steer clear of emotional entanglements.

  “Did Jenny mention how long she thought it would take?”

  Fergus looked up from where he brooded into the flames. “Hours, she said.”

  If the child was slow arriving, Fergus would go mad with only his fears to entertain him. With sudden purpose, Diarmid stood and crossed to an inlaid wooden box on the desk. “Let’s play piquet. A penny a point.”

  Fergus looked up with a dazed expression. “What did ye say? I wasnae attending.”

  “Cards.” Diarmid held up the pack. “It will pass the time until we have news.”

  Fergus looked terrible, haggard and miserable, and the skin clung tight to the powerful bones of his face. “Ye arenae tired?”

  Diarmid began shuffling the deck. “Not too tired to beat ye into penury, laddie.”

  With a sigh, Fergus rose. “It’s the one time in history ye might have a chance of coming out ahead.”

  Relief flooded Diarmid. While he knew that nothing except news of a healthy mother and baby would ease Fergus’s panic, a few hands of cards would help fill the wait. He opened up a mahogany games table and placed two chairs on either side. He sat on one and set the cards in the center of the green baize top.

  “Ye keep telling yourself that, my friend. It might ease the pain of your drubbing.”

  Actually he and Fergus were very different players, but well matched for all that. Fergus played with dash and brilliance, whereas Diarmid was cool-headed and strategic. Despite his taunting, he wasn’t expecting an easy win.

  With another sigh, Fergus sat opposite him and the hand that cut the cards was almost steady.

  ***

  Summer sun flooded into the tower bedroom through the tall windows. Marina slumped exhausted against the pillows, her face so pale that the dark circles under her eyes stood out in stark relief. Beneath the sheet, her stomach rose hard and swollen.

  Fiona stood by the dressing table and prayed they would soon have an end to this. Marina was strong, but the night’s travails sapped even her impressive stamina.

  Someone who showed no signs of flagging was Jenny. Now she bustled across to give her mistress some herbal concoction that seemed to soothe her.

  In the corner, Marina’s maid Sandra fiddled with the elaborately decorated crib. Fiona hoped to heaven there would be a child to fill it before too long. They’d already been here over eight hours.

  As she straightened her back, she bit back a groan. The days on horseback, ending in this difficult night, wearied her, too, although her aches and pains were nothing compared to Marina’s.

  For the moment, the contractions had stopped. Even Jenny seemed worried, although she did a good job of hiding it.

  Berating herself for borrowing trouble, Fiona picked up Marina’s brush and comb. She hoped that the smile she plastered to her face looked more convincing than it felt. “Can you sit up?”

  Marina managed a smile in return. In her drawn face, her lips were bloodless. “I’m sure I can.”

  In such a dire situation, you learned a lot about a person in a short time. Fiona couldn’t believe she’d met this woman mere hours ago. She felt like they’d been through a lifetime together.

  Fiona couldn’t imagine a better companion. Marina Mackinnon was brave and strong and considerate of others, even in her extremity.

  “If I plait your hair away from your face, you’ll be more comfortable.”

  “Thank you,” Marina said in a whisper, struggling to shift against the pillows.

  Fiona slid onto the bed behind Marina and helped her lean forward. She began to run the brush through the skeins of sweat-soaked hair clinging to face and neck.

  “It shouldn’t be long now,” Jenny said, approaching the bed with a bowl of warm water and a flannel. With gentle efficiency, she wiped Marina’s face before shifting to her arms and hands under the nightdress’s loose sleeves. “You’re a braw champion, my lady.”

  “Per dio, I don’t feel like a champion. Ahi, madonna…”

  Marina
stifled a whimper, as another contraction shuddered through her. Fiona abandoned the half-finished plait and slid her shoulder behind the woman. When she caught Marina’s hand, she hid a wince at the painfully tight grip.

  “Aye, you’re doing grand, my lady. Breathe deep and ride out the pain.”

  Fiona’s eyes met Jenny’s, as the older woman folded up the hem of the nightdress. It was time for the baby to arrive. The contractions now came so close together, they seemed as one. Marina sank her teeth into her lip deep enough to draw blood and groaned as she pressed back into Fiona’s hold.

  “Scream, Marina,” Fiona said, squeezing her hand. “We’re almost there.”

  ***

  The shriek was so distant, it could be a bird flying over the loch. But it disturbed Diarmid who had drifted off in his chair near the fire. In the opposite chair, Fergus immediately stirred from his wakeful doze and leaped to his feet.

  “What…what is it?” Diarmid asked groggily, rubbing his face and feeling his beard scratch under his palm. With the next cry, he recognized the sound as a woman in agony.

  “That was Marina.” Fergus glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. It was after nine. “I cannae bear it. I’m going up there.”

  Before Diarmid struggled to his feet, Fergus had slammed out of the library. Diarmid cast a quick look around the untidy room, with its dirty glasses and playing cards scattered across the gaming table. They’d played until dawn, when even his attempts to make sure Fergus won weren’t enough to distract his friend from what happened upstairs. He knuckled the sleep from his eyes, stretched, and set off in pursuit of Fergus.

  The screams grew louder and longer and more guttural, the closer he got to the tower. When he reached the top of the stairs, he also heard Fergus arguing with someone. He turned onto the landing and saw skinny, diminutive Sandra ranged in front of the closed bedroom door like Cerberus guarding the gates of the underworld.

  “Non può entrare, signore. Non è appropriato.”

  Fergus’s fists bunched at his sides. “Blast ye, get out of my way, Sandra.”