The Highlander's Bargain (18 page)

She found a tub ready for her and linens folded nearby. Not wanting to take the time to wash her hair, she brushed it out and braided it before stepping into her bath. She washed quickly, dried and cleaned her teeth in record time. True would be anxious, and this was not her first. More than likely, her labor would take half the time it did when she had Sky. Erin dressed and gathered her things, bringing them back to her chamber. Beth would forgive her for leaving everything in a heap on the middle of the bed. She turned to leave just as Hunter reached her door.

“Here.” He thrust her satchel at her. “Is this what ye wanted from the cottage?”

“It is. Thanks.”

“Take care of my ma.” His chin trembled a bit before he firmed it up and stood a little straighter. “I ken you’re from the future, so you know more about these things than we do. You’ll see that . . . that she—”

“Do you know something I don’t?” Erin frowned. “Have you had a vision or some kind of premonition that I should worry about?”

“Nay, but I dinna need a vision to ken birthing is dangerous.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders and studied the floor.

Even though boys in the fifteenth century grew up much faster, right now Hunter looked like the eight-year-old child he was—vulnerable and scared that he might lose his mother. Her heart went out to him. “I’ll do my very best, Hunter. Would you take me to her chamber? I don’t think I can find it on my own.”

He nodded once and turned down the corridor. She followed. “How’s Robert? Have you seen him this morning?”

“Aye. I brought him broth and toasted bread to break his fast. He was no’ pleased with the meal and asked for more.” He shot her a grin over his shoulder. “His words come slowly, but they do come clearly.”

“Good. Has he gotten out of bed, walked around a little?”

He nodded. “My da and Robley helped him to the garderobe. One foot drags a bit, but he seemed to fare well enough.”

“They know True is in labor?”

Hunter stopped at a door and knocked. “They ken where you’ll be, my lady. Should they need you, they’ll send me.” At this his chest puffed out a little.

The door opened, and Lydia peeked out. “Oh good.” She took her arm to pull her into the room. “Thank you for bringing her, lad.”

“I’ll be back anon with food to break her fast.” A slight grin tugged at his mouth. “Robley’s orders.”

“Thanks, buddy.” Erin grinned and tousled his hair, eliciting a manly look of disgust. She scanned the room for True and found her in a linen shift, pacing in front of the hearth.

“This is it. Your big day.” Erin set her bag on the table in the corner. A pile of baby clothes and blankets were stacked on top, along with squares of clean linens. A basket holding the silky insides of cattails sat nearby. True had told her she used them for diapering material, and for other things. “How are you feeling? How close are your contractions?”

“Not close, but they started shortly after midnight.” True’s brow furrowed. “They don’t seem to be too regular. They get closer, and then a half hour goes by with nothing happening.”

“Hmm. That’s not so unusual.” Erin rolled up her sleeves and washed her hands and arms in the bowl by the hearth that had been set up for her. “Let’s take a look.” She nodded toward the bed. True crossed the room and took her place, and Erin did a quick pelvic exam. “You’re at three centimeters.”

“Shall I take some of the tea?” True asked.

“No. Let’s try acupressure to stimulate your labor. Cohosh can cause an increase in bleeding, and with twins coming, I don’t want to take any additional chances.”

“Acupressure?” True’s brow creased.

Lydia joined them. “What is that, lass?

“You put pressure on certain sensitive spots on the body, and it encourages cervical dilation and labor.”

“Oh my.” Lydia’s eyes widened. “For certes? This acupressure works?”

“Yes, it does. Let’s get True up, and I’ll stimulate the pressure points on her lower back first.” She and Lydia helped True to her feet, and Erin guided her to a wall. “Place your hands against the stones and brace yourself. It’s more forceful than you think it’s going to be.” She lifted True’s shift. “Ready?”

True nodded, and Erin placed her thumbs where the dimples formed above her friend’s bottom and placed her fingers slightly below the spots. She applied steady pressure and held it.

“Ah, that feels kind of good,” True murmured.

Erin kept the pressure firm. “There are two other places I need to address. Turn around and hold out your hands.” True did as she was told, and Erin worked the pressure points between her thumb and index fingers. Next she crouched to the floor to press the spots on her ankles. “Walk now,” she said, coming back to her feet and flexing her hands to relieve the muscle ache.

