Evelyn felt such peaceful, exhausted relief as one of the wives brought forth a soft length of wool and rubbed briskly at the little being on her chest. Her head spun and bobbed as if she was at sea and Evelyn could feel herself slipping away. Her vision blurred, doubled.
“Duncan,” she whispered against the baby’s smooth head. “Thank you. I—”
“Shh,” Duncan hastened. “Save your strength, missus.”
But she had to say it lest she never return from the quiet place that once more beckoned her.
“I love him, Duncan.” She tried to focus on the baby’s face, to memorize each tiny, perfect detail to take with her. “Tell him. Tell them both.”
And then Evelyn slipped away. And this time, she was not afraid.
Conall sat before the cold fire in Ronan’s hut, staring at the soft, dead ash. He felt as if he was looking at his own heart—empty, forgotten, forsaken.
He’d been alone at the hut in the vale for two days, having sent Lana on to the MacKerrick town after a week of her company. She was his mother and he loved her still, but the knowledge of her past, her mistakes, had prevented Conall from doing little more than acknowledging her existence. He’d had no answer for her when she’d asked what to tell the townsfolk. In truth, he did not care what she told them. Conall and his mother’d had no word from Duncan since he’d taken his leave from the Buchanan’s house. If Conall could not return to his town with his brother—his cousin, rather—and his wife, he did not wish to ever return.
He needed time alone, to think.
He must find a way to reach Eve, to show her how much he truly loved her—for her, not for what he’d at one time thought she could gain him. Conall wanted her as his wife, his friend, forever. Wanted the two of them to bring their child up together, as a proper family. But he had hurt her so terribly, done to her the one thing she feared most, and then he, out of his own fear, had left her.
He would do anything, anything, just to see her, speak to her, know that she was well. How he missed her, here at the hut where he had fallen in love with her. Each square inch of space, each empty hour, sighed her name. Conall hadn’t eaten, had barely slept. His only task was staring at the fire pit, and thinking, thinking,What can I do? How can I remedy this?
He heard the scrape of the door as if from far away but did not turn, hoping ’twas only the wind, willing the universe to leave him with no distractions. He could not have cared less had it been the vengeful gray wolf.
“You have a son.”
The combination of Duncan’s familiar voice and the meaning behind his words stopped Conall’s heart. He turned his head slowly so that, if this was some dream, he would not frighten it away.
Duncan came into the hut fully and sat a large pack near the fire pit. “I thought I’d find you here, you great coward,” he said, his face shuttered, hard, as he set about coaxing flame from the ashes.
Conall’s mind was consumed by loud buzzing. He shook his head but it did not clear the noise. “What did you say?” he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse.
Bitter green eyes flicked to Conall’s for only an instant. “I called you a coward, MacKerrick. Do you wish to challenge me for it?”
“Like it or nae, you’re MacKerrick, too, Duncan,” Conall clipped. “Before that—a son?”
Duncan was silent until flames had crawled over the fresh fuel in the pit. Then he reached into the pack and pulled out a jug. After taking a deep swallow, he capped it and tossed it over the smoky fire to Conall.
“Drink up—you’re a father.”
Conall felt the jug’s heavy, smooth weight in his palms, smelled the tangy smoke creeping to the ceiling, but it was as if the world had stopped.
“Eve…Eve had the bairn?” he whispered.
Duncan nodded curtly. “Aye.”
“But ’tis too soon,” Conall argued, as if he could convince Duncan of this and undo the deed. “Not until September. August at the very—”
“He was early,” Duncan interrupted. “’Twas bad, Conall. You must know.”
His blood turned to ice, his throat closed. “Eve?” he choked out.
Duncan stared at the flames, his face haggard and gray. “She lost so much blood. Two days, she labored. The lad hadna turned—stuck tight.”
“She’s…she’s dead, isn’t she?” Conall whispered, but inside his head he screamed. Felt as though he would never stop screaming.
Duncan frowned slightly, then his mouth drew completely downward. “You’re a right arsehole. D’ye think so little of me that I’d nae have sent for you? That I’d come here and nae tell you that straight away?”
Hope grew. A timid, spindly green shoot out of the black mire of Conall’s heart. “She lives?”
