To Marry A Scottish Laird (24 page)

Saidh lowered the goblet and peered to her with surprise. “Did ye want some?”

Joan rolled her eyes and said dryly, “It could no’ hurt.”

Saidh nodded and looked about, then moved to the table by the fireplace where another goblet sat. Joan watched her start to pour the liquid, but then was hit by another contraction and lowered her head, staring at their entwined hands as she tried to concentrate on breathing until the pain had passed.

“Squeeze me hand if ye want to,” Cam said quietly. “It may help.”

Joan forced a smile and opened her mouth to assure him she was fine, but instead a long, loud scream came out.

Saidh stopped dead at the sound and stared at her wide-eyed, then raised the goblet to her mouth to gulp some down.

“Give me that. ’Tis fer Joan,” Lady Sinclair snapped with exasperation. Taking the drink from Saidh, she moved to the side of the bed, but then simply stood there and stared helplessly as Joan screamed. When the contraction ended and she finally stopped screaming, Lady Sinclair held out the goblet, but Joan just shook her head and sagged against Cam’s shoulder, panting.

Lady Sinclair hesitated, but then raised the goblet to her mouth and chugged down the contents.

“Where’s my aunt?” Joan asked wearily as she suddenly realized she wasn’t there.

“She said she was going to get her medicinals and have her maid fetch some items,” Lady Sinclair said, peering into the empty goblet with a frown, then dropped it with surprise when Joan began to scream again as another contraction hit her.

“What can I do?” Cam asked, panic on his face.

Joan shook her head, but then tugged her hands free of his and grabbed at his shirt and plaid to pull herself upright.

“What are ye doing?” he asked with surprise. “What do ye need?”

What she needed was to get to her knees, or to squat. She was pushing, but it was harder to do while lying down and her body wanted to squat.

“Get this off me,” she gasped, tugging at her gown.

Cam immediately helped her remove it, leaving her on her knees in nothing but her tunic.

“Help me,” she muttered, grabbing his shoulders to shift her position.

Cam stared at her wide-eyed as she shifted to squat on the bed in front of him. “Should ye be doing that?”

“Watch for the baby,” Joan gasped.

“Watch?” he echoed briefly and then glanced down with bewilderment. “What do I—?”

Joan interrupted him with long half grunt, half shout as another contraction hit her and she bore down. The pain ratcheted up to an unbelievable level this time and it felt like she was being torn asunder, and then it suddenly ended, or at least dropped back to something that was almost nonexistent in comparison.

“Bloody hell. I caught him,” Cam muttered, and she peered down to see that he held their child in his hands and that it was indeed a boy.

“Bloody hell! I missed it!”

Joan glanced around to see that Annabel had returned and had come up short in the doorway, several servants behind her carrying water, linens and various other items.

“Not all o’ it,” Joan pointed out dryly and her aunt gave her head a shake, and then rushed forward, barking orders.

“He’s perfect,” Cam breathed, reaching out to brush his son’s cheek with one callused finger.

Joan smiled tiredly. Her aunt had kicked Cam out for the rest of the activity, and much to her surprise he’d gone willingly. Well, perhaps she hadn’t been all that surprised. Birthing was a messy business and he had been rather green around the gills at the time. Now, however, it was all done. Her son was clean and wrapped in swaddling, she had passed the afterbirth, been cleaned and put in a clean tunic and was now sitting in a chair by the fire as the women changed the bed linens. Only then had her aunt decided Cam could return.

“Aye, he’s perfect,” Joan agreed, peering down at the sweet faced baby in her arms.

“The bed’s ready if ye want to lie down again,” Lady Sinclair said quietly, moving to stand beside the chair Joan sat in. Peering at her first grandson, she smiled softly and whispered, “He’s beautiful. Do ye ken what name ye’ll give him?”

When Joan glanced to Cam, he shook his head. “ ’Tis yer choice. Ye did all the work.”

Joan hesitated, and then met her mother-in-law’s eyes.

“Bearnard,” she said quietly. “In honor of the lady responsible for his being here. Thank you,” she added solemnly, and then rushed on, apologetically, “And I am sorry about calling you an interfering bitch earlier. My aunt was right, I really didn’t mean it. Without you, we wouldn’t have Bearnard.”

“Oh, me dear girl,” Lady Sinclair cried, bending to hug her and the baby both. “There’s no need to apologize, and pray do no’ thank me. I should never have interfered and am just so relieved it all worked out all right. It could easily have gone the other way and then I would have lost someone I have come to love dearly.”

Cam frowned from one to the other as Lady Sinclair straightened. “What are you two talking about?”

“Nothing,” Joan said quickly, knowing he’d be furious if he found out how his mother had interfered. She’d tell him eventually, of course. But not until he got over the fear they’d both just gone through. She suspected that wouldn’t take long, but didn’t want to risk it now when everything was so perfect.

