Then he tossed a tunic over his head and grabbed his mud-dried boots and his sword, then left the room. The door closed lightly behind him.
With his departure, the fluttering sensation in her chest also left, and her roiling stomach took center stage. She definitely needed food.
Blair rose from the bed and walked to the wardrobe to find a clean shift. Her hair cascaded over her back, softened by the wash of rainwater, and she gathered it into a loose queue at her neck and tied it with a ribbon. Sufficiently dressed to break her fast, she went to the table and selected a dried apple. The tangy sweetness should have satisfied her complaining stomach, but the fruit tasted almost too sweet.
Choking down the last of the apple, Blair then set to putting the chambers to rights. She gathered up Reade’s filthy tunic from the night before, trying to decide if a brushing could revive it or if it would need a full wash when a knock came at her door. She jumped with surprise.
And so did her stomach, which revolted completely, and she raced for the chamber pot instead of the door.
Everything inside her from the past day erupted out of her and into the chamber pot in a searing mess, or so it seemed to Blair. She must have caught a sickness from being outside the cold and rainy night before, and the anguish of Reade’s harsh treatment only made her worse. Her belly protested again, and she gripped the edges of the pot, letting the rest come out in a gagging mess. She sat down hard on the floor, breathless and sweaty, and set the pot next to her in easy reach.
The person at the door didn’t wait for permission to enter. Sorcha burst into the room in a panic.
“Blair! I heard ye retching! Are ye ailing? Ye look as though ye’ve seen a spirit!”
Blair lifted a pale hand at Sorcha. “Nay, I’m well enough, though ‘twould seem getting caught in the rain had made me ill.”
Sorcha had started to squat next to Blair, then paused and stood again. Her blue-green eyes, a lighter shade than Reade’s but just as intense, studied Blair.
“How long has your stomach been thus?” she asked in a lilting tone.
“Yesterday. When I was in the rain.”
Sorcha squinted at her, then reached her hand out and grasped Blair’s clammy hand. “Come. Rise. Let me see ye.”
Blair did as Sorcha bid while she protested Sorcha’s concern. “Truly, Sorcha, I’m well enough. I’m sure I shall feel better in a day or two.”
Sorcha then surprised her for the second time that morning by pressing a firm hand against Blair’s belly. Trapped between the wall and the bed, Blair had nowhere to go, yet flinched from Sorcha’s invading hand.
“Sorcha!” she exclaimed.
“Have ye missed your monthly time?” she inquired.
Blair frowned at her personal question. “I’ve no’ been regular, as a rule. More than a month since the last time, well before I came here. I dinna know what—”
Reade’s mother surprised her for a third time when a brilliantly wide smile spread across Sorcha’s face.
Why was she smiling at her illness?
“Ye will no’ feel better soon, lass. No’ for several months. Ye are with babe!” Sorcha’s voice rose to an excited, fevered pitch.
Blair remained completely still, gripping the wall and the bedpost for support.
“Nay. ‘Tis no’ possible. I canna have bairns! I’m barren.”
Sorcha cackled happily and clapped her hands together under her chin. “Och, lass. Ye are no’ barren! Some men, their seed never takes root. They have weak seed. Other men, like my Reade, och! O’course he has powerful seed, like his da and grandda before him!”
Blair’s mouth fell open. A babe? She carried a babe? A MacDonald babe? Reade’s babe? Her arm snaked to her belly in disbelief.
“Nay,” she whispered.
“Och, aye!” Sorcha’s cheery voice countered. “No’ all husbands have the same power in their seed. Oft, men claim their wives are barren, when the truth is ‘tis the man who canna produce the babe. ‘Twould seem ‘tis the case with ye! Och, Blair! What a joyous day ‘tis indeed!”
Joyous? Shocking was a far better word. Blair’s knees weakened, and she moved to sink into the bedding. What was she to do now? She never expected to have children in this lifetime. And she carried Reade’s babe?
“We should tell Reade! We shall have a celebration —”
Blair put a hand on Sorcha’s arm, halting her excitations. “Nay. Or at least, no’ yet. What if I canna carry the babe to bear it? What if it slips? I never expected to have a bairn. I need time . . .”
