She spat out the leather and looked at Elizabeth. The woman held a birth-stained child and was gently wiping it clean. Still, Jennet could not hear anything. She felt the touch of icy fear.
“Elizabeth?” she whispered, briefly surprised at the hoarseness of her voice.
Elizabeth crept closer. She set the child in the crook of Jennet’s arm and handed her a dampened rag.
“A fine boy,” she said in a whisper. “You must put him to your breast to keep him quiet. I washed his head and face. Do the rest as you suckle him. I will clean you up.”
With a weary sigh, Jennet did as she was told. She ached to look closely at her son, to hear his cry and count all his fingers and toes, but knew that would have to wait. Although no longer so close at hand, the sounds of fighting were still not far off.
Jennet held her child close and savored the feel of him in her arms while she prayed that the enemy threatening them would be defeated. In cautious silence, she tried to clean her child yet keep him from making any noise. His breath was hot against her skin, and that sign of life gave her joy enough for the moment.
It was several minutes before Elizabeth squeezed in beside her. Carefully they wrapped the baby in a blanket. He was awake but quiet, and Elizabeth took a minute to bathe Jennet’s face and neck. Then they waited, silent and fearful, to see if they would be safe or might yet have to fight for their lives.
Hacon wiped his sword clean and looked around. He and Dugald had arrived in the woods in time to help dispatch the last of Balreaves’s men. Only one of the youths he had left to guard the carts was injured, and the wound did not look serious. What troubled him was that he did not see Jennet, nor Artair, although the man had been at his side just a moment ago.
“Where is Jennet?” he demanded, stepping over to Ranald and Robert.
“She is unhurt,” replied Ranald, tossing aside his helmet and splashing his face with water from a bucket near one of the carts.
“Aye, butwhereis she?” Hacon frowned, feeling a pinch of fear when both Robert and Ranald hesitated to answer. “Are ye telling the truth? Sheisunhurt?”
“Oh, aye, aye. I expect Artair had gone to her even now.”
“Then why dinnae ye take me to her?”
“I ought to tell you something first,” began Ranald.
“Ye can tell me after ye take me to Jennet and I can see for myself that she is all right.”
“She is just o’er here.” Ranald headed through the underbrush, Hacon at his heels. “And there is Artair,” he said as they wended their way through the thick undergrowth and spotted Artair crouched by the ditch.
“Who is he talking to?” demanded Hacon, yanking his leg free of a clutching briar.
“Jennet. She and Elizabeth are in a ditch just there.”
Muttering a curse, Hacon tried to hurry, but the briars impeded him. He knew that hiding Jennet had been the best thing to do, but he was anxious to get her home. A ditch in the forest was no place for a woman heavy with child.
“Ah, lassie,” murmured Artair as he smiled down at his daughter, “ye did your father proud. Not a sound from you.”
“It wasnae easy. I bit clean through the leather.” She eased the blanket away from her son’s face so that her father could see him. “’Tis a boy. That should please Hacon.”
“I dinnae think the mon was particularly concerned whether he had a son or a daughter. But, aye”—he winked—“a mon in his place can only welcome a son. Got all his parts, does he?”
Jennet made a weary grimace of irritation. “Aye. Ye can judge the worth of his parts later. Do ye think Hacon will be along soon?” she asked as Elizabeth eased away from her to sit by her feet.
“Oh, aye, he is stumbling this way even now. The brambles are giving him a wee bit of trouble.” He looked toward Hacon as the younger man finally broke free of the undergrowth. “Where have ye been, lad?” asked Artair.
Pausing to glare at his father-in-law, Hacon grumbled, “How did ye get through that tangle so cleanly? Fly o’er it?” He did not wait for an answer from the grinning man but looked down at Jennet and gaped. “My God!” he whispered in shock.
“Nay, only your son,” drawled Artair.
“Papa,” Jennet scolded, then joined Elizabeth in giggling over her father’s nonsense. “We have a son, Hacon.”
“A son,” he muttered, kneeling at the edge of the ditch and continuing to stare at her. “Ye had the bairn.”
“Aye.” She glanced at her father. “I told ye I wed a mon with a wit as keen as any blade.”
“I can see that.” Artair nudged Hacon. “Wake up, lad. We need to get her home.”
