L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (23 page)

Nor did she know if she had the strength to make it through
everything yet to come without becoming a screaming madwoman.

“Then I’ll stay as long as you wish me to,” he said. He
straightened. “Padrig, go do as I told you. Maeve, I’ll leave for a moment so
you can help your mistress.” He gave Moira’s hand a squeeze. “I’ll be back as
quickly as I can. If you need me before then, just send Maeve after me. I’ll go
to see if I can wake Brigit now.” He grabbed the water pitcher from the hearth
and left, Padrig trailing along behind him.

Connor hastened from Moira’s chamber to his own, grabbed a shirt
from his clothes chest and pulled it over his head as he rushed back down the
stairs. Padrig, with a branch of candles in one hand, the pitcher of water in
the other, waited for him outside the room where Brigit still lay snoring.
Motioning for the squire to come with him, Connor took the water and stomped
into the chamber.

When Padrig caught a glimpse of Brigit still snoring away in her
nest of bed curtains, he set the candle stand down with a thump and edged
toward the door again. “I’ll go for more help.”

Connor grabbed him by the back of his tunic and spun him around.
“Lady Moira’s need is great, lad. I believe we can take care of this ourselves.
If we can’t,
then
you can get a pair
of men-at-arms up here to drag her out and toss her in a puddle.” He took up
the pitcher and used his foot to nudge Brigit off the makeshift pallet.
“Preferably a muddy one.”

“Aye, milord.”

“′Tis time to get up, my lovely,” Connor shouted, laughing
in spite of himself. “Come, Brigit, Moira needs you now.” Brigit’s snores
ceased and she shifted on the floor, but she merely caught hold of the bedpost
and curled up around it, mumbling a variety of Gaelic curses.

“What did she say?” Padrig asked, moving closer.

“You don’t want to know.” Connor bent and shook her by the
shoulders, to no avail. “You had your chance,” he muttered, and tossed the
contents of the pitcher in the old woman’s face.

As the maid sat up, sputtering and swearing, thundering footsteps
sounded from the stairs. Connor spun about as Sir Ivor bolted into the room. By
the saints, now what?

“Come quickly, milord,” d’Athée gasped. “We caught Domnal O’Neill
trying to break into Kieran MacCarthy’s cell.”

Moira watched Connor leave with mixed emotions. She could feel
the strength drain out of her with every step he took away from her. ′Twas
unfair of her to expect him to stay—especially when the child was not his own.

Nay, she’d see how she did on her own while he was gone. If it
seemed she could get by with only Maeve to help her, she would do so.

Maeve set to work, adding yet more peat to the fire and opening
the bed curtains wide to let the heat from the fire warm the bed. “Now then,
milady, what do ye need done first?” She gathered Moira’s wet gown from the
floor, then nodded. “Lord Connor said ye needed help with
somethin
’.
Yer
gown’s wet—did
yer
water break?”

Her legs feeling surprisingly boneless, Moira pulled herself to
her feet. She’d better dig deep within herself for a reserve of strength, else
she’d be a spineless mass upon the bed by the time she was through. “Aye, it
did—while I was in the bed, of course. I managed to take off my gown, but
there’s a knot in the lacing of my underdress—”

Maeve picked up Moira’s knife from the table where Connor had
placed it and sliced through the string. “There,” she said with a decisive nod.
“What does a bit o’ string matter when there’s more important things to think
of?”

Moira dressed in a dry shift with Maeve’s help, and had just
settled into the chair to wait while the maid changed the bed when a roar of
noise sounded from the corridor.

She half rose from her seat. Maeve rushed to her side and urged
her to sit again.

“Let me go see what’s wrong, milady,” the maid stated. “I have to
go find some dry bedding, so I’ll see what’s wrong, then fetch some sheets. If
that’s all right?”

“Aye,” Moira said. “But don’t be gone too long.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy and slipped out into the corridor.

The door had scarcely closed behind her when the next pain
struck. Moira rose from the chair and crumpled to the floor.

She curled into a ball and bit back a scream at the severity of
this pain. It seemed she’d have a chance to test her newfound resolve
already—and completely alone.

Connor muttered a curse that made Brigit’s words seem mild in
comparison, and dragged his hand through his hair. “Where are they?” he
demanded of Sir Ivor.

“Will’s bringing O’Neill to the hall, milord.”

