Warrior's Lady (16 page)

"Why?" She shut her eyes tightly. "It makes no sense."

"It's the right thing to do."

Her eyes opened to reveal glittering tears. "And duty means everything to you."

He stood. "Aye."

"Well, I am not your duty," she said, her voice suddenly fierce. "I can take care of myself." She turned away and with jerky movements headed for the door.

Chapter Eleven

Before Rhiannon could pass through the doorway of the bedchamber, a young woman, her face pale and her hands stained with blood, nearly knocked her down.

"Forgive me for intrudin', milord, milady," she panted. "I need your help. Well, not me, exactly. Charlotte and her baby." The young woman's eyes were wild as she shifted her gaze between the door and the bed.

Rhiannon tensed when she sensed Camden behind her. "Explain," Camden demanded.

"Somethin' is wrong. The baby is not comin' as it should," she said. "I sent one of the men for the midwife in Glasgow, but I fear she will arrive too late. Charlotte needs assistance now."

"I'll go to her. I might be of some help." Rhiannon started down the hallway.

"I shall accompany you." Camden strode beside her down the stairs, through the hall, and into the western rooms of the castle. They followed the young woman into a chamber. There were only a few candles scattered about the room, making it difficult to see anything. "We need more candles," Rhiannon commanded as she made her way to the bed. She took charge of the situation and Camden let her.

In the middle of a straw pallet on the floor lay a young woman in a pool of blood. She clutched her distended belly with white-knuckled force.

Four women crowded the space around her feet: Mistress Faulkner and three other women Rhiannon did not recognize. "Can you see any part of the baby?"

Mistress Faulkner nodded, her face pale. "One foot."

"Breech," Rhiannon said, her voice low, barely above a whisper. She'd seen two other breech presentations before — unfortunately, both were with horses. But were the dynamics of birth much different between horses and humans? For Charlotte's sake, she hoped not.

"Any chance we can change her pallet and get rid of all this blood?"

Mistress Faulkner signaled to one of the other women in the room. She hurried away to return a moment later with two young men carrying a straw mattress. They set it on the floor near the hearth, then returned to Charlotte's side. "We are going to move you miss." The two men transported her to the clean bedding but not without an intense groan of pain from Charlotte.

"Many thanks," Rhiannon said.

Both men made a bow before slipping from the room.

The light of the fire made it easier to see. Rhiannon took in Charlotte's flushed face and glittering eyes. "Are you thirsty?"

The woman nodded. Rhiannon stood, then turned to Mistress Faulkner. "If you want her to live, you'll help me, without interfering. Understood?" Her firm tone left no room for argument.

Mistress Faulkner nodded, her eyes misting with tears. "This is my granddaughter. I'll do anything."

Rhiannon nodded with relief that she would not be challenged. "I'll need someone to mix me a tisane of valerian and germander to numb her pain while I try to turn the child."

"Turn the child?"

"What kind of witchcraft is that?" two of the women questioned in unison.

Camden came to stand beside Rhiannon. "Do you know what you are doing?" he asked.

"Aye," she said with more confidence than she felt. Now was not the time to tell him all her experience had been in observing her mother with deliveries of the village babies and helping with the animals in her father's stable. Charlotte would no doubt lose her baby, and probably her own life, if someone didn't at least try to help her immediately.

"Then proceed." He left the room briefly only to return with two large candelabra that he set on the hearth near the bed. He sat in a chair across the room from her. He clutched the small linen package that Mother Agnes had asked her to deliver to him. He stared at the bundle in his hands, with a dark expression on his face, as though he were trying to make a difficult decision.

"I won't die," the young woman whispered, bringing Rhiannon's attention back to the pallet. "You'll see. My baby and I will live."

"Of course you will," Rhiannon smiled shakily. "You are a fighter. I can see it in your eyes."

Mistress Faulkner returned with the steaming tisane. Rhiannon accepted the mug from her then held it to Charlotte's lips. "I need you to drink as much of this as you can."

"Wait," Camden said. "It looks too hot. Allow me to take it by the window for a moment to cool it."

"That isn't necessary," Rhiannon said, unsettled by his interference. Her nerves stretched taut with the responsibility of what she was about to do.

"I insist." He took the cup from her hands and made his way to the window on the far side of the room. There, he threw the shutters open and with his back to all, cooled the liquid contents in the chill midnight air. He fumbled with something in his hands, then turned back toward the room's occupants. "That should do it. I appreciate your indulgence."

He returned the cup to Rhiannon's hands, his fingers lingering upon hers a moment longer than was necessary. Warmth that had nothing to do with the fire roared through her blood. Even now, in the direst of situations, her body responded to his. Rhiannon accepted the mug with careful precision and brought the liquid to Charlotte's lips. "Drink."

Charlotte closed her eyes and took a small sip, then another before pulling away. "It tastes terrible."

"Aye," Rhiannon agreed. She knew how bitter the concoction must taste. "But it will help save your baby."

Charlotte brought her lips to the mug again and drank deeply. When she was through, she collapsed back against the linen on the mattress, clutching her belly once more. "It hurts," she cried.

"Stay focused on your baby, Charlotte. Picture in your mind what the child will look like. It will help."

A calm settled over Charlotte's features. She released her grip on her belly. Her eyes drifted shut, and she lay quietly beside the flickering flames of the fire.

"The medicine has taken effect," Rhiannon said, grateful that her mother had allowed her to assist when she'd been called to help the villager's wives deliver their babies.

