Chapter Twenty-Two
Mari practically bowled over the servant who opened the door for her and bolted for the stairs, taking them two at a time, not caring at all that it probably was not ladylike. She nearly collided with a distraught Ian pacing the hall in front of Jillian’s bedchamber.
“Ye canna go in there,” he said as she reached for the door knob.
Mari glared at him. She was not in the mood for any MacLeod bossiness at the moment. “Jillian is my sister.”
“And I am her husband. The midwife ordered me out, and Bridget threatened to plant a boot on my arse if I didnae leave. ’Tis too crowded, they said.”
“Go,” Jamie said from behind her as he put a restraining hand on Ian’s shoulder. “’Tis nae men they want in the room.”
Mari gave him a brief nod and slipped through the door and then nearly collapsed at the scene in front of her. Bright red splotches of blood splattered the crisp white linens everywhere. Her stomach began to churn.
“If ye are going to swoon, out with ye!” the midwife snapped. “I’ve nae the time to tend ye.”
Mari swallowed the bile in her throat and took a deep breath. The sight of blood was not going to make her swoon—although there was so much of it. She did not need medical training to know this was a bad situation.
Jillian held out a hand weakly. Mari inhaled deeply once more and moved forward to grasp her sister’s hand in both of hers. “You are going to be all right,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster, though even to her ears it sounded inane. Jillian was certainly not all right.
Bridget gave Mari a worried look as she dabbed Jillian’s forehead with a cool cloth. “’Tis good ye returned. Is Jamie with Ian?”
“Yes. They were both in the hall.”
“Tell Ian not to worry—” Jillian whispered and then grimaced grotesquely.
Mari clutched Bridget’s other arm. “How much pain is she in? Is she—”
“’Tis just the birthing pains,” the midwife said as she pulled a chair close to the bed and draped a fresh sheet over Jillian’s raised knees. “Ye must push.”
Jillian grimaced again and then grunted, closing her eyes as her head fell back on the damp pillowcase.
“How can you ask her to push when she is so weak?” Mari asked. “You cannot expect her to—”
“If she dinnae push, the bairn will die. If it does nae come out, yer sister will bleed to death,” the midwife said grimly.
Mari felt Effie’s hand on her shoulder. “She is right. Perhaps you should wait outside with the MacLeods.”
“No.”
“We all know what we are doing,” Effie replied. “Not much else can be done.”
“I can pray.” Mari felt the slightest pressure from Jillian’s hand and returned the squeeze. “I am not leaving, but I promise not to get in your way.”
“Then take this,” Bridget said as she handed Mari the damp cloth. “Keep bathing her forehead while I help with the birthing.”
The next few minutes seemed like hours. Bridget crawled into the bed behind Jillian, bracing her in a sitting position so she could push better.
Effie stood by, holding what looked like handfuls of moss and leaves while the midwife’s hands were under the draped sheet—God only knew what she was doing, but Jillian alternately groaned and whimpered.
Mari bit her lip to stay quiet. She had to trust the midwife knew what she was doing since the physician had not yet arrived.
Jillian suddenly screamed, the sound rending the air like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. A distinct baby’s cry followed just as the door was flung open and Ian burst through.
“Ye are killing my wife!” he said, taking in the sight and then lurched toward the wall, his face white as fresh milk as he slumped down.
“Men,” Effie muttered.
“’Tis better he passed out,” Bridget said a minute later as she took charge of cleaning the bairn. “He would just be in the way.”
“I have nae time to look after him,” the midwife said as she began stuffing the mossy substance Effie handed her between Jillian’s legs. “I must get the bleeding to stop.”
Mari concentrated on bathing Jillian’s face and neck, praying the entire time that her sister would not bleed to death. She was only vaguely aware when Jamie entered the room, quickly retreating with a shaky Ian.
Finally, the midwife stood and crossed Jillian’s legs, binding them together with a piece of linen. “I think the bleeding has stopped, but ye must lie still.”
“My baby?” Jillian asked.
Bridget brought the bairn over. “A healthy, bonnie lass. Ye did well.”
Jillian lifted a hand to stroke the tiny fingers that flailed. “She is beautiful,” she said, a small smile on her lips, and then she fell into exhausted sleep.
“Ye are going to wear holes in Bridget’s prize carpet,” Jamie said, watching Ian pace in front of the desk in the library, “and right now it would nae be wise risking her wrath.”
