Nana had taken a position at the foot of the bed, examining Clara, guiding and instructing her in a soothing voice with knowledgeable words. It was surprising. Who knew at the start of all this that Nana would be the one to provide such comfort?
“Aye. You’re close, lass.” She patted Clara’s sweat-slick knee. “Verra close now.”
Clara fell back on the bed with a moan, long past letting such words relieve her. She’d heard them many times. “Thank God. I can’t do this much longer. I’m so tired.” She panted. “So tired.” Her head lolled on the pillow weakly.
“Soon you will be able to sleep,” Marian promised, wiping her brow with a damp cloth. Her friend had been diligently at her side through it all.
Clara knew there were others in the room, too. She heard the faint rustling and the soft voices of other maids as they assisted Nana and fetched things for her.
She was out of her head. The pain was too great. Her entire body one tight writhing ball of agony that centered on her drum-tight belly.
Suddenly everything intensified and a sharp stabbing pain shot straight through her center. She arched off the bed with a scream.
The agony ebbed to dull hurt and she dropped back on the bed with a whimper. “Hunt. I need Hunt.” The words came softly, just a plaintive whisper, but she released them into the air. She put them out there.
She wanted her husband, the man who had come to mean everything to her, and she needed him right now.
Hunt did not know what it was about that last scream, but it did something to him. He’d heard her cries for hours now, but that scream reached inside him and pulled him up from his chair. Even when it stopped and a hush of silence fell, he felt a call, compelled to move, to go to her.
He flew toward the door.
“Where are ye going?” Graham called.
“I can’t sit here anymore.” Hunt raced from the library and took to the stairs.
He was only halfway up the steps when his foot hit something slick. Water on a step, probably spilled by a maid. There had been a lot of carrying of water back and forth upstairs for his grandmother. His feet flew out from under him and his body sailed backward down the stairs. He hit the base of the steps with a jar that rocked through his entire body.
For a long moment he could not move. Warm wetness glided along his skull, trickling through his hair. “Clara,” he whispered to no one.
He could only lie on his back, his head splintering with pain. He was not even sure if he was alive. His vision darkened at the edges and went black.
Chapter 25
“One more push. Keep going, lass!”
Clara shook her head, more tired than she had ever felt in her life. The pain was constant and the weariness was overwhelming, threatening to pull her under. “No,” she moaned. “Too . . . tired.”
“Clara.” Marian squeezed her hand as though hoping to inject her with strength. “You can keep going. You are the strongest person I know. You can do this.”
Clara had thought she could. She had hoped . . . Now she didn’t know. Now she was too tired.
“Clara,” Nana said severely. “Open yer eyes, lass, ye can sleep later. Now ye have work tae do.” Nana clapped her hands with harsh efficiency. “Understand me? Ye have a child that is waiting tae get out and see this world . . . He wants tae meet his mother and his da. Do ye understand me? Ye do this now.”
Clara blinked at the hard words, and then she nodded, propping herself up on her elbows on the bed. “Yes. Yes, of course.” She nodded once. “I’m ready. Let us do this. One more push.”
Nana nodded. “Very good, lass. One more push should do it.”
Clara had to do this. There was no choice. No alternative. She would do this for herself. For this child. For the man she loved. Hunt was out there somewhere. Waiting. Every minute she dallied bringing this child into the world was a moment he was at risk. No more. Now was the time.
The door flung open. Slammed against the wall. Even in her state, panting in pain and exhausted, she looked toward the door and gasped at the sight of her husband with blood streaming down his face. “Hunt!” she screamed.
Nana groaned. “Tis happened! ’Tis the curse!”
With a bellow of rage and pain and frustration, Clara grabbed on to both of her knees and leaned forward; pushing through it all, screaming through her teeth, using everything she had left, she pushed out every emotion.
She pushed out her baby.
Hunt had made it up the stairs and to his bedchamber.
Blood streamed into his eyes, but he wiped it clear so he could see where he was going. He was alive. He wasn’t dead yet. He’d reach Clara . . . and his child.
His presence caused a commotion when he entered the room. A maid rushed at him. He accepted the towel, pressing it against his head wound, and then waved the girl away. It bled like the dickens, but he didn’t think it was mortal. At least he told himself it wasn’t.
His attention focused on his wife on the bed. She looked like hell. He’d never seen anything more beautiful.
“Hunt!” Nana shouted shrilly. “Come! See your child. Quickly.”
He approached and gasped, unsure what he was looking at.
Nana beamed as she held the bundle in her arms. “Twins. Born in the caul.”
He shook his head, wondering if his head wound had created this bit of fantastical fiction and what he was seeing wasn’t real at all.
