Catrin paused only to weave her hair into a single braid before she headed for Gillian’s chamber. Likely she had no need to hurry; doubtless it would be a long while before the child finally made an appearance.
“I don’t want to do this anymore!” Gillian shrieked, her fingers grasping clawlike at Catrin’s gown. Culling strength from some hidden reserve, she hoisted herself upright on the bed. Her eyes darted frantically from Catrin to the maid standing beside the bed, but she maintained her hold. “No more, Catrin,” she whimpered, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. “Make it stop.”
Catrin fought the drag of Gillian’s weight on the front of her bliaut, struggling to remain upright as she sought to release her white-knuckled grip. “Enough of this,” she said, infusing her voice with a stern tone as she pried Gillian’s fingers from her bodice one by one. “The babe must be born, and you must work to help. You know I cannot make it stop.”
Free at last, she straightened. She held one of Gillian’s hands clasped firmly in her own as she eased her down onto the bolsters. Her back sent up a sharp twinge of protest, but she forced the pain aside. Gillian needed her now. Her own discomfort could wait. But she couldn’t stop her hand from trembling when she reached out to smooth the sweat-soaked hair away from her cousin’s face.
Catrin noted the pallor and strain on that face with an inward wince of alarm. This birthing was taking much too long. A full day and night had passed since Emma fetched her from her chamber, an eternity of pain and exhaustion for Gillian—and herself. Under normal circumstances she’d have been better prepared to face this, but now…
Her scant hoard of strength was nearly gone. She had to deliver this baby now.
Gillian hovered on the edge of hysteria. Catrin knew it would take strength to pull her back from the precipice, a strength she wasn’t sure she possessed.
Her love for her cousin spurred her on, reviving her flagging spirits. Gillian depended on her; she could not fail her now.
She sat on the edge of the bed. “You must help us, Gillian. Come now, you must push.” She smoothed a wet cloth over her face.
Gillian’s fingers crushed her own as another contraction racked her. Murmuring encouragement, Catrin tried to calm her, but it was clear her efforts were for naught. Gillian’s moans rose to a pitiful cry before subsiding to whimpers when the spasm eased.
She had to do something now, before Gillian became too muddled to be of any help.
At this point, she’d try practically anything to jolt Gillian into action.
She motioned Emma to her side. The maid’s careworn face was tense, her lips held in a firm line as though to still their shaking. “What are we to do, milady?” Her faded blue eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “My poor lamb—I’ve never seen her like this. I don’t think she even knows what’s happening.”
“Bring Lord Rannulf here. Mayhap he can lend her the strength she’ll need.” Surprisingly, Emma didn’t question her suggestion as she hurried away.
Catrin paced beside the bed until the next contraction seized Gillian in its grip. Coaxing and cajoling, she bullied her cousin through the paroxysm, so completely involved she didn’t hear anyone enter the room.
But when she looked up during the brief interim between pains, she discovered Nicholas standing next to her, staring at her with a strange intensity. Raising her finger to her lips, she motioned him away from the bed.
Once they reached the door he took her in his arms, cradling her gently. “How long has she been like this?” he asked, brushing his lips comfortingly over her forehead.
She rested against him, briefly savoring his strength. “Hours, I think. Too long.” She looked about the room. “Where’s Rannulf?”
“I wanted to hear for myself that you asked for him. Emma’s practically incoherent, and I didn’t know if you truly wanted him here. He’s like a caged beast, Catrin. I’m not sure his presence will help her. He’s more likely to terrify her.” He glanced at the woman on the bed. “Or become completely mad with worry.”
“Perhaps they can help each other.” Catrin sighed and stepped back from Nicholas’s comforting arms. “I cannot make her try anymore, and if she doesn’t we could lose both her and the child.” Recognizing from Gillian’s whimpers that another pain had started, Catrin hurried to her side. “Warn him what she’s like before you bring him in,” she added, sitting beside Gillian and taking her hand. “But get him in here now.”