“Thank you, dear,” Lady Sinclair kissed her cheek, and then peered at the baby again and marveled, “He looks so like Campbell when he was a bairn.”

“Would you like to hold him?” Joan asked.

“Please,” Lady Sinclair said eagerly and carefully took him from her. She peered down at him and cooed gently, then glanced up to ask. “Can I take him to the solar for the men to see?”

“Aye, of course,” Joan said at once.

Nodding, Lady Sinclair quickly left the room, taking Bearnard with her and Joan smiled faintly, and then gasped when Cam suddenly stood and scooped her into his arms.

“It’s to bed for you,” he said carrying her across the room. Rather than lay her in the bed though, he settled in it with her in his lap, then pulled the linens and furs up to cover them both, muttering, “Ye must be exhausted.”

“I fear I am,” Joan admitted wryly, then tipped her head back to smile at him. “Exhausted but happy. We survived the birthing bed,” she pointed out.

“Thank God,” Cam breathed, leaning his forehead against hers and closing his eyes. “Let’s no’ do this again. One babe is enough.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Joan murmured. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Cam pulled back and peered at her as if she were crazy. “Ye were screaming yer head off, woman.”

“Well it hurt. But it was worth it,” she said with a smile, and then added, “And I was thinking a little sister for Bearnard would be nice.”

Cam stared at her silently for a minute, and then said, “A little sister, hmm?”

“A pretty little girl who would adore her da as much as I do,” she added.

He smiled crookedly. “I bet ye were a beautiful baby.”

“And mayhap we could name her Maggie after my mother,” she added softly.

“Aye, mayhap we could,” Cam said and kissed her.

Joan kissed him eagerly back. They couldn’t do much more than that for now, but she was content. She had survived the birthing bed, had a beautiful son who had all his fingers and toes, and someday he would have little brothers and sisters to join him. She could hardly believe how her life had changed. She really was the most fortunate of women.

Want more Lynsay Sands?

Keep reading for an excerpt from her classic historical

S
WEET
R
EVENGE

Available December 2014 from Avon Books

K
YLA WAS THE
FIRST TO SEE THEM.

Lying on her stomach in the back of the horse-drawn cart, she was dozing in and out of a fitful sleep when a leaf fluttered onto her forehead. Frowning slightly, she reached out from beneath the furs covering her and brushed the item away. She then tried to settle back into the warm cocoon of healing sleep again, but found discomfort would not allow it.

Forcing her eyes open and blinking as the furs she lay upon came hazily into focus, she shifted slightly, trying to find a position that would ease the awakening pain in her back. It was a mounting, burning pain and was a miserable way to start the day, she decided unhappily, her mind immediately turning to thoughts of Morag’s miracle salve. The stuff smelled as putrid as a privy on a hot summer day, but it made the pain in her back disappear immediately after it was applied. Temporarily at least. The effects lasted for only a few hours, then the foul balm had to be reapplied to beat back the white-hot agony. She could do with some of its lovely numbing effect now, she thought with a sigh, shifting carefully onto her side to peer hopefully at the woman who slept beside her.

A drop of what she thought to be rain landed on her face as the fur slid aside and she wiped it away, surprise replacing her irritation as she felt the grittiness on her finger and looked down to see that it wasn’t rain but a small bead of mud. Eyes raising instinctively, she gaped at the shapes that hovered in the branches overhead. Silent and still, they hid among the trees, watching tensely as the procession moved along beneath them.

Kyla had just opened her mouth to shout a warning to her escort when a long, loud wail filled the air. Bloodcurdling and ferocious, it set the hair at the nape of her neck on end. The first voice was joined by what seemed like a hundred others, and the mounted party came to an abrupt halt.

Grabbing for the side of the conveyance to steady herself, Kyla watched in amazement as a man dropped lithely from the branches above to land between her and Morag in the cart. Her eyes widened as a ray of sunlight speared through the trees, glinting off of the sword he held and turning his red hair to fire. Her gaze dropped over the plaid he wore. At this angle and with it flapping in the early afternoon breeze, she had an exceptional view of his naked legs all the way up to his thighs. And a fair pair of legs they were, too, she noted with an interest wholly inappropriate to the situation. Shapely ankles, muscled calves, nice knees, and strong thighs distracted her—until he let loose another long, loud wail that drew her eyes upward. He raised his sword high in one hand.

Truly, had she not seen him, she would have thought his wailing the shriek of the dead rising up from the pits of hell. It was loud, long, and ear-piercing, and it seemed to stab right through her skull to her brain, making it throb in contest with her back. It didn’t help when his voice was joined by the others still in the branches above. And when the others suddenly began dropping from the trees as well, bedlam broke out in the clearing. Startled warning shouts and bellows of pain rose up around Kyla like the springtime flood waters in the river by her home, and the fellow standing at her feet suddenly leapt off the wagon and out of sight.

