L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep

by Sharon Schulze

  He drew the chair close to the chest and pointed to it. “You sit there. ′Twill be more comfortable for you.”

  She scowled at him and stood her ground, waiting for him to sit in the chair as she had planned.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t notice how you’ve been rubbing your back?” He took her by the shoulders and turned her, then walked her backward until her legs bumped the chair seat. “As your overlord’s representative, Lady Moira, I command you to sit down.” He pressed on her shoulders until she obeyed.

  “Do you think to suddenly become a tyrant, milord, now that you’ve discovered I have a backbone?” she asked while he moved the candle stands closer.

  He went into the solar and returned with her bandages and simples. Placing them within her reach, he sat on the chest and faced her. “I’ve always known you have backbone, Moira. Only a strong woman could have held Gerald’s Keep and kept it out of Hugh MacCarthy’s hands these many months until help arrived.” He took her hand and held it loosely clasped in both of his. “Despite the odds against you, your people are safe, the keep is still standing and you’ve even managed to plant some of the fields. You’ve provided for your people—ofttimes, I imagine, at your own expense. It cannot have been easy to do all that, and to care for a dying man as well.”

  She blinked back tears; she’d done all she could, but she’d wondered—wondered still—if she’d done enough.

  She was so tired—not simply the physical weariness, but emotionally. She’d had no one to share that burden with.

  Could she share it with Connor?

  He gave her hand a squeeze and set it in her lap, reaching up to rub his right shoulder above his bloodstained sleeve. Perhaps they’d find the time to speak of those things later, but for now, she’d ignored his injury for too long already.

  She sat forward to peer at his arm. So much blood had soaked into the sleeve, it clung to his arm from below his shoulder all the way to the wrist. “Is it stuck to the wound?” She gave the linen at his wrist a tug. It didn’t move.

  “Aye, it’s clotted over.” He endured her gentle probing as she worked her way up his arm. “Just needs a bandage over it, most like—” His breath hissed between his teeth when she touched a spot just above the crook of his elbow.

  “I hope you’ve more shirts, milord, for this one’s life is over.” She stood and removed her eating knife from the sheath on her belt, then caught hold of the loose fabric at his throat.

  “The shirt’s life, or mine?” he asked, the faint smile in his eyes telling her ′twas a jest.

  She tightened her grip on the shirt and pulled him closer. “You do trust me, milord?”

  “You know I do,” he murmured.

  Ignoring the tide of warmth that flooded through her at his words, she poked the blade into the material and sliced it open.

  Despite the steady throb in his arm, Connor felt quite well enough to savor Moira’s closeness. Her sweet scent of flowers and spice surrounded him; he turned his head, brushing against a strand of her hair where it had escaped her veil. He was tempted to ease closer, to brush against the softness of her cheek, to make her shift her obviously averted gaze to his face.

  But he didn’t. He didn’t wish to force himself on her in any way, whether it be his presence, his ardor, his body …

  He’d better abandon that line of thought soon, else she’d know precisely what thoughts had taken over his errant mind.

  “Turn around,” she told him. He did so, and she slid the blade into the back of his shirt, then tore at the fabric until the sleeve hung free. She moved to stand before him. “Do you want to take off the rest of the shirt before I begin?”

  “I might as well.” If she didn’t mind him sitting there half-dressed, he certainly didn’t.

  She’d seen his scars already, heard him admit who had caused them. If she mentioned them again, he would tell her more—tell her all, if she wished to hear the tale. He had asked her to trust him with her life and that of her child; surely he could trust her with the story of his own.

  He reached up, tugged the remains of the shirt over his head and let the material drop into his lap. For the moment, it appeared her attention remained focused on his latest scar-in-the-making.

  As was his own, he thought when he glanced up. She placed a needle and stout thread on the chest, alongside some strips of white fabric and a small pot of unguent.

  Moira moved about the room, gathering together a basin, a dish of soft soap and a towel. Setting the basin on the chair, she filled it from a ewer on the hearth. Straightening, she rubbed her lower back, the arching movement emphasizing the mound of her belly.