“My baby?” Clara demanded, falling back down on the pillows.
“Aye, babes. And they be fine, lass.” Nana turned back to him. “Quickly, Hunt, take them both into your arms before the caul breaks and they take their first breaths. Hold them.”
Hunt dropped his bloodied towel and took the sac that contained the two babies, trying to examine them under the bluish membrane. “Twins,” he murmured as their weight settled in to his arms. “Twins,” he called to Clara, not caring if he was being redundant.
His wife smiled wanly. “Yes.” She attempted to prop herself up on her elbows, but too weak, she fell back on the bed. “What are they?” she asked. “Boys? Girls?”
He lowered the sac of babies to the bed and Nana gently tore the membrane. Fluid rushed out and both babies took in a great gulp of air—breaths that soon turned into gasps and then lustful wails.
“Boys!” Nana proclaimed, sniffing back tears. She rubbed Hunt’s shoulders happily. “’Tis good luck. A baby born in the caul . . . and ye have two of them. Ye held your sons before their first breath. The curse is broken. The lass did it. She did it!”
His heart swelled with more love than he had ever felt. He scooped both babies up to bring them to their mother . . . and that’s when he noticed she wasn’t awake.
She was sleeping.
“Clara?”
Instantly, Nana was at her side. “Clara?” She shook his wife, but Clara did not stir.
“Clara!” he raged.
Two maids quickly came forward to relieve him of his sons and he rushed to her side as Nana and another servant examined her below.
“She’s bleedin’,” Nana proclaimed, fear tight in her voice. “Tae much blood!”
He plucked up Clara’s limp hand and pressed his lips to it, understanding. This was the curse. Losing her. It was worse than his own death. This loss he could not overcome.
“Clara, Clara, Clara.” Her name rolled from his lips in a desolate litany. “Stay with me. You promised. You said you would stay, damn you! Stay. I love you. Dinna leave me.”
Stay. You said ye would stay . . . I love you . . .
Clara sucked in a pained breath as though someone had given her a great push and demanded she breathe. The air felt like marbles going down, but she dragged it in and filled her lungs.
She opened her eyes to fog. She shut her eyes, waited a moment and then tried again. This time she saw light. Fuzzy shapes. She blinked several times, gradually clearing her vision, focusing on the head resting on her chest. She lifted a hand weakly and ran her fingers through t
he familiar brown strands.
She knew that hair. Hunt.
Her chest felt wet . . . and his head was moving against her like . . . was he crying?
“Hunt?”
His head shot up off her, eyes red-rimmed and tear-filled, blood crusting along his hairline. “Clara! You’re . . . alive.”
“Of course I am.” She frowned and then winced at the sudden pinch of pain between her thighs. She glanced down to see Nana and the other midwife working there.
Nana sent her a reassuring nod. “Everything is going tae be fine, lass. We’ve stopped the worst of the bleeding. It was a mite scary there for a moment.”
“Was it?” she murmured, not remembering anything. Gasping, her hand flew to her stomach. “The baby?”
“Babies,” Hunt corrected, grinning widely. Turning, he motioned with his hand and Marian and a maid appeared, each one placing a blue-eyed, cooing infant on either side of Clara. Beautiful blue eyes as remarkable as their father’s, but each babe had a shock of dark hair to match her own.
“Your sons,” Marian exclaimed, happy tears tracking down her cheeks.
“Sons?” Clara marveled, her heart overflowing as she looked from each perfect little baby to her husband. “Two sons, Hunt?”
“Aye, my love. You did it. Gave me two sons born in the caul. I held them in my arms before their first breaths. We broke the curse. You did. We’re no longer cursed. We’re blessed.” He gave her a lingering kiss. “You did it. You gave me this gift.”
“No.” She shook her head. “We did it.”
Epilogue
Three months later
“Twins,” Nana announced—not for the first time since the babies’ births months ago. “They run in yer family, I see.” She eyed Clara’s screeching siblings as they tore across the garden.
It was a beautiful day. One of the last of the summer. Fall was already in the air, a windy nip that hinted at the winter to come.
“Yes,” Clara replied cheerfully.
“Fortunate for us.” Nana lifted her teacup to her lips. “Perhaps you will have another pair before long.”
Clara choked on a laugh and averted her face so that Nana could not see her roll her eyes. She met Hunt’s gaze and they exchanged a conspiratorial grin.
“Nana,” Hunt chided. “We are no’ speaking of shoes here. The babies are only three months old. Must you already be planning for more? Can we no’ simply enjoy our blessings?”
“Aye. I must. The curse is broken and for the first time in five generations we can look tae the future. I intend tae do just that, and that means populating our clan with several of yer bairns.”
