by Deb Kemper
“Take yer lady to her chamber fer a bath. Afterward, take her to my chamber. Order a bath for me, as well. I’ll be up in a tick.” He released his wife. He spit the remainder of his instructions through clenched teeth. “Oh, and see to the bruise comin’ up on her left jaw, where that bastad, Barney Buchanan, cuffed her.” He turned to his study, after watching Gerty lead Amalie upstairs.
Once inside, he poured a stiff shot of whisky and sat at his desk to write a letter to the McPherson leader of this particular band of outlaws. Pray God he can find someone to read it to him!
Chapter 16
“What were ye thinkin’?” Garth thundered at Amalie, captive on a stool in his bathing chamber.
“Millie needed sassafras. I tried to find someone to go to the burn and fetch it. No one was around who wasn’t busy with their own work. So, I went myself. I know where it is, no more than a ten minute trip there and back.” Amalie defended her action, studying the wool rug under her bare feet.
She couldn’t stop shaking. She tried to rake her hand through her damp hair to no avail.
“A few hours ago we had a conversation, in which I forbade ye to leave the barmekin. Do ye forget?” He paced the room, hands on his hips.
“Nay, milord, it burned in my heart every step. I followed the tree line and dug up the root, which is still lyin’ there, by the by. If they hadn’t had a dog with them, they wouldn’t have noticed me.” She refused to meet his eyes. Her whole body quivered.
He poured a shot of Scotch whisky into a glass and handed it to her. “Drink this.”
She looked up and tried to wrap her hands around it. They trembled so badly he grasped and lowered them.
“I’ll do it.” He held the glass to her lips and poured the fiery amber liquid into her.
She covered her mouth and coughed as the flame seared its way to her stomach.
“Better?” He frowned down at her.
“Aye,” she croaked.
Garth knelt in front of her and cupped her face in his hands. “Amalie, ye could die out there. I wasn’t bein’ hateful tellin’ ye to stay inside. Do ye ken that?”
“I do! I apologize for my disobedience.” She grasped his shoulders, tears slipping her dark eyes to flow over his hands. “More than anything, I’m so sorry you had to kill someone because o’ me.” She sobbed and melted into his arms.
He stood as she clung to him, picked her up, and carried her to his bed. He lay beside her and held her close, waiting for her to cry it out.
Garth muttered a prayer. “God, forgive me the takin’ of another life, well three of ’em…, maybe four. I forget, but You know. Ease my bride’s pain and make this right.”
He inhaled a bushel of air. “Amalie, I love ye with all my heart. I’d’ve died out there had they killed ye. My girls wou’ have been orphans, at this moment.”
She nodded, pressed into his chest, then gasped. “I’m so sorry!” She trembled like a leaf shuttering in gale force winds.
“I know, lamb. I know. If it’s any comfort to ye, they were doomed anyway. We were about to ride into ’em. But fer yer voice, we’d’ve been surprised. We had to kill ’em fer trespassin’. They were up to no good. That kind always are. Your defiance might actually have saved more bloodshed—ours.”
Amalie peeked up at him. “Really?” She shivered.
“I wouldn’t lie to ye. I’m yer laird, yer husband, and a Highlander.” He nuzzled her warm neck and stirred his face in her hair. “Mmm, ye smell like summertime, my heart.”
She burrowed into his chest. He held her, rubbing her back and kissing her hair. When she calmed, he spoke again. “This is partly my fault. I’ve neglected yer education.”
She looked up. “How’s that, sir?”
“Scottish women are always well armed. It’s time to further instruct Mallow. I’ll have Gordon teach ye how to use a dirk and a sghian dubh. I’ve had ’em made fer ye, jest fail to have time to teach ye.” He wearily considered his bride. “Yer wearin’ me out, lass, but I love ye more than life.” Tears studded his eyes as he kissed her forehead.
They slept.
Garth woke to movement under his hand, spread on Amalie’s belly. He sighed in relief. Good, you’re still well, little one.
Chapter 17
Amalie sat at a small table in her room, to pen a letter to her husband. Except for glimpses in the great hall, she hadn’t seen him in more than a week. She gazed out the window for a moment before dipping her quill into the inkwell.
