“Oh, God, it hurts! Kill me! Nicholas!”
Nicholas lurched from sleep, found himself sitting up in the barn, drenched in sweat, heart pounding in his chest. He threw off his blanket of skins, staggered from the barn, sucked cool, sweet air into his lungs. Until he’d come here, he’d thought he had left the nightmares behind him. He’d thought he was free from them, free from the guilt, the bitter remorse.
Perhaps he would never be free.
A glow on the eastern horizon heralded the approach of dawn. Hoping to wash the aftertaste of horror from his mouth, he strode toward the well, but stopped in his tracks.
Through the parchment window he could see the glow of candles. Odd that she was already awake. Since he’d moved into the barn, she’d almost always slept until the sun was up.
And then he heard it, a soft moan, almost like the sound of a woman lost in the pleasures of sex. But this was no moan of pleasure.
She was having the baby.
He walked to the door and, when the moan had ceased, knocked softly. “Mistress Stewart? Is there aught you need? Is there any farm nearby where I might find a woman able to help you?”
Her voice was muffled by the closed door, but Nicholas could still hear her fear. “Nay. No one. Please! Leave me in peace!”
He tried to do as she asked. He fed the horses, the chickens, the geese, the cattle, the hogs. He spread fresh straw for the horses and the milk cow. He fidgeted with his traps.
But he could not keep his eyes off the cabin. Nor could he prevent himself from hearing her moans, which had grown louder and more frequent.
If there was one thing he understood, it was pain.
But she was not his wife nor his lover nor even kin. She was little more than a stranger, a woman whose path he’d chanced to cross at an unlucky time. Why should her anguish distress him so deeply?
Had he become so hard-hearted that he could even ask himself that question?
A sobbing wail.
He swore under his breath, threw the trap he held aside, stomped to the door. He could not sit idly by and do nothing. “Mistress Stewart, if you don’t open this door, I’ll break it down!”
Chapter 6
Then it occurred to Nicholas that perhaps she was in trouble or too weak to reach the door. He stepped back and was about to kick the door in, when a better idea came to him. He slipped his knife from its sheath, strode to the window, and cut away the parchment.
She lay on her side on the bed clad only in her shift, eyes closed, whimpering as another pain came over her.
He quickly hoisted himself over the sill, went to her side.
She opened her eyes, glared at him. “Nay!” But the word became a wail as her pain reached its peak, and she closed her eyes again.
Now that he was beside her, he was not certain how to help her. If she were a broodmare, he would know how to make her most comfortable, how to check her progress, what to do in case of trouble. But she was a woman, and he was at a loss. He tried to remember anything his father might have told him, tried to remember what he had seen.
Bereft of any better idea, he turned toward the hearth, found the bucket half full with water, carried it to the bedside, sat beside her. Then, taking up a strip of linen, he dipped it in the water, pressed the cool cloth against her furrowed brow.
As the pain subsided, Bethie felt the blessed coolness of the cloth against her cheeks. She hadn’t the strength to shout at him. “You shouldna... be here.”
“Are you thirsty?”
“Aye.”
In a moment she felt the tin cup touch her lips. He lifted her head, and she drank.
Then she felt it begin to build again. Though she would not have thought it possible, the pain was still getting worse. She heard herself whimper.
“Take my hand, mistress.” He placed her hand in his much larger one.
She held it fast as pain and fear assailed her. Why was it taking so long? Was something wrong? Was the baby still alive?
