Page 72 of The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

She knew now, she would not be alone, when the time came. She might not live - it was still possible for childbirth to overwhelm a woman, no matter how much help was available - but she would not perish alone and in terror.

And she knew perhaps, just perhaps, now, why it might be worth taking the risk.

Alistair wasn’t sure what was going on in Niamh’s mind when she joined him for supper in the Great Hall. He knew, from whispers among the servant folk, that she’d not been with the women in the sewing room that afternoon, and that she’d gone to speak to Catriona earlier in the day.

He could also see that she was in a thoughtful mood, and she had clearly been in some distress earlier in the day. The slight redness of her eyes and the weary, slightly distant expression in her face told him that. But for the life of him, he could not imagine what had caused her strange mood.

He also wasn’t about to ask during the meal. Such things were private matters, and unless she decided to speak of it in front of the rest of the clan, he saw no reason to do so. Whatever troubled her, his questions could wait until they’d retired after the meal.

He was still wondering how best to broach the subject when one of the older men of the clan spoke to him. “How fare ye and yer lady, me laird?”

“Well enough.” Alistair took a swallow of his mead, and only narrowly avoided spraying it across the table when the man spoke again.

“And how fares the siring o’ an heir? I’ve heard rumors that ye and the lady are well matched…” The man smirked, the red on his cheeks indicating that he’d had more mead than was good for his health. Alistair cursed the fact that the man’s brother sat on the Council, and he couldn’t simply knock the older man out, or toss him in a dungeon cell until he’d regained his sobriety, his wits and his respect for his laird.

“I’ve little tae speak tae on that score.” Alistair saw Niamh stiffen in her seat, her cheeks flushing, and amended his statement. “Ye ken, ‘tis unwise tae speak afore we ken…”

“Och, but ye must have some idea! Surely yer lady kens when and how tae tell if she’s with child.” The man grinned at Niamh, whose flush deepened. “Or is it that ye’re waiting fer a particular day tae announce it? Perhaps ye’ll have special words fer the clan at Samhain?”

“I cannae speak tae that. I wouldnae wish tae invite bad luck.” He was trying not to say anything that might imply some difficulty or fault with Niamh or himself, but it was hard, especially when he wasn’t about to reveal the truth to the assembled folk.

“Och, well, in that case…” The man raised his tankard, drawing the attention of the whole table. “Tae yer health, me laird, and yer lady’s, and the anticipation o’ good news come Samhain’s Eve!”

The words were echoed by many along the supper tables, and Alistair would have been perfectly happy to leave it at that, had not one of the more curious wives of his councilors asked “And what good news are we hoping fer?”

“Why, the announcement o’ an heir tae be born, and when!”

Alistair was tempted to thump his head on the table. He would have, had it not been beneath his dignity.

“Is that so? Ye’ve nae mentioned this in Council, Laird MacDuff.” Dearmont spoke up.

“There’s naught tae say as yet. Master McKell is simply expressin’ his hopes.”

“Well, it has been near a fortnight since yer wedding, man. Surely ye aught tae ken something by now.”

“’Tis nae always easy tae ken.” Catriona spoke up, trying to offer him a graceful way out, but it was too late. Whispers were darting up and down the Hall, and Niamh’s expression was getting tighter and tighter, her cheeks red and her hands clenched so tight around her goblet that he was glad it was a sturdy one of polished wood, rather than softer metal, or the glass chalices they used for special occasions.

Gods and spirits above, could they not leave the matter alone for a single moon? Yes, he’d been married a fortnight, he and Niamh, but it was barely that, and there had been much to occupy both of them. Besides, it often took a season or more for a babe to be conceived, even if they had been regular lovers. Sometimes longer. His mother hadn’t conceived him until a year after wedding his father.

And for all the council knew - and all they had a right to know - Niamh could be at any point in her moon cycle.

Conceiving a bairn wasn’t like breeding a horse or growing crops. It happened in its own time, when the powers that be willed it, and the woman was ready.

He’d married. As far as anyone knew, including Catriona, he and Niamh were like any other wedded couple when it came to activity in the bedroom.

Why cannae that be enough fer them? I ken there are threats on the border, and every clan fears losing a laird without an heir, but they’ve Ewan tae follow me if I fall without issue, and Catriona’s husband after that, among others. And I’ve written me chosen line o’ succession and presented it tae them. I did that almost as soon as the dirt settled on me faither’s grave.

The rough scrape of wood on stone wrenched his thoughts back to the conversation, just as Niamh rose from her seat. “If ye’ll excuse me.” She turned and left the hall before he could even try to convince her to stay.

Alistair wasted no time in rising. “I should see that she’s well.”

“Aye, ye should.” McKell had the nerve to give him a sloppy smirk and a wink. “They say a woman’s temper is the shortest when she’s expectin’ something tae come…”

Alistair scowled, but made no reply, choosing instead to leave the Hall before he said something he shouldn’t. He did, however, stop a serving maid and tell her to pass the word that McKell was to have nothing save cold barley water at his meals until Samhain night.

A little enforced sobriety might teach the man to hold his tongue.

He found Niamh in their quarters, walking in little circles, her expression tense and strained. “Niamh…”