Dear Sir,
I would like to request your presence at the birth of our child. You would not be expected to participate unless you choose to do so.
Millie and I have discussed preparations for that day, boiling the linens and clothes we’ll wear, and cleansing herbal elixirs.
If you are interested, please reply by way of making yourself available for a quarter hour of instruction from Millie.
Yours truly and faithfully,
Amalie
Maybe I should have said I love him. Right now I’m too angry and hurt to feel anything close to affection.
She folded the paper into thirds and cautiously walked down to his study. She knew it was empty because the door stood slightly ajar. Still, she pushed it wide from the threshold, feeling like a trespasser.
She took a few steps inside and glanced around at the room that had been a haven for her barely ten months ago. Oh, the talks we had by this fire, sipping sherry and trading what I learned were flirty glances.
The grate’s cold. The coals are dead…I feel just as numb and cold in my heart.
She paused to perch in the familiar chair beside Garth’s larger, more substantial seat. She closed her eyes and inhaled the fragrance of his tobacco.
Her whispered words tumbled into the empty room. “I so miss your smell, your touch, your warmth, my laird.”
She heard the scrape of leather on stone floor and turned to find her husband in the portal.
“Amalie?” Garth’s brows rose with the question.
She stood and bowed her head in acknowledgement. “Beg your pardon, sir. I came in to leave you a note and was caught in a moment of wistfulness.”
Something akin to grief washed over his features.
Her eyes dropped.
He scrubbed his fist across his cheek. “Ah, well, I’m here if you want to give it to me.” He extended his hand with half a smile.
She reluctantly took a few steps in his direction, to lay the paper in his hand, before she curtsied and sought to pass him, on her way out.
“If ye’ll wait a moment I may have an answer fer ye.” He strode to the massive oak desk, laid his leather satchel aside, and unfolded the page. He scanned it before he faced her. “Well, I’m not sure as I don’t ken what’s expected.” His hands propped on his hips, as he tried to meet her eyes.
She’d turned back to the room, studiously avoiding his gaze, her voice soft. “When Papa attended my brother’s births he wore boiled clothes, after a bath, bare feet, and he cut their umbilical cords. He supported Kay-Kay, from behind the birthing stool and held his sons when they were but a few seconds old.” She glanced up and watched him expectantly; still aware she was an intruder in his personal space.
Garth nodded. “I see. May I think on it?”
“Aye, sir, you may.” Her countenance dropped further, with a sigh. She spun away and took a step to leave.
“Amalie!” He called her abruptly.
She stopped, looked back, and gently responded. “Sir?”
He cocked his head to the left, conceding. “I’d be delighted to be involved with the birth of our child.”
“You must obey directions from Millie.” She added doubtfully.
“I can do that.” He responded with a smile.
She smiled with her lips. “Thank you, sir.” She curtsied again. “Good day to you.” She left with a little more ease. At least he’ll welcome my child.
Chapter 18
The Mackintosh champion strode through t
he dirt yard, of the barmekin, toward the great hall with purpose. Quentin felt little pleasure for the task before him.
What’ll ye say milord, when yer champion and cousin wishes to resign his post and leave the clan? Will it be disbelief I’ll contend with or yer fierce anger? Far more of the latter we see these days. New lands await those of us who wish to escape the constant battle for survival and make their fortunes in the world.
He wearily climbed the steps, relishing, for the last time, the entry to his entire life’s existence. He scanned the dim interior hall and landed on the laird in the high seat, sitting judgment over disputes among the clan’s members.
Quentin headed for the kitchen where he hoped to find Amalie helping Millie with the noon meal. A bevy of servers passed him to set up tables and benches for the crowd. He approached the beehive of activity, where the village’s primary daily meals were prepared. He leaned in the doorway scouting the interior until his eyes landed on Amalie, her dark red hair slipping from under a white kertch.
Amalie glanced toward the doorway and saw Quentin. He started her way. He pressed her shoulders and kissed her warm, rosy cheek. “Come away for a moment, cousin. I need to speak with ye.” He led her into the larder.
