L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (22 page)

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 him
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?

Instead she sought to distract herself from her shameless
yearning, and Connor from his nervousness.

“I cannot believe you’re hesitant to remove a woman’s clothes,”
she said, forcing a tart edge into her voice. Mayhap that would catch his
notice—and disguise the fact that she was nervous, frightened and mortified
that he would see her like this. “Or is it that you’d rather not see me that
way?” she mused. “In my present condition—”

“By the saints, Moira,” he muttered. “What are you trying to do
to me?” He glanced at her face, his own awash in red, and his expression grew
thoughtful.

“I’m doing nothing save pointing out that you’re a handsome man.
I’m sure you’ve helped many a woman out of her—” Connor’s hand on her mouth cut
off the rest of her foolish babble.

“Stop,” he said softly. His gaze holding hers, he slipped his
hand away. “You’re as skittish about all this as I am, aren’t you?”

Uncertain her voice would work, since her throat seemed to have
closed up, Moira nodded.

“I can understand that,” he added. “You’ve an important new
experience ahead of you, and a child waiting for you at the end of it.” He
picked up her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “And I’m not the person you
expected to face it with. How could we have known that Brigit would indulge so
freely?”

“Or that the babe would choose tonight to arrive.” The pressure
in Moira’s belly began to build. She squeezed his hand. “Here comes another
one,” she whispered.

Releasing his hold on her, Connor splayed his hands over her
stomach again, leaning close, murmuring sweet-sounding nonsense as they rode
out the spasm together. He rested his forehead against hers when it was over,
reaching up to smooth her hair away from her face.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He sat back on his heels. “′Tis quite a battle, bringing a
babe into the world. I hadn’t realized—” He broke off as the sound of running
feet reached them.

Someone pounded on the door, then shoved it open. “It took me a
while to find Maeve, milord,” Padrig gasped, rushing into the room. “She was—”
Someone grabbed his arm, and he clapped his mouth shut.

The maid, her hair curling wildly and her clothing untidy, walked
past the squire, throwing him a menacing glare. “I wasn’t where you expected me
to be, is all.” She gave her gown a tug to straighten it and dropped into a
curtsy, her expression shifting from annoyance to concern. “I beg
yer
pardon, milady, for the delay. The boy said
yer
time’s come?” She moved closer.

“Aye, Maeve,” Moira said with a weak smile. “I’m sorry you’ve
been dragged from your bed—” she ignored the derisive sound Padrig made “—but
Brigit can’t help me now. Can you?”

“I’ll do whatever you want, milady. But I’ve not brought a child
into the world by myself. We might need someone else besides you and me.”

“Should I go for another servant, milady?” Padrig asked. He
looked eager to be away.

Connor, who had remained kneeling by Moira’s chair, stood up.
“For now, I want you to find someone to help you rouse Brigit and sober her up.
I’ll stay here.”

Moira caught Connor’s hand in hers and tugged him down. “You need
not do this! I know ′tis not comfortable for you—”

“It seemed you found some comfort when I held you,” he whispered.
“If you’re not uncomfortable having me stay?”

“I don’t mind now,” she told him. “If you’re willing, I’d be
pleased to have you here. Though later on, I might tell you to go.” She had no
notion how long she could endure—how long she would have to endure—before the
babe arrived.