Gritting her teeth, she closed her eyes briefly, then pushed herself to her hands and knees. Her arms shook, weak from that small effort, and the bottom of the cart seemed to swim before her eyes, but she took a deep breath and managed to ease back to sit on her haunches. Raising her head determinedly, Kyla peered around as the clang of metal against metal joined the shouts and shrieks already filling the quiet glade they had been passing through.

The miserable burning in her back and her pounding head were immediately forgotten as Kyla took in the activity around her. They were under attack. What made her mouth drop open and her eyes widen incredulously was the unbelievable fact that the mad savages attacking her chain-mailed escort actually appeared to be winning!

Several members of her escort had already fallen from their mounts. The rest were attempting to urge their horses closer to the wagon to form a tight circle around it to defend from, but their attempts were hampered by the panicked rearing of the now-riderless horses that suddenly seemed to be everywhere.

Swallowing the fear tightening her throat, Kyla peered slowly around the glade with a sort of stunned apprehension. Her men were dropping like flies at summer’s end. Already a third of them lay injured or dying on the muddy ground.

A roar drew her eyes as a great mountain of a man slammed into the back of the cart, struggling with one of her men-at-arms. With no time to prepare herself for the jolt, Kyla was sent sprawling onto her stomach again in the bottom of the wagon, her chin slamming hard into the floor of the cart despite the cushioning furs.

Cursing, she started to push herself back to her haunches again, but had barely lifted her head when one of her escort rode up to the side of the cart. He forcefully shoved her down again, ordering her to be still before riding off into the fray once more.

Frowning and muttering under her breath, Kyla did as she was told . . . for all of a heartbeat. She popped back up into a sitting position again.

“What’s about?”

Remembering the woman who had been resting beside her throughout this journey, Kyla tore her gaze reluctantly from the fray and sank slowly back into the wagon. Rolling carefully onto her side, she peered worriedly at the wrinkled, old face of the woman who had been a maid, nurse, and mother figure to her for as long as she could recall, then lied, “ ’Tis all right. ’Tis nothing. Go back to sleep.”

A bloom of pale color tinged wrinkled old cheeks with anger and Morag’s black eyes narrowed. “Yer lying, girl. Ye never could fool me.”

The maid began to rise, determined to see for herself, but Kyla quickly pressed her back down. “Nay, do not rise.”

“Then tell me!” she ordered sharply. “And the truth this time.”

“Aye.” Kyla sighed, searching briefly for a way to lessen the old woman’s imminent terror, then shrugged. There was none. “We are under attack.”

“What?!” Gasping in horror, Morag began to struggle upward again.

Kyla was trying to push the woman back down into the safety provided by the sides of the cart when a second jolt gave pause to them both. Stilling, they spun to stare at the warrior now standing on the back of the wagon. He was the same man who had first landed in the cart and as she had before, Kyla found herself memerized by the sight of him. Tall. Strong. Magnificent. He stood poised for a moment surveying the battle, the sweat on his body gleaming in the sunlight, then, just as suddenly as he had arrived, he lunged off the cart again, sword swinging ferociously.

“Gor!” Fanning herself with her good hand, Morag collapsed back against the skins in the bottom of their cart. “Savages!” she muttered crossly. “Highlanders. And ’tis one of them yer Catriona is wedding ye to. Yer dear departed mother must be rolling in her grave.”

“Aye,” Kyla agreed, then scowled as Morag pushed herself back up so that she could peer over the side of the cart.

“What are you doing?” Kyla hissed, sitting up to pull her back.

“Watching to see if we win.”

Kyla opened her mouth to say that it mattered little—even if Catriona’s men won, she would not be the winner—but before she could comment on that, two battling Scots crashed into the side of the wagon sending both women tumbling sideways against the far wall. Just as Morag would have raised herself again to continue her watch, a sword swung over their heads, then caught in the wood of the wagon. A man cried out in agony.

The Scot who had landed briefly in the wagon earlier peered over the side at them, a fierce glare on his face. “Keep yer heads down, ye lack-witted harpies!” he bellowed in Gaelic.

When Kyla’s eyes widened in confusion, the man then repeated the order in English. Obviously he’d thought she had not understood the order the first time, but in truth, her confusion was due to the fact that he had given it at all. He was not one of her escort, but one of their attackers. What the devil did he care if she lived or got herself killed?

Frowning, she peeked over the edge of the wagon again, dismay overwhelming her as she saw that every single one of her mail-armored escort had fallen. Not one still stood among the battling men. Even the driver of the wagon was now sprawled on his seat, bleeding badly from a shoulder wound. The only warriors between herself and capture were the Scots her betrothed had sent to meet them at the border. There seemed few of them left.

