Isla fluttered the folds of her wings. “That I cannot say. Taggart came from an egg but is half human. His father possessed unimaginable magic for one of this world, but he was still human.” She stroked her long, flowing beard. “But you have the scent which leads me to believe the child within you is strong.” Her gaze shifted to Taggart and one of her golden brows arched upward toward her horns. “While I find your lack of observation rather concerning, can you remember whether or not your mate ever smelled like this particular shampoo or perfume before?” Her clipped words dripped with sarcasm.
Taggart’s eyes narrowed and his arm tensed around Hannah.
She elbowed him. “Be nice. She is trying to help.”
“I dinna recall my lady love ever using smelling of this fragrance before.” His chin tipped to a defiant angle.
“That bodes well,” Isla said.
Hannah’s heart warmed, and the nausea disappeared. “It bodes well.” She smiled up at Taggart, attempting to soothe his ruffled scales. “I don’t care if I lay an egg or have our baby the normal way, as long the little one is healthy.”
He relaxed and returned her smile. “I agree, m’love, and look forward to holding our wee bairn in my arms.”
Taroc Na Mor
Entirely too long later…
(36 to 40 weeks, give or take a few days)
“Tellme again why your accent sounds like you were born and raised in Scotland?” Hannah squeezed both his hands while panting like a dog.
“Because I lived here for several centuries, my love. Searching for our beloved Guardian.” From his position behind her, supporting her back while she sat between his outstretched legs, Taggart eyed the dividing screen a few yards out from the end of the bed. Three faint silhouettes revealed Mother, Septamus, and Esme pacing on the other side. He wished they would go down to the kitchen and wait with Thaetus and William, but all three had refused.
His poor Hannah had been in labor for hours, and according to the midwife, it could be hours more. He repressed a disgusted huff. That infernal woman did nothing but get on his nerves. He still wondered where, in Merlin’s name, Thaetus had found her. Hannah sagged back against him, hugging his arms around her and resting them on top of the large mound of her stomach.
“That one lasted forever,” she said. The weariness in her tone worried him. “Are there any ice chips left?”
“More ice chips!” he bellowed. One of the silhouettes faded away and the bedroom door opened, then closed. He combed her damp hair back from her face. “I could try my healing magic to help this along, ye ken?”
She shook her head without opening her eyes, her breathing returning to normal. “No. I want nothing that might hurt the baby.”
“It willna hurt the bairn. ’Tis not like anesthesia.” Of course, he also wasn’t certain it would even work. After all, she was not injured. She was trying to bring forth life.
“Where did that woman go?” She feverishly rubbed the end of her nose as though unable to satisfy its itching. “She keeps disappearing. Isn’t she supposed to stay in here and coach us?”
Apparently, she did not like the midwife any more than he did. “I believe she went downstairs again. Said something about joining Thaetus and William for lunch.” He stretched and reached one of the cloths from the bowl on the nightstand, wrung it out, and dabbed itscoolness across her forehead. “Dinna fash yerself, m’love. Dr. Brimleyton should be here any time.”
“Even in this storm?” She caught his hands in hers, bared her teeth, and squinched her eyes shut. “Here comes another.”
Every muscle tensed in sympathy as he helped her sit up. She huffed and groaned as the contraction shuddered through her.
He breathed along with her, wishing it would help. “The doctor will make it through the storm,” he promised, knowing it was a lie. It was dead of winter on the northernmost tip of Scotland and a fierce monstrosity of a blizzard had blown in from the sea yesterday. The tail of it still battered the land. The only way the doctor would make it was if he folded time and space and found a windless portal. Taggart doubted very much that the average, middle-aged man possessed such an ability. At least the midwife was there. If they could keep the woman out of the kitchen. She appeared to have an annoyingly rigorous fascination not only for Thaetus but also for food and alcohol.
A deeper moan escaped Hannah, and she dug her fingernails into the backs of his hands while panting harder.
“Where are the feckin’ ice chips?” he roared again.
“They are here.” Esme hurried around the screen with a large bowl mounded high with crushed ice. Her eyes flared wide and the smooth skin between her forehead horns furrowed in alarm. “Guardian—you appear to be in a great deal of pain still. What can we do to aid you in bringing this child into the world?”
Hannah fell back against him, breathing hard. “Just put some ice chips in my mouth before the next one hits.”
Esme did as requested while noting, “Even when bringing forth the largest of eggs, the Draecna do not experience this.”
“That is not helpful,” Taggart advised. He tipped his head toward the screen. “Back ye go, aye?”
Esme glared at him, lifted her snout, and showed a fang. “Only if the Guardian directs me to do so.”
“Esme,” Hannah groaned while pushing herself upright againand grabbing hold of her knees. “Get the midwife. I really feel like I need to push.”