Nicholas brought Rannulf into the chamber as the next contraction eased, not a moment too soon. Catrin motioned him over, tiredly noting that he looked nearly as bad as his wife. At least he was sober, thank God.
“You must talk to her, Rannulf,” she said softly. She placed a hand on his arm. “Gillian is too exhausted to heed me any longer, but perhaps she’ll listen to you. It’s not too late, but I’ll not lie to you—she needs your strength to carry her through this.”
He nodded, his gaze never leaving Gillian. “What must I do?”
“Argue with her; threaten her—it matters not how you do it, but you must rouse her enough to help herself. She’s so weary, I think she’s fighting against her body. She’s very close to delivering the babe,” Catrin reassured him. “But you must make her try.”
Catrin was aware that Nicholas stood on the other side of the bed, but she didn’t send him away. She—or Rannulf—might need him before this was over, and she found his presence comforting. She summoned up the energy to give him a faint smile, the look he sent her in return washing over her like a balm and lending her the spirit to see this through.
“Rannulf, sit on the bed behind Gillian. You must hold her up and support her when she pushes.”
Rannulf swiftly obeyed her directions, then spoke sharply to Gillian before leaning down to whisper something in her ear. Whatever he said caught her attention, her eyes darting about groggily before settling on Catrin where she stood near the foot of the bed.
She thought Gillian still had the look of a cornered animal, but she also saw a growing awareness in her cousin’s weary green eyes. “I’m going to see how far you’ve come, Gillian,” she said, raising the sheet draped over Gillian’s legs and suiting action to words. Another contraction struck while Catrin examined her; she could tell that this time Gillian concentrated on riding the spasm through, panting as she’d taught her. Rannulf encouraged her.
Another paroxysm arrived nearly atop the first, and she judged it time for the real work to begin. “The next time you must bear down and push hard,” she told Gillian. “Lean back against Rannulf and let him hold you up.”
Folding back the sheet, Catrin positioned Gillian’s legs wider and helped her brace her feet. Between them, she and Rannulf coaxed Gillian through the contractions. She marveled at Gillian’s returning vitality; with each push she seemed to gain the strength and the will to bring her ordeal to an end.
Finally it was time. “I see the babe’s head,” Catrin cried, willing herself to patience. “Push again.”
Gillian’s voice broke as she concentrated all her energy on this last, powerful thrust. Catrin reached out and caught the child as it began to slide from Gillian’s body.
Blinking away tears of joy, Catrin turned the babe and eased it the rest of the way. “You have a daughter,” she said, grinning at Gillian and Rannulf.
“Aren’t you a beauty?” she crooned as the child screwed up her face and began to wail. She needed to free her hands to cut the cord. “Here, Nicholas,” she said, placing a tiny blanket beneath the babe and holding her out to him. He looked at her as though she’d gone mad. “Take her—’tis only for a moment.”
Nicholas moved closer and held his hands out awkwardly. “Like this.” She placed the child in his arms and showed him how to support her. Satisfied he’d manage, Catrin turned her attention to her remaining tasks.
Swiftly averting his eyes while Catrin attended to her business, Nicholas gazed down at the slippery, squalling infant. Skin bright pink, her face looking slightly squas
hed, she couldn’t be called beautiful, Nicholas thought, but there was something compelling about the tiny scrap of humanity he held in his hands.
Not ready to identify the foreign emotion, he looked up and saw that Catrin had cut the cord. Wrapping the blanket more securely about the child, he brought her to her parents.
Gillian lifted her daughter from his hands with a cry of happiness, immediately moving the cloth aside to inspect the babe from head to toe. Smiling, his eyes suspiciously wet, Rannulf enclosed his family in his arms.
Seeing their joy made Nicholas aware of an ache of loneliness somewhere in the region of his heart. Not wishing to intrude upon their privacy, he turned to go.
“Nicholas,” Catrin called when he’d nearly reached the door. Halting, he turned to face her. “I’m almost through here.” She crossed the room to where he stood. “Will you wait for me?”