  “Moira, your back is hurting.” He reached out and moved the basin from the chair to his lap. “Sit down, please.”

  “It’s never ached so much,” she told him. “But it’s been a long day, and I’ve spent the last few hours trying to bend.” She glanced down at her belly. “Something I cannot do right now.”

  “Would it help if I rub your back?”

  She shook her head and, grabbing hold of the chair’s arms, eased down into it. “I don’t dare relax until I’m through with your wound.” Laughing, she added, “You wouldn’t want me to fall onto the floor in the middle of stitching it up, would you?”

  “I’d catch you, I swear,” he said, chuckling as well.

  “It strikes me that we’re both too jolly, considering the situation.” She picked up a towel and dunked it in the basin. “Which tells me we’re both too weary and should be abed by now.” She wrung out the cloth and laid it over the cut, holding it in place to loosen the sleeve.

  “I guarantee I’ll not fall asleep while you’re doing this.”

  “It might be better if you did.” Catching hold of the top of the sleeve, she began to gently pull it free.

  It stung, but he’d felt worse—for a far less worthy cause.

  Other than the sheen of sweat that broke out on his brow, Connor sat silent, motionless, expressionless while Moira bathed away the blood from his arm and set stitches along a cut the length of his hand. Her face had paled, but he couldn’t be sure if ′twas what she was doing, or sheer exhaustion that caused it.

  “There,” she said, laying aside the needle and the knife she’d used to cut the thread. Sitting back in the chair, she sighed. “You were lucky, for it’s not deep, and ′tis a clean, straight wound. It should heal well.”

  She spread a creamy, sweet-smelling ointment over the cut and wrapped a long strip of linen loosely around his arm, tying it securely near his armpit.

  He rolled his shoulder, hoping to loosen the tension, and wriggled his fingers. “Everything works fine.” It certainly felt better, now that she’d finished. There must have been something in the ointment to draw away the pain, as well, for some of the ache had disappeared already. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Thank you, milady.”

  “I’d hoped you’d tell me everything that happened tonight, but I’m so tired, I doubt my brain could understand it.”

  Connor rubbed his hand over his face. “I doubt whether what I’d say would make sense, either. We’d best wait until tomorrow.” He stood and began to gather up the items she’d used, intending to put them away.

  “You needn’t do that.”

  “You’ve done enough yourself. It’s late—”

  “I’ll leave it for Maeve to take care of in the morning.”

  He didn’t believe her, so he finished the task, ignoring her frown. “You see, it took but a moment,” he told her, snuffing all but one of the candles.

  She’d grasped the arms of the chair once he released her, getting ready to lever herself up. She hadn’t moved, however, so he caught her about the waist before she could do so. “You’ve toiled long and hard today—and yesterday, as well,” he added. “For ′tis a new day already.” He swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. “You’ve earned your rest.”

  He tried to settle her onto the coverlet, but she clung to hi
m hard—harder than necessary to hang on. “That may be true, Connor, but I don’t believe I’ll get the chance to rest for a while longer.”

  He shifted her beneath the blankets and would have straightened, but still she wouldn’t release him. “What do you mean?” he asked, though he feared he knew the answer.

  She nestled against his throat. “I mean, milord, that I think my child has decided to be born.”

  Connor settled next to Moira and pried loose her hands. “Please tell me this is false labor again,” he begged.

  Her eyes closed and she shook her head. “I don’t think it is,” she murmured. “The pains feel stronger, and there’s an ache low in my belly that hasn’t gone away.” She opened her eyes and grimaced. “Add to that the dull pain in my back—”

  “I believe you,” he interrupted, unwilling to hear more. “I’ll get Brigit. She’ll know better than I what to do.” He tried to rise, but Moira clung to him. “You’ll have to let go, dearling, unless you’d rather I carry you into that room with me.”