True circled the chamber and pressed her hands against her back. After a few moments, a contraction began. She leaned over and held on to a bedpost.

“Pant,” Erin told her while massaging True’s back.

“That one was stronger,” True said, blowing out a cleansing breath. She pushed off the post and continued her pacing.

Throughout the morning they repeated the process: acupressure, walking and contraction. By noon, Erin’s concern had grown. True hadn’t progressed nearly as much as she should have. She’d gotten stuck at four centimeters. The twins weren’t engaging in a way that promoted dilation. She wished she had modern-day drugs to stimulate hard labor, not to mention equipment and a hospital staff of experts.

“I want another read on the babies.” Erin’s heart raced, and memories of Alma’s stillborn infant filled her mind. She placed her hands on True’s belly and focused all of her energy on the tiny twins. Relief flooded through her. Neither was stressed at this point, but they weren’t in position to be born, either. Both were determined to be out of the chute first, and both were anterior. At least they weren’t breach. She heaved a sigh for that small bit of good news.

“They’re facing your belly button, which is why you aren’t progressing more rapidly. Being anterior prevents them from dropping into the pelvic floor in a way that causes dilation.” Alarm flashed across the faces of the other two women.

“What can we do?” Lydia asked.

“Keep walking. Babies often work themselves around to where they need to be. Even if they don’t, they won’t be the first to be delivered sunny-side up.” She smiled encouragement, but a peach pit of dread lodged in her gut. Too soon to tell if they were headed into troubled waters. She forced the worry back. “Stay the course.”

Two hours later, the peach pit turned to full-fledged dread. True had been laboring for more than twelve hours, and she was tiring fast. Worse, the babies were beginning to show signs of distress. “Rest,” she ordered, leading her back to bed. “Try to get some rest between contractions.” Once True was on her back, Erin did another pelvic. She was discouraged by the results. “You’re at five centimeters. I want you to shift to your left side for a bit.”

“This is why you’re here, Erin.” True’s gaze met hers. “Giselle knew I was going to be in trouble, and she sent you to us.” She shifted to her left side and stared out the window. “No matter what, I want you to save the babies. Even if it means . . . even if I don’t . . .”

“Don’t think like that.” An oppressive weight settled on her shoulders, and tension gripped her so hard it hurt. So far, delivering babies in the fifteenth century had been disastrous. She couldn’t face another failure, and this was Malcolm’s wife and her good friend. She didn’t know what to do.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. It wasn’t that she didn’t know what to do; it was more that she lacked the experience and confidence she needed to feel in control of a bad situation. Courage. She lacked courage.

“Poor Rob,” True said, her voice breaking. “He got caught up in the middle of something that never really had anything to do with him.” Tears traced down her cheeks. “He’s going to . . .”

“Stop, True. Don’t say it, much less think it. Everything is going to be fine.” She turned to Lydia, mouthing for her to get Malcolm. The older woman slipped out of the room without a sound.

“It’s all my fault,” True croaked out between sobs. “I don’t want Rob to die because of me. I don’t want to die. I don’t want my sons to die.”

Oh shit. She went and said it all anyway
. “Stop it.” Erin’s hands fisted in helpless frustration. “You need some rest, that’s all.” Her heart split wide open, and the pain nearly unhinged her. She sucked in a breath, and then another. “And anyway, you’re wrong. Everything is Giselle’s fault, and if she were here right now, I’d let her have it with a good right hook to the chin.”

Panic began a slow override, eroding what little confidence she still clung to. Scared out of her wits, Erin rubbed True’s back as another contraction took her.

Once the contraction passed, True grabbed her forearm. “Save my babies. Don’t let them die.”

The door flew open so hard it bounced against the stones. Malcolm strode to his wife’s side, lifted her from the bed and settled himself on the mattress with her in his lap. “What is it, my heart? My mother sent for me but would say naught.” He cast an accusing glance at his mother, who followed him into the chamber. Worry etched lines around his eyes, and his mouth formed a straight line. “What is she no’ telling me?”

“I’m not getting anywhere. I have contraction after contraction, but the twins aren’t any closer to being born.” True threw her arms around her husband’s neck and cried against his chest. “I’m afraid and . . . so exhausted. I don’t think I can do this for much longer. I’m afraid I’m going to—”

“Wheesht now, lass.” He rocked her in his arms and ran his hand over her hair. “All will be well.” He threw Erin a questioning look, his Adam’s apple working up and down. “Is there no’ something you can do?”