A happy shriek drew Clara’s attention away from Nana.
Mama and Colin had forgotten all about the refreshments and joined the children in their vigorous game of chase about the lawn.
Her mother hardly looked like a grandmother as she lifted her skirts and raced across the grass, exposing her slender ankles to the world. Her dark hair gleamed with vitality, as did her dark eyes. Her cheeks were flushed with fine health and color as she scooped up her son and whirled him in the air.
Mama’s handsome husband was treating their daughter similarly, pinning her to the grass and tickling her into fits of laughter.
They’d arrived shortly after Clara gave birth to the babies, staying a few weeks with Clara, and then with her brother and Alyse, and now again with Clara.
Clara was immensely enjoying their visit and in no hurry to see them depart for their home. In addition to a carriage full of gifts, they had come bearing the most delicious news of Clara’s former fiancé.
She was not usually one to relish in gossip, but this tittle-tattle was most satisfying. The Earl of Rolland had affianced himself to a very eligible young lady from one of the finest families in England. Clara had snorted at that, immediately pitying the unknown girl. Mama had continued, imparting with glee that shortly after their marriage, Rolland’s wife ran away with the local blacksmith to the Continent.
Currently Rolland was holed up at his estate, hiding from Society and the shame of being abandoned. Clara couldn’t help feeling inordinately pleased that he had no wife to abuse and crush beneath his boot. Things had a way of working out for the best.
“They are . . . noisy,” Nana remarked, nodding toward her family.
“Indeed, they are.” Clara smiled fondly at her family as she repositioned one of the babies on her shoulder to gently pat his back.
Hunt held their other son, looking utterly besotted with him as he rubbed his small back in smooth circles with his large hand. Of course, that was his customary expression when he held either one of their children.
That besotted expression did not alter much when he looked at her either—except there was a decided amount of lasciviousness when he gazed at her. It did things to her, that look. Heated her blood. Squeezed her heart. Convinced her of love and goodness and all things wonderful. It affirmed the beauty of her life.
Suddenly Marian was there, rushing across the lawn without her usual composure, her face distraught and her voice strained as she called out to Clara.
She frowned. “Marian? Is something amiss?”
Marian held a crumpled bit of parchment in one hand and lifted her skirts up with the other as she hastened over the lawn. Her pretty face looked bloodless, her eyes wide and haunted. Nothing about this sight of her boded well. For once, Clara’s usually garrulous friend struggled for words.
Still holding her baby, Clara rose to her feet. “What is it, Marian? What is wrong?”
Marian’s slim throat worked as she gulped a breath. “Something has happened. There has been an . . . accident.”
Clara quickly transferred her son to Nana’s ready arms and turned back to her friend. She reached out to clasp Marian’s hands in her own. “What can we do? Tell me. We shall help.”
Marian shook her head, a strangled sob breaking free, shattering the last of her composure. “You cannot help. I wish you could. I have to leave. I have to go home. At once. Before it’s too late.”
Announcement
The next scintillating novel in Sophie Jordan’s bestselling Rogue Files series, Marian’s story,
THE DUKE’S STOLEN BRIDE
goes on sale October 2019!
About the Author
SOPHIE JORDAN grew up in the Texas hill country where she wove fantasies of dragons, warriors, and princesses. A former high school English teacher, she’s the New York Times, USA Today, and internationally bestselling author of more than twenty novels. She now lives in Houston with her family. When she’s not writing, she spends her time overloading on caffeine (lattes preferred), talking plotlines with anyone who will listen (including her kids), and cramming her DVR with anything that has a happily ever after. You can visit her online at www.sophiejordan.net.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
By Sophie Jordan
The Rogue Files Series
This Scot of Mine
The Duke Buys a Bride
The Scandal of It All
While the Duke Was Sleeping
The Devil’s Rock Series
Beautiful Sinner
Beautiful Lawman
Fury on Fire
Hell Breaks Loose
All Chained Up
Historical Romances
All the Ways to Ruin a Rogue
A Good Debutante’s Guide to Ruin
How to Lose a Bride in One Night
Lessons from a Scandalous Bride
Wicked in Your Arms
Wicked Nights With a Lover
In Scandal They Wed
Sins of a Wicked Duke
Surrender to Me
One Night With You
Too Wicked to Tame
Once Upon a Wedding Night
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be constru
ed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
this scot of mine. Copyright © 2019 by Sharie Kohler. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition APRIL 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-246367-8
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-246366-1
Cover design by Patricia Barrow
Cover illustrations by Jon Paul Ferrera
Cover photography by Media Photo/Michel Legrou
Avon, Avon & logo, and Avon Books & logo are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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This Scot of Mine Page 22