  She let go of him at once, as he’d suspected she would. He crawled over the mattress, grabbed a candle from the stand, lighting it quickly, and quit the room, leaving the door wide in case she called out.

  He heard Brigit’s snores before he opened the door. “Not a good sign,” he muttered. He went to the pallet where he’d left the old woman, but the pile of bedding lay empty. She wasn’t on the bed, either, though she had to be nearby. He got down on his knees, the candle flame wavering in a draft, and dug through a mound that looked to be the bed curtains.

  Brigit lay under the dusty pile of fabric, her mouth open wide, her gown askew. “Brigit!” When he shook her, she caught hold of him and tried to pull him onto the makeshift pallet with her.

  He scrambled back and dropped the candle, which by some miracle didn’t go out. Snatching it up before he set himself aflame, he grabbed the bedpost for support and pulled himself to his feet.

  Leaving the maid where she lay, he raced up the stairs to his chamber and shook Padrig awake. “Lad, I need your help,” he said, loudly enough that Moira could likely hear him in the room below. It couldn’t be helped—his squire slept like the dead and was nigh impossible to awaken.

  “Padrig!” Connor shouted when his first attempt met with no reaction. “To arms, lad!”

  Padrig sprang up from his pallet and stood beside it, eyes wild. “What, milord, what is it?” he gasped. His gaze focused on Connor, standing half-dressed, candle in hand, and he stilled. “We aren’t going to battle?”

  “Nay, lad.” Connor’s laugh held a touch of desperation. “Not as we usually do.” He headed for the door. “Come with me.”

  They hurried to Moira’s room. “Wait here,” he told Padrig, and entered her chamber alone.

  The bed was empty. “Moira?” Frantically scanning the room, he found her on the far side of the bed, struggling with her tunic. “By the Virgin, what are you doing?”

  “This is wet. I need to take it off.” She picked at the knotted lace at the throat of the gown.

  He scooped her up and deposited her back on the bed.

  “No! I told you, ′tis wet,” she scolded, trying to climb off. “Connor—”

  “All right, I’ll help you,” he said. “Come on.”

  “You cannot help me.” She pulled away from him and stood propped against the bedpost. “Where is Brigit?”

  Feeling desperate and completely out of his element, Connor left her and went to the door, wrenching it open just far enough to talk to Padrig. “Go downstairs and find the maid—what the hell is her name? Maude? Nay, ′tis Maeve. Do you know her?”

  Padrig looked at him as though he were a madman.

  Perhaps he was; he certainly felt like one at the moment.

  “Is something wrong with Lady Moira?” Padrig asked, concern lacing his voice. He tried to peer into the room.

  Connor held his ground. “′Tis her time,” he snapped, his attention distracted by the sound of Moira moving about.

  Padrig stared at him blankly.

  “Her babe, it’s about to be born. She’ll be fine, I’m sure, once I find someone to help her.” He glanced over his shoulder; Moira knelt by the fire, giving it a stir with the poker. “Damnation, Moira, put that down,” he snarled, then had to hold on to the door so that Padrig couldn’t push past him.

  “Milord—”

  “Padrig, go and fetch Maeve now.” He started to close the door in the lad’s face, then whipped it open. “And send someone up to wake Brigit. They’ve my permission to do whatever necessary, but I want her awake and in Lady Moira’s chamber as soon as may be.” Padrig stared. “Do you understand?” Connor roared.

  “Aye, m-milord, at once,” the squire stammered before racing down the stairs.

  Connor turned and hurried to the hearth. “Dearling, you cannot be doing these things. Come back to bed.” He helped her up off the floor. Mistrusting the look in her eyes as she glanced from him to the poker in her hand, he took it from her and let it clatter to the hearthstones.

  Moira shrugged free of Connor’s gentle grip and faced him. She would have caught him by the front of his shirt had he been wearing one, but since his chest was bare, he should count himself fortunate that she didn’t grab hold of his chest hair to catch his attention. “Connor, stop it,” she shouted.

  “What?” He looked so wild-eyed, he might have frightened a weaker woman. As it was, she merely found him exasperating.