“Quentin, what’re you doing?”
“I need to tell ye something before I speak to Garth. I’m leavin’ the clan, Amalie. I’m leavin’ Scotland.”
“What? Why’d you want to leave your family and home?”
“We’re on the verge of another bloody war with England. We live a little better than slaves to their king. I want a new life.
“Listen to me. I have a friend in Nova Scotia raisin’ sheep and makin’ a way fer himself without bein’ under the British thumb. It’s a colony, true enough, but it’s a new way of life.” He grasped her shoulders. “I ken ye chose Himself over me, but I’m askin’ fer one more chance with ye. I’ll petition him fer ye to go with me.”
Amalie shook her head incredulously. “He’s my husband. I can’t desert him. Besides, there’s the bairn.” She rubbed her swollen belly. “Even if I wanted, he’d never let me go.” Her gaze dropped. “At least, I don’t want to believe he would.”
Quentin lowered his eyes to her level. “If he’ll release ye, will ye come with me?”
“He’ll kill us both if he hears words like that from you.” She hissed. “Stop the nonsense, man!”
Millie stepped to the door and watched them. “Is all well, milady?”
Amalie turned, as Quentin dropped his hold on her. She wearily met her friend’s eyes and shook her head. “All has not been well for some time, Millie.” She looked back at Quentin. “I’ll be sad to see you leave us.”
He pushed past Millie on his way to the high seat.
“Ye’re what?”
“I’m leaving Scotland fer Nova Scotia. I’m sick of this place. I want a chance to make my own way, apart from bickerin’ clans.” He stood with his back to the closed door of the council room.
“Ye’re my champion, cousin. How could I begin to replace yer years of experience and devotion?”
Quentin’s gaze fell. “I want Amalie to go wi’ me.”
Garth left his chair. “Ye’re askin’ for my pregnant bride to leave my care to go wi’ ye to a strange land? Do I look like a fool?” He inhaled. His voice dropped. “Have ye spoken to her?”
“In the kitchen earlier.” Quentin’s jaw clenched as he met Garth’s glare.
The laird’s voice was low, threatening. His large hands tightened into fists. “What did she say?”
“Ye’d kill us both if I told ye.” Quentin squared his shoulders, bracing for a blow.
“That didn’t seem to stop ye.”
“I can take better care of her than ye can. Ye should’ve let me have her. Ye canna protect her. Ye’ll have a chance to know yer child, I’ll not steal tha’ from ye. But Amalie needs attention, love ye don’t give her.” The champion pleaded.
“I’m not believin’ ye wanna rob me of the joy of my life as well as desert yer family. No! Leave me, but ye’ll not be takin’ my wife.” The Mackintosh turned his back on his cousin.
“If ye really love her, ye’ll release her to my care.” Quentin opened the door. “We’ll see how fair ye are with yer own, Garth. How selfish are ye that ye’ll put her through the agony of war with England?”
Chapter 19
Amalie foundered on the stairs. God, I’m bone weary. When’ll this wee one come? I hope it’s soon. My back’s killin’ me. She stood again and made the last few dozen steps to her room.
Gerty was inside freshening her linen. “Milady, I’ll have this done in a moment. Ye look fiercely unhappy. What’s the matter, then?”
Amalie tried to straighten. “I don’t know. My back hurts. I’m tired and Quentin’s leavin’ us, for some strange foreign land.” She leaned on the footboard of her bed.
Gerty studied her for a moment. “I think it best to fetch Millie and send fer Granny Mae. Ye don’t look right to me. Let’s get ye to lay down.”
Gerty grasped her hips. Amalie placed her hands on Gerty’s sturdy shoulders and followed her around the bed with slow, shuffling steps.
Before she could sit on the side of the feather bed she felt a warm flush between her legs and a puddle appeared at her feet. “Ah!” She yelled as cramps began in earnest. She bent almost double.
Gerty snatched the rope to ring the kitchen until a maid ran down the hallway, from the backstairs. She opened the door and heard more feet following the maid.
“Be quick to fetch Granny Mae, the laird, and Millie. The bairn’s comin’!”
