Chapter 22 #3
Senga moved toward a small, wicker basin padded with folded wool blankets near the hearth. She lifted a bundle wrapped in coarse, unbleached flannel, holding it with an awkward, reverent care.
"She’s here, me Lady," Senga said softly, bringing the bundle toward the bed. "Greer fed her sweetened goat's milk with a rag. She’s quiet now. She slept right through the worst of the night."
Grisselle reached out both arms, the heavy sleeves of her shift slipping down to her elbows. Her muscle strength had vanished; her forearms shook under the light weight of her own linen. "Give her to me."
"Grisselle, ye're too weak—" Isobel began, but Alpin cut her off.
"Let her," Alpin commanded quietly.
He didn't take his eyes off Grisselle as he reached out, taking the tiny bundle from Senga’s hands.
He handled the child with careful, deliberate precision, placing the small weight gently into the crook of Grisselle’s elbow, using his broad palm to support both the infant and Grisselle’s trembling forearm.
The baby moved, a tiny, dark-haired head shifting against the unbleached wool. A tiny red hand, fingers no longer blue with the bitter coastal wind, worked its way free of the swaddling and pressed against Grisselle’s collarbone.
A sudden, sharp sting pricked behind Grisselle's eyes. She looked down at the tiny, wrinkled face, listening to the soft, rhythmic puff of the child’s breathing.
"She's warm," Grisselle whispered, her voice catching.
"Aye," Alpin said, his thumb brushing the back of the infant’s head before settling back against Grisselle's hand. "She’s warm. Greer made sure of it."
"I did no such thing alone," Greer huffed, though she dabbed at the corner of her nose with her apron. "Niall was up until midnight hauling birch logs up three flights of stairs so the hearth wouldnae drop a single degree. The whole keep’s been walking on eggshells."
"Niall’s still down in the hall," Isobel added, her hand slipping down to rest on Grisselle’s shoulder. "He hasnae let the MacCarron messenger past the inner gatehouse. He told them the Laird was occupied and if they raised their voices above a whisper, he’d throw them into the bay himself."
Grisselle looked up at Alpin. "The MacCarrons? The cattle dispute... Alpin, the bailiff."
"The cattle are all fine," Alpin said sharply, his tone cutting off her worry before it could grow. "Niall can handle a few angry MacCarrons. The world outside this door isnae yer concern today."
"He hasnae left the room, Grisselle," Isobel said quietly, ignoring the warning glare Alpin shot her. "Nae once. Nae to eat, nae to take the high seat when the clan elders came asking after the border taxes. He sat right where he is now, watching ye breathe."
Alpin didn't deny it. He didn't look away, nor did he offer a dry remark to deflect Isobel’s words. He stared down at Grisselle, his mouth set in a firm, unyielding line, his fingers remaining locked around hers beneath the baby’s swaddling.
"You should have gone," Grisselle murmured, though her fingers tightened their weak hold on his wrist. "The clan needs you."
"The clan has survived four hundred years," Alpin growled softly. "They can survive a Laird who stays by his hearth when his woman is cold."
Silence settled over the room again.
Greer cleared her throat, breaking the spell as she stepped forward to take the pewter cup from the table.
"Right then. She’s awake, she’s talking, and she’s holding the bairn without dropping her. Senga, go down to the kitchen and fetch the mutton broth. The clear broth, mind ye, nae the greasy skin off the top. And tell Niall he can stop pacing the hallway like a caged hound."
"Aye, Mistress Greer," Senga said, a bright, relieved smile finally breaking across her face as she curtsied quickly and hurried out the heavy oak door.
"I'll go with her," Isobel said, squeezing Grisselle's shoulder one last time. "I'll make sure she doesnae drop the pot on the stairs. Rest, Grisselle. We'll be right outside."
Greer gave a short, decisive nod toward Alpin, her gaze lingering on the couple for a long moment before she turned and followed Isobel, pulling the heavy latch shut behind them. The thud of the door closing echoed softly in the tall stone chamber.
Alone now, save for the quiet snuffle of the sleeping infant between them, the space felt smaller, intimate, wrapped in the orange glow of the dying peat embers.
Alpin shifted, moving from his knee to sit on the edge of the mattress. The rope springs groaned under his weight. He raised his free hand and gently pushed a strand of dark, damp hair back from Grisselle’s forehead, his rough palm lingering against her temple.
"Ye terrified me," he whispered. The admission was stark, raw, devoid of any Laird’s pride.
"I didn't mean to," Grisselle replied, looking up at him through heavy lashes. "I didn’t want to lose you."
"I ken," Alpin said, his thumb tracing the bone beneath her eye. "I ken."
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, his warm breath mingling with her own in the quiet room. The baby stirred between them, letting out a small, contented sigh, and for the first time in three days, Alpin let his eyes close.