  At least she’d finally captured his notice.

  “Connor, where is Brigit?” Moira didn’t know how long till the next pain; she must do what she could in the interim. That included bringing some semblance of calm to Connor, and finding the help she and the babe would need soon.

  He raked both hands through his hair. “Drunk.” He drew in a deep breath. “She’s completely beyond help—or helping you. I couldn’t wake her. When I went to get her, she tried to haul me into bed with her!”

  In spite of the situation, Moira laughed, as much at the outrage coloring his cheeks and his voice as at the image his words brought to her mind. “She does find you a fine figure of a man. A bit thin, she said, but tolerable.”

  “Have you gone mad?” he demanded. He tried to herd her toward the bed again.

  “Nay, though I might ask you the same, milord.” She bent to pick up her wet gown from the floor and caught at her belly as another paroxysm twisted through her.

  He came up behind her and wrapped her in his arms, not flinching though she dug her fingers into his forearms. “Shh, dearling, relax.”

  A moan escaped her. She bit down on her lower lip, feeling as though her insides were being torn from her body.

  “We’ll think of something else, Moira—we’ll go somewhere else, where there’s nothing but happiness and pleasure and beauty. You and me together, in our minds.” He slid one hand down to cup her belly, the warmth and strength of his touch a soothing balm to ease the cramping ache, even as his voice and words helped to calm her fears. “Where shall we go?” He nuzzled aside her hair and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. “Tell me where we are.”

  Pain washed over her, filling her and leaving little room for anything else. Did he expect her to think, to talk … ?

  “Moira?” He shifted her weight against him, then backed up. He carried her along with him, lowering himself into the chair and cuddling her in his lap. “Don’t tell me the babe has robbed you of speech—I cannot believe ′tis possible,” he teased.

  The spasm eased and she shifted so she could see his face. “I need you to help me,” she said, her voice scratchy from suppressing the urge to screech and moan. “Now, before the next pain comes.” She lifted his hands from about her middle and wriggled forward to climb off his legs.

  He clamped his hands back in place, holding her on his lap. “Help you?” he asked suspiciously. “You should be in bed.”

  “And so I shall be, eventually. But there’s plenty to do beforehand, especially if Brigit can
’t help me.” That thought was enough to nearly freeze the blood in her veins. Moira hoped Connor couldn’t tell how frightened she was at the prospect of enduring this without Brigit’s knowledge to guide her.

  “You’ll have to help me,” she said, and took advantage of his momentary shock to wriggle away from him. Her legs felt a bit unsteady, but they’d do.

  “What do you mean?” He stood as well and approached her, his intent—to grab her again—quite clear.

  She tugged at the lid of her clothes coffer. “My gown and shift are wet, and I need to change them,” she said, rooting among the folded garments until she found what she needed. “You must help me change the bed, but we need new sheets—”

  Connor caught her by the shoulders and drew her away from the chest. “I’ve sent Padrig for Maeve, and to get someone to wake Brigit, if it’s possible,” he added darkly. “Until then, I’ll help you.” Releasing her, he took the clothing from her hands. “Though I’d rather someone else helped you to undress.”

  Still muttering to himself, he strode past her and closed the door, then nudged her to sit in the chair. “You need to take this off?” He plucked at the loose folds draped over her belly, his hands visibly unsteady.

  “Aye, I’ve tangled the laces into a knot.” She raised her arm to show him.

  He set to work loosening the strings. “Once I untie these, you can do the rest yourself?” he asked, his expression hopeful.

  “If I cannot, I’ll need your help.” Moira glanced at his face, so close to hers as he knelt beside the chair and bent to the task. His hair, dry now, was more wavy than usual, the springy strands shining in the firelight’s glow. She had no difficulty understanding why Brigit had tried to drag him into her bed …

  A flush rose to Moira’s cheeks, and it was all she could do to keep from burying her face in her hands. What kind of woman had she become, practically lusting over Connor while she was about to give birth to another man’s child?