Ian stopped and ran a hand though his already tousled hair. “Christ. How can any woman bear so much pain?”
Jamie didn’t ask for clarification since Jillian was the only person on Ian’s mind. With so much blood spattered over the bed, her bedchamber had looked like a battlefield, and the glimpse he’d had of her face was no less haggard than that of any wounded soldier. “The important thing is she lives.”
“No thanks to me.” Ian resumed pacing. “I passed out like some green lad at his first battle. ’Tis nae like I havena seen blood before.”
“Ye expect men to be bloodied when they fight. ’Tis different when it is a woman.”
“’Tis my fault she had to suffer so. I got her with child.”
Jamie raised a brow. “I dinnae think she minded that part.”
Ian paused and almost smiled and then shook his head as he sank into an empty armchair. “I canna get her with child again.”
“Jillian being with child was nae the problem. ’Twas the fall she took and lying in the cold all night. Ye remember the doctor said her insides were damaged, and he didnae ken if the bairn would even survive.”
“She shouldna have been out that night. I told her ne’er to leave without an escort.”
Jamie grinned. “Since when do either of the Barclay women listen to what they are told?”
Ian did manage to smile at that. “Aye, but her spirit is one of the things I love about her.”
“Spirit? More like stubbornness. I swear, Mari is going to make my head go grey before its time.” Although she certainly had not resisted his kissing her. Mayhap they should indulge the practice.
“If anything good came of that night, it was finding out about our uncle’s plan to waylay the countess.” Ian said, breaking into Jamie’s thoughts of where he could waylay Mari for another kiss.
“A plan thwarted, thank God, by the blizzard.”
“Aye, but nae forgotten. Duncan and Broc bear watching.”
“That they do,” Jamie said and remembered Mari had told him Jillian suspected the men had wanted her to follow them. “We must take care.”
“Ye be taking a care now that ye do naw drop the wee one,” Darcy said as she descended the stairs behind Mari. “Be sure ye protect the babe’s head.”
Mari tucked the soft woolen blanket around her precious bundle and smiled at Darcy’s presumptuousness.
The maid did not have any more experience handling babies than Mari did, but to appease Darcy for being left out of the birthing room—heaven only knew what kind of a scene that would have been—Bridget had appointed Darcy the baby’s nanny.
Darcy had lifted her chin and smiled smugly while Effie scowled.
Bridget quickly had reminded Effie her skills were needed in helping Jillian recuperate, causing Effie to lift her own chin and gloat.
But both maids seemed content with their roles, and Mari was beginning to think Bridget was a miracle worker.
They approached the library where Mari could hear Ian talking to Jamie. Before she could knock, Darcy opened the door and stepped inside. “Ye can see yer daughter now,” she announced, sounding for all the world like she was in charge.
Both men fell silent as Mari stepped through the door. Jamie’s golden eyes widened slightly, and Mari supposed she did look a little strange, holding a baby in her arms. Suddenly, she felt shy, remembering the kiss earlier and how she had responded to him. She turned quickly to Ian.
“Do you want to hold your daughter?”
A look of trepidation swept across his face as he stepped closer. “I dinnae want to drop the bairn.”
“She will naw break,” Daisy said authoritatively.
“She is such a wee thing,” Ian replied, tentatively brushing the baby’s hand with his, but not making a move to take the child.
Jamie came to stand behind him, looking only a bit less apprehensive.
Mari bit her lip to keep from laughing. Imagine the two large MacLeod men, fearless in fighting and able to brandish claymores that weighed almost as much as she did, yet here they were—both of them afraid of a tiny baby.
For heaven’s sake. Obviously, she would have to take charge.
Mari thrust the baby at Ian who instinctively put out his arms to grasp it, the expression on his face changing from terror to incredulousness when he realized he was holding a bairn—his bairn.
She covered a smile with her hand and glanced at Jamie, who was staring at her with the strangest look on his face.
A look that gave her delightful shivers and had nothing to do with fathers and babies.
Three mornings later, Mari rested her arms on the paddock fence, watching two of Jillian’s prize Andalusian mares nuzzling their respective foals.
It seemed all the mothers and babies were doing fine.
The doctor had arrived shortly after Jillian gave birth—too late, Effie had muttered—but he declared the midwife had done all the right things and Jillian was on her way to recovery.
Luckily for the doctor, Ian was enthralled with his infant daughter and spared the man a stern lecture on not being there sooner.