Her heart dropped to the floor. How had she ended up with all this responsibility? She was just a twenty-first-century student! Three pairs of eyes fixed her to the spot, pinning all their hopes squarely on her. She couldn’t breathe.

She met Malcolm’s eyes first, then True’s and finally Lydia’s. “Things aren’t that desperate.”
Yet.
“She just needs to rest. True, you told me about a concoction you’ve made that puts people to sleep. Do you have any of it here, or do I need to make a trip to the cottage stillroom?” She bit her lip, and sweat beaded her brow and upper lip.

“The herbs are strong, and I don’t know how they’ll affect the babies,” True whispered. “You said you were an OB-GYN surgical nurse, right?”

“I wouldn’t worry about how the herbs will affect the twins. We use a lot stronger stuff in the twenty-first century, and right now it’s you I’m concerned about. And yes.” She nodded, not liking where this was going. “I am a surgical nurse. Not a surgeon.” All three of them continued to stare at her, only this time their gazes held desperation.

“But you must’ve seen hundreds of cesareans performed. You know how to do one.”

All the air left the room, and black spots danced in front of her. She inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. “True . . . I can’t . . . I don’t have the right tools or a sterile operating room. No blood bank in case something goes wrong—or IV paraphernalia, for that matter, and certainly no anesthetics.”

True gripped Malcolm’s forearm as another contraction wracked her. “Please, Erin. Take my babies before it’s too late.”

“Is there a possibility that doing such a thing will save my wife?” Malcolm laid his cheek on the crown of True’s head. He closed his eyes and clung to his wife. “Please. Tell me there’s a chance . . .”

Erin couldn’t answer. Thoughts of infection, accidental blood loss or some other disaster clogged her throat.

“Could it?” Malcolm’s voice boomed. “Answer me, Erin. Could what my wife suggests save her? Could you save our bairns?” He stopped, his throat working furiously. “Can you save my family?” His eyes filled with tears.

“It’s possible,” she muttered.

“What do you need?” Lydia rushed to her side. “I’ll aid you however I can.”

She stared mutely back at them, gathered her resources and bled inside for how it all might come out in the end. What she needed they had no possibility of getting for her. Scalpels, cauterizing tools, clamps, suction, staples, dissolvable suturing thread, heparin, antibiotics, painkillers . . . the list was endless.

Blowing out her breath, she rubbed her face with both hands, dropping them to meet their expectant stares. “I’ll need the sharpest dagger you can find, embroidery silk and a couple of good needles, more boiled water and plenty of clean cloth, lots of light and someone to hold her still.”

“Thank you, Erin.” True collapsed against her husband, her voice quavering. “Thank you.”

“I won’t do this if you won’t take the sleeping potion. I won’t be able to handle it.”

“I will take it, but I’ll probably pass out before it takes hold.”

Lydia gathered the items she’d asked for. Malcolm set his wife back on the bed and moved to a chair. There he began sharpening the edge of a dagger he’d taken from the sheath at his waist.

“Where are the herbs for the sleeping draught?” Erin asked True. “Once we get them into you, I’m going to bathe the area where I’ll make the incision. It’s the best I can do to ensure against infection.”

True nodded. “The tea for sleeping is in the basket on the mantel. It’s in the red bundle. There’s also a salve to put on the wound. You’ll find it in a small clay pot with a cork. It should be next to the bundles of herbal teas.”

“Lydia, did you hear all that?” Erin asked.

“I did, lass. I’ll make the tea and get the salve.”

A flurry of activity went on around her, and Erin let her mind drift back to the many cesareans she’d assisted. She did know how they were done, though she’d never been the one holding the scalpel. She could do this. She
had
to do this. Her friend’s life and the lives of her unborn sons depended upon her.

She forced the trepidation from her mind and scrubbed her arms and hands. Next she washed True’s belly, and her patient downed the sleeping draught Lydia had made. Erin insisted Lydia and Malcolm wash up as well. Of course there was no autoclave to sterilize the dagger, thread and needles, so she attached the embroidery thread to the hilt of the dagger and threaded the needles before immersing them in the water boiling over the fire. All the while she prayed fervently for courage and a miraculous absence of infection-causing microbes.