His mind awhirl, Connor quickly gauged the situation and found no
easy way to approach it. Everything must happen at once, so it seemed.

He couldn’t abandon Moira now, not after he’d promised her he’d
stay with her. “Double the guards on MacCarthy, and in the undercroft, and tell
Will to bring Domnal here, to this room.”

Sir Ivor gaped at him. “What?”

“Lady Moira’s babe is about to arrive, and I cannot leave her.”
He glanced down at Brigit, who had rolled over, sputtering and cursing. Using
the bedpost as a crutch, she pulled herself up to sit leaning against it, her
head lolling to the side. “As you can see, her maid is in no condition to help.

“Padrig, go to the gatehouse and tell Cedric to keep a close
watch.” The squire nodded and left at once. “I hope O’Neill hasn’t been
misleading us to help his brothers and the MacCarthys,” he said to d’Athée.

Sir Ivor shrugged. “I’ll bring them at once, milord.” He turned
and followed Padrig down the stairs.

Connor shifted his attention to the maid, hoping to resolve this
problem before the next arrived on its heels. “It’s about time you woke up, you
old besom,” he growled.

Brigit opened her eyes, moaning loudly. Squeezing them shut, she
turned her face toward the post and pressed her forehead against the carved
word. “Move the candles away, there’s a good lad,” she mumbled, waving one hand
behind her as though ′twould make the light disappear.

“Milord?” Maeve stood in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” Connor asked wearily.

“My lady is fine, sir—as fine as she can be right now, at any
rate. I came to see what the ruckus is out here, milord.”

“Another problem, ′tis all,” he said. “Naught for you to
concern yourself with. Right now, ′tis more important that we get Brigit
sober so she can help your mistress.”

“Aye, milord.” Maeve entered the room and stared at the other
maid. “What should we do?”

“Damned if I know,” he admitted. He picked up the stand of
candles and held it so the light shone on Brigit’s face. “Come, open your eyes,
Brigit. You’ve no more time to lounge about on the floor. Moira needs you.”

“Moira?” She could scarce hold herself steady, but she raised her
head and opened one eye to stare at him.

He hunkered down beside her. “The babe is coming,” he told her,
speaking slowly and clearly. “We’ve brought Maeve—”

“Maeve?” Brigit’s other eye popped open and she sat up straight.
“A good lass, she is, but she knows nothin’ about
birthin
’
a babe.” She sounded less muddled with every word.

“Leastways I know better ‘n to drink myself blind,” Maeve
muttered.

Brigit stared up at her, a frown crossing her still-slack face.
“Why aren’t you with my lady?” she demanded. Moaning, she managed to get her
legs under her. Connor caught her about the middle and helped her to her feet.

“Sweet Mary save me, but that ale must o’ been potent,” she cried.
Still clinging to his arm, she turned to meet his gaze. Her faded eyes held
guilt, but were more alert than he’d expected.

“Can you walk?” he asked. It felt as though his support alone
kept her on her feet.

“If I can’t, you’ll carry me to her, milord?”

He nodded.

“Padrig? Did I see the boy here?” She scanned the room.

“He left,” Connor said, surprised she’d been aware of the
squire’s presence.

“Maeve, then—go down and rouse the cook, tell him I need his
potion to settle my stomach and put my head back together. He’ll know,” she
added, waving her hand weakly. “Go on.”

At Connor’s nod of permission, Maeve hurried from the room.

If anyone in the keep still slept after all the racket they’d
been making, it had to be a miracle, he thought wryly.

Brigit slumped against him as soon as the maid left.

“Beg pardon, milord. Don’t think my
legs’ll
work quite yet.”

He’d suspected as much. He swung the old woman into his arms and
shouldered the door wide to carry her through.

“My luck always was bad,” she muttered. “Strong young buck to
carry me, and I’m too sick to enjoy it.”

But not too ill to give him a poke in the arm—fortunately not the
injured one. All he needed now was to drop the old besom on her head!

Still, she’d made him laugh, even as he felt his face heat. “I
heard you thought I was too thin,” he teased.

She clutched his upper arm. “Some parts o’ you aren’t,” she said
with a chuckle that turned to a cough. “Put me down here,” she ordered. “Don’t
want my lady to see me like this.”

He set her on her feet outside the door, just as a loud shriek
sounded from Moira’s chamber.

He left the maid standing in the corridor and rushed into the
room. Moira sat curled up in the chair, her arms wrapped about her belly, her
eyes clamped shut and her lower lip caught between her teeth.

