Her lips curved faintly.
“Two guards,” he added. “Betsy. Fergus. And ye return before nightfall.”
“And if we cannot?”
“Send word immediately,” he said. “And ye will stay at Fergus’s cottage. Nay wandering. Nay heroics.”
She inclined her head. “Agreed.”
He rose then, coming around the table until they stood only a pace apart.
“I am impressed, ye ken,” he said quietly.
“With my stubbornness?”
“With yer strength,” he replied. “Ye didnae fight me. Ye showed me why ye must go.”
Unexpected warmth spread through her chest.
She turned towards the doors and nodded once to the guards stationed there. They swung the great doors open, allowing the hall to fill again with movement and sound.
As she stepped out, Betsy hurried towards her, already carrying her cloak.
“Are we going then, My Lady?” she asked breathlessly.
“We are,” Lilliana said.
She felt Kayden’s eyes on her from where he stood. The emotion on his face when she left him was not worry this time, but unmistakable pride. And as she crossed the threshold towards the courtyard, she felt it clearly and smiled.
She was no longer merely his English bride. She was now the Lady of Clan McGill.
The village did not give her time to breathe.
She had scarcely finished checking on the smithy, who had an apprentice who burned his working hand on the forge, when a panting boy burst inside, eyes wide with panic.
“Lady McGill,” he blurted, voice cracking. “It is Mairi. She is in labor. The bairn is coming wrong.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Labor. A wrong presentation.
Lilliana stood so quickly that her stool scraped across the floor. “How long has she been in pain?”
“Since the night,” he said, wringing his hands. “She has been crying out for hours.”
Lilliana’s stomach tightened. She snatched her bag without thinking, already moving. “Take me to her.”
Outside, the air was damp and cold, but her skin prickled with heat as her mind began to race through possibilities. She had read of difficult births.
She had assisted Moira with minor injuries, fevers, and broken fingers. But childbirth was a storm all its own, and she knew better than to swagger into it with pride.
By the time she reached the cottage, the sound hit her first. A woman’s voice, ragged with exhaustion, crying out from deep within her body.
The sound made Lilliana’s throat tighten.
Inside, the small room was crowded with women. A fire burned low. A pot simmered. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and fear.
A midwife stood at the center, sleeves rolled up, hands steady. She was older, gray plait tucked beneath a scarf, eyes sharp as flint.