Peering around at the fighting men, she estimated that perhaps fifteen of her escort still stood. Fourteen, she corrected as another man fell. Thirteen.

“What’s about?” Morag rasped anxiously. Kyla bit her lip as she glanced down at her companion. Once the last of their defenders were slain, the attackers would no doubt turn their attention to them. Kyla was not willing to contemplate what would happen then. These savages bore no resemblance to the knights of her brother’s court.

Muttering under her breath, she ignored Morag’s question as well as her own aches and pains and began to move. Climbing over the lip of the cart, she crawled onto the seat beside the slumped driver, grabbed the reins from his slack hands, then gave them a sharp snap. Unnerved by the smell of blood and the battle that raged around them, both animals were more than happy to fulfill her silent order. After a brief spate of snorting and wild rearing, the beasts set out, hooves tearing into the moist earth beneath them as they drew the cart quickly away from the melee.

Movement to her side brought Kyla’s eyes around in time to see the previous driver tumble from the bench seat, dislodged by the lurching motion of the wagon. She winced at the thud as he hit the ground, but set her teeth and snapped the reins over the horses again, urging them to greater speed.

“Damnation!” Pushing herself up weakly, Morag peered out the back of the cart. Behind them, their attackers seemed not even to notice their escape.

Kyla scowled and reached back to push her gently down onto the floor of the cart. “Stay down, Morag. You are not well.”

The woman snorted at that, but sank down among the furs willingly enough, though not before muttering, “Oh, aye, but ye are, I suppose?”

Disregarding the sarcastic comment, Kyla concentrated on steering their cart through the trees they had entered. They hadn’t gone far when she spotted the horses. About twenty of them. No doubt belonging to their attackers. She was just worrying over the idea that they may have left someone to mind the animals when Morag’s earsplitting scream rent the air from the back of the cart. Kyla turned just in time to see a figure drop from a tree branch.

He was huge. A veritable mountain that made the whole wagon shudder as he landed in the back of it. Kyla’s gaze found the shiny blade he held in one hand and she panicked. With a broken arm and cracked ribs, her nurse maid was helpless against such a brute.

Dropping the reins, she stood, turned, drew her own dirk from her waist, and lunged—all at once. It was really quite amazing that she hit her target, but not only did she hit him, she sent the attacker backward right off the cart.

It had been an incredibly stupid thing to do, Kyla realized. With nothing to hold on to but the person she was tackling, she went tumbling off the wagon with the man. Driverless, the cart continued on its merry way, Morag screeching frantically from the back.

The savage’s body cushioned Kyla from the worst of the fall. Yet despite this bit of luck, her landing was jarring and, for a moment, she could only lie atop the man, trying to regain her breath. It was the shine of sunlight reaching delicately through the summer leaves overhead to touch the tip of the blade she had dropped that moved her to action. She had just managed to grasp the dirk when the brawny man she lay on suddenly released a loud roar and rolled her onto her back, a move that sent all of the air rushing out of her lungs.

Gasping in agony, Kyla blindly jabbed her knife at him. Much to her relief, the great bear cursed and moved off her at once. Taking advantage of that, Kyla rolled quickly away from him and onto her stomach, sighing as the pain that had been ripping at her immediately eased a bit. Still, her vision wavered slightly as she eyed him where he now sat, gaping at her with amazement as he grasped the wound she had made in his side. It really wasn’t much of a wound from what she could see; once he got over his surprise at her aggressive action, he would no doubt come at her again.

Turning her head, Kyla peered about, her gaze fastening on a good-sized fallen branch a few inches away from her right hand. It was leafless and pale brown from time spent in the elements. The bit nearest her was obviously the tip, but it widened out as it went, growing until it was thicker around at the end than her upper arm. Stretching, she closed her fingers over it, dragging it toward her even as she began to struggle to her hands and knees. Then, grasping it in both hands, she used it to help lever herself back to her feet.

The man recognized her intent the moment she lifted the stump of wood in her trembling arms and turned toward him. He immediately started to rise, but Kyla was already swinging for his head. The wood connected with a crack, the dead branch snapping in half as it slammed into his head. For a moment, Kyla feared all she had managed to do was anger the man further, then, a gurgle of surprise slipped from his lips and he sank back to lie in the leaves and grass.

Kyla felt nausea rise up inside her, then Morag’s screams reached her through her dismay. Turning away from her enemy, she hurried after the fleeing cart, her heart nearly stopping when another figure dropped from the trees directly in front of the wagon. Spooked, the horses reared, the cart tipped, and Morag tumbled out with a cry that turned Kyla’s blood cold. The cart righted itself and the horses stopped, stomping fearfully at the ground.

All she could see was Morag’s frail body lying on the ground as she rushed forward. Forgetting the other man, she rushed to her maid’s side, the knife slipping from her limp fingers as she dropped to her knees and gently touched one leathery cheek. “Morag? Morag!”