“I’ve intruded long enough. I thought I’d leave so they can be alone. Once Gillian realizes I was here, she’ll never look me in the eye again,” he said with a wry smile.
“Perhaps. But you might be surprised.” She placed her hand on his arm. “If you don’t wish to stay here, will you wait for me in my chamber? I don’t want to be alone.”
A strange lightness flowed through Nicholas’s blood. Would he await her in her chamber?
He’d be mad to refuse.
“Neither do I,” he said softly. He bent to whisper in her ear. “Take your time. I’ll wait however long it takes you. Some things are worth waiting for,” he said, taking a last look at the joyful parents before closing the door behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Nicholas settled into a chair by the small fireplace and, pushing off his boots, warmed his feet by the hearth. This had been his chamber when he was Gillian’s guardian, and he felt very comfortable here.
He poured a goblet of mead from the flagon on the table. Smiling, he raised the drink high to toast the newest FitzClifford. He hadn’t noticed whether she favored one of her parents over the other. But she was bound to be pretty; both Gillian and Rannulf were attractive.
If he and Catrin had a child, what would it look like? He knew he was considered handsome, although he took no particular pleasure in it, and he found Catrin’s dainty face and form exquisite. But perhaps any offspring of theirs would be no more than passing fair.
It wouldn’t matter. Considering the surge of emotion he’d felt from simply holding someone else’s child, one of his own would be a treasure to cherish.
Especially if he’d created that child with Catrin.
Tilting back in the chair and closing his eyes, Nicholas settled into an almost dreamlike state. He’d not slept in several days, and the potent mead worked powerfully upon him, bringing to mind thoughts he’d never before considered.
What would it be like to have someone waiting for him when he came home from battle, someone to share the small, precious details of everyday life?
He started to push the idea away, but decided against it. Too many times in the past he’d buried thoughts of home and family, warmth and love, deep within where they couldn’t hurt him. Those concepts did not fit in with the persona he’d created, of a noble knight who expressed few feelings—and indulged them even less.
But he’d not hide behind that mask any longer. He didn’t care whether his background—who he was—offended anyone or made them think less of him. The time had come to allow his true feelings—his true self—free rein. The joy would outweigh any risk, any hurt he might suffer to gain happiness—
To earn Catrin’s love.
He would take that gamble and win.
The creaking of the door halted his reflection. He rose to his feet as Catrin slipped into the room.
Her shoulders drooped with weariness and circles darkened the delicate flesh beneath her eyes, but she radiated an energy he noticed at once. He pulled another chair near the fire and she sank into it with a sigh.
“Mother and child are well, I trust?” he asked, moving behind her.
“Aye,” she said. “Gillian seems quite lively for a woman who just labored to the point of exhaustion for nearly two days. But that isn’t unusual.” Careful of her healing injuries, he placed his hands on her shoulders and began to slowly stroke the tense muscles. She moaned. “’Tis a shame only the mother feels that surge of power. The midwife could use a bit of vigor now, as well,” she added, her low laugh sending a flash of heat through his blood.
He leaned down and nuzzled her ear. “What would it take to renew your strength? A nap? A soak in the tub?” He nipped at her earlobe. “Or would you like me to continue what I’m doing?”
Catrin moaned.
He took that for assent.
Lifting her into his arms, Nicholas carried her to the bed and tugged down the covers. She nestled into him like a cat, her body soft and warm, enticing him to sink into her softness.
He sat down on the mattress and laid her full-length next to him. Her eyes opened slowly, her lips curling into a smile so seductive he couldn’t resist.
His gaze holding hers, Nicholas smoothed the curling wisps of hair away from her face, his fingertips lingering on her cheek, then brushing over her mouth. His own mouth followed, tongue darting out to cajole a response from hers.
She met him touch for touch, taste for taste, until he would swear the room was afire. He drew back. “It’s too warm in here for so many clothes, don’t you think?” When he tugged at the laces of her gown, she smiled and turned to give him better access.
