Hacon shook free of his shock long enough to help Artair, Ranald, and Robert lift Jennet out of the ditch. He yanked off his battle-stained gauntlets and tucked them into his sword belt before taking her into his arms. All the way back to the cart he kept looking from her to the baby, which Artair carried with an enviable ease. Hacon was barely aware of the interest and congratulations of Dugald and the youths waiting by the carts. It was not until he realized Dugald was laughing softly that he really began to regain his scattered wits.
“What are ye cackling about?” he grumbled as Dugald helped him settle Jennet and the baby in the cart.
“Just wondering how many times ye got cracked offside the head today.” Dugald winked at Jennet, who smiled in response.
“Get up there and drive the cart,” Hacon ordered as he climbed in next to his wife.
As they started on their way, Jennet eyed Hacon with increasing concern. She had expected him to be surprised, even shocked by the baby’s birth, but he should have said something more than he had so far. Aside from that brief exchange with Dugald, he had been silent, simply staring at her and their new son. She told herself not to be foolish, that silence did not necessarily mean disapproval or disappointment. The time and place were not suitable for indulging in the sometimes foolish joy of new parenthood. Nevertheless, as Hacon’s silence lengthened, her fears grew until she felt compelled to speak.
“Hacon?” She tensed when he raised his steady gaze from the child to look at her. “Are ye pleased?” She gave a soft gasp of surprise when he abruptly kissed her.
“Ye can be a foolish wee lass,” he murmured, and gently trailed a finger down her cheek.
“Such flattery.” She gave him a tired smiled. “’Tis just that I expected ye to say something and ye didnae, not a word.”
“I couldnae think of one.” He laughed softly. “Lass, I left ye heavy with child and returned from the battle to find myself a father. It has taken me this long just to believe it. I am so verra sorry ye had to bear our son in such a poor place.”
“It couldnae be helped. Ye won? Balreaves is a threat no longer?”
“He will ne’er trouble us again. We lost a few people, but it could have been far worse.”
“Aye.” She smiled when he moved, sitting so that she could rest her head in his lap. “How is the tower house?”
“It has some damage, but it can be mended. It proved its worth, as did your wall. We shall have a fine, strong home.”
“There is some comfort in that. Hacon, we need a name for our son.”
“Ye have no ideas?”
“Nay, I ne’er did settle on one.”
“Weel, I ended up with two.” He idly stroked her hair. “Ninian or Pendair.”
“Ah, I understand your trouble. Both are fine, strong names. Mayhaps we should ask our friends and see which is chosen more often. I will be happy with either. Aye, and so will your son.”
“My son,” he whispered. “’Tis as sweet as the wordsmy wife.”
She blushed. There was an expression in his eyes that briefly took away all thought of how tired she was, that soothed her every ache and pain. Without words he was telling her something very important, but she did not trust her own judgment. She was about to say those words herself to him, when a sudden cry told her that they had been spotted by the people of Dubheilrig. Inwardly, she cursed, knowing the moment was lost, and swore she would seize the very next opportunity to open her heart to him.
Their arrival became a confusing round of greetings and congratulations. To Jennet’s relief, Serilda quickly took matters in hand. In an admirably short time, she had Jennet in bed, washed, and attired in a clean nightdress. Her baby was also thoroughly cleaned, wrapped in fresh swaddling clothes, and placed in a cradle nearby. As she nestled against the pillows, Jennet realized how tired she was. She managed only a faint smile for Serilda when the woman helped her drink some mead.
“I think, child,” Serilda said, “ye have done more than anyone to renew the spirits of the people of Dubheilrig.”
“By having a bairn in a ditch?” she jested, smothering a large yawn.
“The lad will be delighted with the tale when he is old enough to be told. Now, ye rest.”
“Where is Hacon?” she asked, wondering why he was taking so long to join her.
“Cleaning himself. He was slow to reach the bath we readied for him, so occupied with boasting was he,” Serilda said, smiling when Jennet gave a tired laugh. “Men do tend to think they deserve more credit than they do.” She tucked the covers more securely around Jennet. “Go to sleep. He will surely be here when ye next open your eyes.”
Hacon slipped into the room as quietly as he could, easing the heavy door shut behind him. He had experienced so many different emotions in the last few hours he felt worn out. Walking with the same silent tread he used to sneak up on the enemy, he crossed the room and crouched by the cradle where his son slept. He ached to touch the child but did not want to wake him, if only because it would disturb Jennet.
“Tiny, isnae he,” whispered Jennet, smiling sleepily when Hacon moved to sit on the edge of the bed and took her hand in his. “’Tis always a surprise to see how small and helpless a bairn is.”
“Aye. I hope I can learn to hold him with the ease and skill your father does.”
“Ye will. And he will grow sturdier verra quickly. Aye, especially if he means to be as large as his father.”
