"Ah, I had wondered. She is so close in age to Moran. Barely a year younger. I can see their use in such control. In truth, I begin to think my mother made use of them and Meg agrees. We are nearly all twa years apart in my family. I mean to do that."
"Good. I had thought to speak to ye about it. Bearing a child takes a great deal from a woman, before, during and after. She needs time to recover, to regain her full strength and ‘tis not only for her sake. The babe needs that too. I truly believe that resting between babes is why both I and all my children survive. So, Colin will have his grandchild,” Storm murmured with a smile.
"The mon has five already."
"Aye but he wishes all his sons to know that joy. He is in the winter of his life and wishes to see his sons happy. Colin also knows that Iain needs that, though he would deny himself."
"I must keep my condition secret for as long as possible."
"We-ell, with the first ‘tis oft a long while ere it shows, but why do ye wish it kept hidden?"
"Because of Iain's fears."
"Ah, of course. He will worry himself sick when he knows."
Islaen nodded. “Whate'er else I fash myself o'er, I ken that he has a strong need to keep me safe, worries o'er me. In his eyes my being with child is much akin to putting a knife to my throat. The less time he is troubled by that image, the better."
"Are ye afraid, Islaen? Many women are. I was a little."
"I am a little. An anything goes wrong..."
"I pray God it does not."
"So do I but an it does, I shall tell Iain of my deception. I willnae let him add to his guilt. He will be told that I willingly took the risk upon myself, disobeyed him. He cannae blame himself when ‘tis kenned that I deceived him."
"I will help ye in that, but I feel there will be no need. Ye and the child ye carry will be fine. Now, ‘tis my thought to visit the crofters today. Winter draws nigh and I must be sure that they need naught more to face it."
"Iain has left again?” Islaen asked even though she knew in her heart that he had.
"Aye. Phelan went with him. Come, I shall keep ye busy enough to help ease that loss."
Storm was true to her word and Islaen was torn between chagrin, thankfulness and amusement. Despite the concessions made for her condition, she crawled to bed exhausted every night.
One night as she wearily washed up she realized it had been a full week since she had seen Iain. She had never stopped missing him but she realized that hard work had made her days too full to linger on it much. One day melted into the next with work taking up every waking hour. The loneliness she might have felt in the night was deadened by exhaustion. Her body demanded sleep and nothing could forestall it getting what it needed. Sighing as she crawled into bed and almost immediately started to fall asleep, she wondered if hard work was what Iain used to stay away from her, exhausting his body so that the hunger he never hid from her was vanquished.
Iain sighed as he ate the bread and cheese a sleepy page had fetched for him. Phelan had sought bed, too weary to think of food. After a week of hard work the night ride to Caraidland had taxed the strength of both of them.
Shaking his head, he wondered how long he could continue and stay sane. He was back at Caraidland for one reason and one reason alone—Islaen. No matter how hard he worked he could not completely vanquish his need for her. Eventually, the need to see her, to speak to her, to hold her, grew too strong to ignore. Finally he rose from the table and headed for his chambers.
Islaen woke to passion. So afire with need was she that she barely had enough presence of mind to know that it was no dream that Iain had come home. When they lay sated in each other's arms she wondered sadly how long he would stay this time, then shook away that distressing thought.
"That ye, Iain?” she asked sleepily, grinning when she felt him jerk in her arms.
Seeing her grin, he nipped her shoulder in gentle reprimand. “Wretch. Who did ye think it was?"
"Weel, it being dark and your manner of waking me leaving little time for clear thought...” she shrugged.
"Islaen, ‘tis a verra dangerous sort of teasing ye indulge in,” he growled as he eased the intimacy of their embrace but stayed wrapped in her slim arms.
"Aye? And what can ye do about it?"
"'Tis a husband's right to beat his errant wife."
"Errant am I?” She watched him rise, then fetch a damp cloth to wash them with.
"Verra errant,” he murmured as he cleaned himself off then gently tended to her. “Pert too and impertinent."
"My, my, I am weighted down with faults,” she said softly welcoming him back into her arms.
