“Ye must take him and show him to the clan. They have long awaited this moment.”
Looking to Aimil for her opinion of Old Meg’s suggestion, Parlan found her lying very still, her eyes closed. “What ails her?”
“Naught, ye great gowk.” Old Meg ignored the glare he sent her for that disrespectful mode of address and gently tucked the covers more securely around Aimil. “She is but asleep. Having a bairn is a wearying business. Aye, and the lass likes a good sleep.”
Parlan laughed as much with relief as over the blithe way Old Meg uttered such an understatement. “Oh, aye, she does that.”
Realizing that he was not going to get to visit with Aimil, to talk to her, for a while yet, Parlan went to show his son to his clan. He went first to Artair to ease the worry he knew he had left his brother suffering. Then he went to the hall where a great many had gathered, having heard in the usual if sometimes apparently miraculous way such news of import was spread, of the laird’s child.
Unwrapping the baby with the help of a maid, Parlan held his son up. This not only let his people see that he did indeed have a son but that there were no apparent deformities that could possibly impede the child taking his place as laird. He then loudly proclaimed the child his son and heir, a statement the ones gathered showed no hesitation in agreeing to with several loud cheers. Wrapping his son back up in his swaddling, Parlan handed him to the maid, instructing her to take him back to Old Meg, when the celebration of the long-awaited heir began in earnest.
For a while Parlan drank with them, accepting praise and congratulations. He could not completely join in, however as his heart and mind were with Aimil. She was the one with whom he wished to share the joy of the birth. Finally, he gave into that desire and left the hall, smiling faintly when he saw that his absence would do little to stem the celebration.
When he reached his chambers, he thanked Old Meg and Maggie, then sent them on their way. He had the feeling that Old Meg was training Maggie to take her place eventually. No other woman had shown much skill or interest in the arts of healing, and Parlan was glad that someone had finally been found. It would be a great loss when Old Meg died, but Parlan felt sure that he could now cease worrying that the loss would be even greater, that all of Old Meg’s knowledge and skill would die with her.
Sitting on a bench by the window, he observed his sleeping son and wife. He had been doubly blessed, for it seemed certain that both had survived the dangers of birth. So too had Rory Fergueson failed to harm them. Parlan did not care to think of all he could have lost if Rory had been able to get ahold of Aimil.
He prepared himself for what could be a long wait but found that he had a lot of patience for once. Watching his small family sleep filled him with contentment. So too did he have a great need to talk to Aimil and not only about the child they shared. He had to convince Aimil to understand that, until Rory Fergueson was dead, she and the child would have to be closely watched, more closely than they had been, and that meant that there would be some restrictions she might not like. The difficulty there might be in doing so was the only thing he did not look forward to when Aimil finally woke up.
Aimil winced as she slowly struggled out of a deep sleep. For a moment she was confused, not sure why she felt so battered, then she remembered. Her hand went to her belly, and she looked around for her son. As she located the baby’s cradle, the child sleeping peacefully within, she saw Parlan step from the shadows near the cradle.
“Awake at last,” he murmured as he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Have I been asleep long?”
“Long enough.”
When he kissed her and she felt a flicker of desire, she nearly smiled. Nothing could have shown her more completely how much she needed him. The last thing she should feel while still aching from childbirth was desire, even the faint taste of which his kiss had inspired. She decided it was better to laugh at her weakness than to bemoan it.
“Have ye finally decided upon a name for our son?” Aimil asked.
“Aye. Lyolf. I decided it might suit him far more than the others we had talked on.”
“Aye, ’tis a fine name, a strong one,” she agreed.
“Aye, and ye have made me a proud man, sweeting. He is a bonnie, braw laddie.”
“He isnae all of my making,” she protested softly but felt warmed by his words.
“I ken it but ye had the hardest part.”
“I think he will look most like his father.” She smiled at Parlan. “Already he has a thick head of raven hair.”
“Poor laddie,” he jested but was pleased by the thought that something of himself would be seen in the boy.
“Poor lasses in a few years when he reaches an age to be interested in them. I shall be begging forgiveness for birthing a rogue.”
He laughed softly then grew serious, taking one of her hands in his. “We have to talk, Aimil. About Rory Fergueson.”
She grimaced but knew she had to confront the matter and Parlan. He did not look as angry as he had earlier, but she sensed his intensity. There would no doubt be some demands made of her that she would not like but she decided she would make no complaint. She, Artair, and her child could have died. Aimil needed no other reminder of the danger that still threatened.
“Aimil, I am no longer angry about the ride that ye took. My anger was spurred by my fears for ye. Ye see, I kenned that Rory might be near. Simon Broth was the one who had word of him though none had truly espied the man. There was a murder.”
“Oh, Parlan, did he kill another poor lass?” She shuddered as she thought on the way Rory did his killing.
“Weel, poor lass isnae the way to describe the one he murdered but no one should die so, with such pain and fear as she must have suffered. T’was no better than torture. He has murdered Catarine Dunmore. Lagan has traveled to tell her kin.”
“Are ye certain?” Although she had never liked the woman, she had to agree with Parlan that Rory’s way of killing was a horror no woman deserved.