“By the Virgin, we shouldn’t have left you alone.” He dropped
down beside her. “Moira, hush,” he said as he tried to loosen her arms.
“Remember what we did before? Come, think of someplace else,” he said, gently
helping her sit up. As soon as she did, he caught her in his arms and sat down
atop the chest, laying her across his lap.

“My lady,” Brigit said. Connor glanced over Moira’s head and saw
the old woman had made it inside the room. She closed the door and made her way
to them, clinging to anything she could hold on to as she went.

Connor felt the instant the spasm holding Moira in its grip
eased, for her entire body relaxed against his. “Brigit?” she called, raising
her head.

The maid stood before them, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry, milady. I ne’er
should have touched the ale, not with you so near your time.”

Moira swung her legs around, slipped off Connor’s lap and sat
beside him on the chest. “There’s naught to forgive, for I’m fine,” she said,
her smile as weak as her voice.

That Brigit noticed, he didn’t doubt. She glanced around the
room, a frown adding more wrinkles to her face. “I hope Maeve hurries,” she
mumbled, looking near the end of her endurance as well.

“She went to fetch clean bedding,” Moira told them. “She’ll be
back soon, I’m sure.” She gestured toward her clothing. “You see, she helped me
already.”

Since she wasn’t wearing the same gown she’d had on before Connor
left, it appeared Maeve had been of some use, after all.

Brigit, recovering swiftly from the ale, it seemed, went out the
door and began shouting down the stairs.

Connor glanced at Moira, still seated next to him. “Now that
Brigit is here, do you want me to stay away?”

“I should tell you to go,” Moira said quietly. “But the truth is,
I’d rather you did not.” She looked away. “Though I don’t understand why you
want to be here.”

He reached over and caught her chin in his hand. “I have to leave
for a little while, but I’ll come back and stay if you want me to—because I
wish to. I know how hard it can be to face pain, to bear it, alone.”

She met his gaze, held it,
seemed
to
weigh his words before coming to a decision. “Then I thank you for your
generosity, Connor. But know that you may leave whenever you wish.”

He nodded. “Whenever
you
want me to go, I will.” He stood and paced to the window, where he could see
the palest streaks of light showing through the slats. A new day—a day when he
must decide what to do next, to hopefully bring an end to this feud with the
MacCarthys.

With the men who wanted Moira’s child.

“My lady,” he said formally. He should turn to face her, but he
didn’t dare, lest he lose his nerve.

“Connor, what is it?”

“My lady, I asked you a question before, and you refused me.” He
forced himself to abandon the window, to face her. “My offer stands, Moira, and
I beg you to accept it—for the child’s sake, if not for your own.”

“Connor, no . .
. ”
She held her hand
out as though to ward off the words.

“Just listen,” he said, rejoining her on the chest. “If we wed
before the babe is born, I can claim it as my child.”

“But anyone who knows you knows you’ve not been here till
recently. Who would believe it?”

“I challenge anyone to tell
me
differently,” he said, his voice as cold as ice.

“If ′tis a son, you cannot want another man’s child to be
your heir!”

“I am a second son, Moira. It doesn’t matter to me, at any rate.”
He took her hand. “If you will marry me, I’ll be proud to call your child my
own,” he said urgently. “Son or daughter, it matters not.
′Twill
be
our
child.”

“You cannot mean it, Connor.” She began to rub at her belly, and
he quickly gathered her into his arms again.

Brigit entered the room then, nodding her approval when she saw
the way he held Moira. “′Tis a brave man, milady, who will do for you
what Lord Connor is doing right now. If you’re wise, you’ll not let him get
away,” she added.

Moira glared at the maid and focused her gaze on Connor’s face.
“Did you tell her to say that?” she muttered, her eyes fierce.

He rubbed her belly, amazed at how hard it had become, and
realized for the first time just how little she wore—and how intimate their
positions were. Though there was nothing sexual about this, there was a
closeness he’d never felt with anyone before.

They rode out the pain together, Moira pressing her face against
his throat. ′Twas as though they were connected somehow, for he knew
before she sat up that the spasm had eased.

“How long does this go on?” he asked Brigit, who appeared to be
feeling better, if the fact that she was humming a merry tune as she bustled
about the room was any indication. They hadn’t slept, but it felt as though
hours had passed since Moira had told him her labor had begun.