"I need two of you to help me. Position yourselves so that one of you can kneel on either side of her." Mistress Faulkner and one of the other women followed her instructions. When the two women were in place, Rhiannon said, "I need to put the foot back inside her. Then once I do, as I move the baby, place your hands on her belly to keep the child in place."

With a prayer for guidance, Rhiannon dug her hands into Charlotte's flesh, locating the baby's head. Slowly, carefully, with the help of the others, she guided the child downward.

Despite her induced sleep, Charlotte cried out, her distress obvious.

Tears rolled down Mistress Faulkner's cheeks in response to Charlotte's distress, but she remained silent.

"Lord Lockhart," the other woman cried. "Please, milord, can you not use the Charm Stone to ease Charlotte's pain? Lady Clara must have passed it to Lady Violet before she died. 'Tis said that the Stone has been in your family for years."

Camden appeared uneasy at the woman's request. "Lady Violet has no knowledge of the Stone's location."

Perhaps Violet did not, but did he? Rhiannon paused in her manipulation of the baby's head. The Charm Stone. She'd heard tales of the legendary Stone since she was a child. It had come back to Scotland from the Crusades. When had the Lockharts become its keeper?

Rhiannon returned her attention to Charlotte, but her thoughts remained on the small bundle of linen she'd seen Camden with earlier. He no longer held the package in his hands.

Charlotte groaned again and her eyes flickered open.

"We are almost there, Charlotte," Rhiannon soothed, while applying a final thrust of pressure. The baby's head slid down, and dropped into place.

The rest of the birth proceeded quickly. Just as dawn's first light appeared in the sky, a lusty cry heralded the baby's safe arrival.

Mistress Faulkner burst into tears. After a slight hesitation, she threw herself into Rhiannon's arms, burrowing her face in the fabric of her gray gown. "Thank you," she cried, the sound muffled. "I gave you more than enough reasons not to help my dear Charlotte. Yet you did. I am so ashamed of myself and this entire household for judging you so harshly."

Rhiannon stiffened, not knowing what to do, how to respond. She'd done what was needed. And she'd do what she could to help anyone else, despite how they had treated her. Was the woman asking for her forgiveness? A Ruthven?

"Please say you forgive me," Mistress Faulkner said.

"All is forgiven," Rhiannon said, awed by the change in the woman. She gently stroked the back of the woman's head, remembering yet again Mother Agnes' words of forgiveness.

Joy bubbled up inside Rhiannon. The world seemed suddenly enveloped in a soft golden haze. Life was newly born and brimming with possibilities for Charlotte, for her baby, for herself.

Camden had never understood why his sister-in-law risked so much to use the Charm Stone.

He did now.

At first he'd wrestled with the decision to use the Stone or not. Now he was glad he'd gone to the chapel to retrieve the Stone when he'd left the birthing chamber in search of candles.

The thrill of doing something that helped to save lives rippled through him. He saved the lives of his people each time he went to war, but not like this. This time, the enemy had been death itself. And in his experience, death usually won. Carefully he slipped the healing Stone back into its hiding place in the chapel and stepped back.

An odd sensation prickled the back of Camden's neck — as though he could feel someone's eyes upon him. He turned toward the door and searched the shadows of the room. No one was there. 'Twas only his own excitement at the miracle the Stone had brought forth this night.

The Stone had been only one part of tonight's miracle. Rhiannon's contribution had been every bit as important. He never would have thought to turn the baby. He'd never seen or heard of such a technique before.

She continued to amaze him with her unselfishness. His people had treated her poorly, but she always seemed to overlook that fact to do what was right.

He stared up at the crucifix that hung above the altar. Her family had placed James' body on a cross similar to that. Camden tried to bring forth hatred for the woman, but intrigued rippled through him instead. Why? She was beautiful, he would not deny. But her appeal was something more, something intangible. A familiar frustration welled inside him. He moved restlessly toward the three stained glass windows behind the altar, staring up into their multi-colored brilliance. If only he could lose himself in thoughts of something other than Rhiannon Ruthven.

He had thought he could stay remote. To have Rhiannon near to tutor Violet and provide her with motherly support, yet remain unaffected by her presence. Each day she stayed, he found his feeling shifted to — what? Guilt at what he'd done?

He had no reason to feel guilty. Not really. He'd been desperate to protect his family. And angry, he reminded himself.

Restless was more his current state of mind. He flexed his fingers as he remembered Rhiannon's silky flesh beneath his touch, her tawny eyes staring up at him in wonder. As he'd explored her body with his mouth, the faint tremor that shook her only had encouraged him more. Rhiannon might be inexperienced, but her passionate response to him had been purely elemental.

He was hardening just remembering those brief moments in the cabin and felt a renewed burst of frustration. Why did he have to feel this way about her? Lust had never been this obsessive for him before. His feeling for her interfered with everything he did — in his work with his men, in his duty to the people of this castle, to his country. He had to put an end to his distraction.

Perhaps, he should deal with the situation more directly — to satisfy his need for her? Once he tasted what she had to offer, his obsession would no doubt vanish, and he'd be himself again.

Excitement quickened the tempo of his heart as he strode out of the chapel. He would put an end to this torture. And he knew just how to accomplish the deed.

Chapter Twelve

The door to Bishop Berwick's study opened and a black-clad footman stepped inside. Irritation broke the bishop's concentration for he had been lost in thought.