Together they removed her clothes, until she lay before him clad only in a silken shift. The rose-tinted fabric lent a warm glow to her skin, tempting him to touch. Fingers trembling slightly, Nicholas picked up her disheveled braid and unplaited it, then spread her hair over the pillows like an ebony veil. “How do you feel?” he asked as he combed his fingers through the wavy strands. “Shall I rub your back for you?”
She reached up and untied the neck of his shirt. “Aye—if you take this off first.”
“Whatever you wish.” He pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it aside, sucking in a breath when she smoothed her hands over his chest. “Wait, love—I said I’d rub your back…”
“And I’ll rub your front,” she said, gifting him with a winsome smile.
“Yes—but later.” He covered her hands with his and slowly slid them to his shoulders. “Else our pleasure will be over too soon.”
Though it was torture to do it, Nicholas urged Catrin over onto her stomach, closing his eyes for a moment and praying for control before he reached out and laid his hand on the strap of her shift.
Opening his eyes, he nudged the silk off her shoulder.
Her skin was so smooth against his battle-hardened palm, the delicate ivory a stark contrast to his darkly tanned flesh. Slipping a finger beneath the other strap, he pushed it aside, then eased her shift down to her waist.
Careful to avoid her nearly healed wounds, he laid his palms over her back and ran them over her tense muscles in long, smooth strokes. Catrin arched beneath the caress, the sound she made reminding him of a contented kitten. He kept at it until she felt soft and relaxed beneath his hands.
She rolled over, her smile radiating contentment, and took his hands in hers. “So strong, yet so gentle,” she murmured, nuzzling his palm. “So very talented—in so many ways.”
Releasing him, she sat up, catching the front of her tunic just before it slipped over the tips of her breasts. She held the fabric up with one hand, and used the other to push him back against the pillows. “Your turn…or is it mine?” she mused. “I believe I’ll enjoy this as much as you will.”
She let the hand holding up her shift fall away, the slippery material following in its wake. She left it where it fell, pooled about her hips, and leaned over him.
“Don’t move,” she whispered against his lips. Her nipples brushed over his chest, making his fingers ache to caress them. But she pressed his hands into the mattress on either side of hi
m and sat back on her heels.
“Temptress,” he groaned.
“If you wish.”
Nicholas fought the urge to close his eyes, fascinated by this new side of Catrin. He didn’t want to miss a moment, a nuance of this.
Her hair brushed over his stomach when she leaned close, the feathery sensation sending a lightning bolt of fire straight to his loins. “Do you like that?” she asked, her voice little more than a purr. The sound spoke of pleasure—hers, as well as his—and conjured up an exciting array of erotic images.
They all centered around the woman he needed more than life itself.
“It feels wonderful.” He moaned when she worked on the knot of his chausses, her fingers brushing against the flesh of his belly in a not-so-innocent caress.
Fingernails scraped along his thighs as she eased off his leggings. She sat back, her gaze sweeping over him from head to toe. “So I see.”
“Come here,” he demanded, burying his hand in her hair and drawing her down for a scorching kiss.
Though he initiated the kiss, she swiftly resumed her role as the aggressor. Catrin sprawled over him, surrounding him with her scent, the feel of her lips devouring his, the cascading caress of her hair slipping over his body. She paid no heed to restraining his hands now—nor to any other restraint between them.
She met his passion with her own full measure.
Nicholas’s hands closed about Catrin’s waist, shifting her to sit astride him. She didn’t want him that way, she decided suddenly. Though she knew he would give her pleasure—passion beyond her imagining—she wanted to feel him over her, around her.
Lips still meshed with his, she shifted off Nicholas and lay beside him on the soft mattress. “Come to me,” she whispered, drawing him over her.
“Are you certain?” Concern darkened his eyes, and he refused to rest his weight upon her.
She nodded. “I need you—here, now. You’ll not harm me,” she added, once again urging him near. “You make me feel safe, protected within your arms. Please, Nicholas.”
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