Garth was halfway up the stairs when Gerty’s words reached him. He sprinted the remainder of the distance, dashing into his wife’s room. “Amalie!” He caught her hand in his. “Is it time, my heart?”
“I believe it so.” Her eyes widened.
Millie strode into the room. “Laird, out! No one enters this room until they’re scrubbed and wearin’ clean garments. Gerty, fetch my shift and aparan from my room. Caleb, bring up the hot water. Mercy! Sire, I said get out.” She leaned on the footboard of the bed.
“I’ll stay with my wife.” Garth tried his best glare, but Millie refused to budge.
“Ye may return properly attired.” Millie offered with all the authority of a general.
“Garth, we had this discussion. Please.” Amalie switched to Eireann and addressed Millie, panting and weeping with pain. “I beg ye, don’t let these superstitious Scots kill me or my baby, Millie.”
Millie answered her in kind. “Ye’ll be fine, darlin’, I’ll tend every move.”
Himself left the room muttering, “Superstitious Scots indeed, like I don’t understand Erse.”
Millie retrieved the birthing stool from the dressing room, laid two boiled sheets under it. She placed a sack of boiled rags near the stool, along with a bottle of herbal elixir for cleansing.
Granny Mae arrived. “Milady, how ye feelin’?”
“Pains are regular, ma’am.” She inhaled and blew out the air slowly as another convulsion gripped her.
The healer flew to the bathing chamber and made quick work of scrubbing her hands and arms with boiled water and lye soap. Then she dressed in a clean shift and aparan.
Garth returned; his damp hair tied back with a leather thong. He wore a fine white leine over knee britches. His feet were bare, as instructed. “How are ye, lass?” He grasped Amalie’s hands in his.
“Alright, husband. I need to get to the stool.”
“Shall I carry ye or will ye walk?”
“Walk, please.”
“Le’ me do the work.” He slid his arm under her shoulders, sat her up, and pulled her hips forward on the bed. He held her elbows as she stood slowly and grasped his huge arms. He backed toward the stool with Millie directing him. Reaching it, he braced his wife’s back and lowered her to the rimmed seat, then took his position behind her.
“How’s this?” His chest pressed against her back, his arms
rested underneath hers on the chair.
Amalie leaned into him and sighed. “Very pleasant, sir.”
He slipped a kiss on her neck and whispered a prayer against the moist skin of her shoulder. “God in heaven, bring our child with no harm and protect my bride.”
Granny Mae cleaned Amalie with oregano vinegar water while she inhaled, with another pain, and gripped Garth’s wrists. He steadied her as she pushed into his chest.
“When she pushes, laird, ye’ll take the brunt of it.” Granny Mae instructed.
He nodded with a smile. “Aye, then, let it be so.”
Amalie rested for a moment and took in a bushel of air. Her body relaxed for a tick before tightening into another tremor. She exhaled as a mild cramp shot through her.
Another contraction struck on the heels of the last. “Almost time.” She squeezed the words out and groaned with pain. No sooner had that spasm passed than she contracted again and rammed into her husband’s body. The pain’s persistence kept her forced hard against his unyielding strength.
“Ahh!” She yelled.
“Head and a shoulder’s through, darlin’. Push one more time.” Millie instructed as Granny Mae held the infant’s head, gently tugging his shoulder.
When the contraction struck, Amalie struggled with all her might. She felt the baby slip free. He gurgled then screeched at the top of his lungs. Granny Mae laid him on his mother’s lap and drew the umbilical cord. The slime covered infant writhed, flailing air with tight fists, as he bellowed. Amalie’s hands clutched him, pulling him closer to her.
Garth reached for the knife Millie held ready, wrapped in boiled flannel. She tied his cord off with boiled string and his father freed him.
Millie glanced up at Garth. “We’ve a son, milord! A fine strappin’ boy.” She mirrored the grin on his face.
Amalie laid him to her breast. Millie swaddled boiled flannel over him. Granny Mae finished cleaning Amalie and applied pads to her dressing. Afterward, she carried the covered bedpan to the maid waiting at the door.
