Page 157 of Laird of Flint
“I was the same way,” the laird confessed. “Fear dressed up as anger. This time, though, ’tis naught but fear for me.”
The maidservant pressed the second cup into his hand. “This works for both. And ye might as well have a seat. Otherwise ye’ll wear out the bottom o’ your boots by the time this bairn comes.”
They tried to sit. But the laird couldn’t stop bouncing his leg. And Hew kept standing up and sitting down, too restless to rest.
“Is it good luck or bad luck to be born on Martinmas?” the laird wondered.
Hew didn’t know. “At this rate, the bairn won’t come till the morrow.”
“What if it doesn’t? What if Carenza’s up there in agony for a sennight?”
“It can’t take that long,” Hew scoffed. Then he reconsidered. “Can it?”
“Do ye suppose they have enough plaids?”
That was a consideration. It was snowy, and the bairn would be wet. “Should we gather more?”
They shot to their feet and began scouring the hall, demanding the plaids from clanfolk who warmed themselves by the fire. Whether they would be useful or not, it at least gave Hew something to do so he wouldn’t go mad with worrying.
He’d gathered a heaping armful of plaids when the outer doors were suddenly flung open. A cold breeze rushed in to flicker the flames. A motley party of half a dozen travelers, cloaked against the harsh weather, pushed boldly inside.
Hew scowled.
What strangers dared to muscle their way so brazenly into Dunlop’s hall?
Who deigned to meddle in their private affairs?
Incensed at their intrusion and forgetting this was not his keep, he called out, “Who goes there? Show your faces.”
Chapter 28
“Hew?” Logan threw back his hood.
Hew dropped the plaids. “Logan?” Itwashis brother, although a taller version since the last time he’d seen him more than a year ago.
Logan loped forward with an enormous grin. He caught Hew in a rib-crushing embrace. Then he pushed away to arm’s length to take a good look at him.
“So good to see you, brother,” Logan said. “You’re looking fit. Lovedoesconquer all, aye?”
Before Hew could answer, he heard an unmistakable bellow.
“Dunlop!”
Aunt Deirdre? Was she here as well?
From behind his armful of plaids, Dunlop replied, “Deirdre?”
The clan cleared a path between the two lairds. Hew could see now the visitors were all from Rivenloch.
“Thank God ye’re here,” Dunlop said, handing the plaids off to a nearby clansman. “Ye’re just in time,” he rattled on. “We’re not sure whether to call the physician. Or if we’ve got enough plaids. Or—”
“What’s happened?” Deirdre demanded, as clear and efficient as always.
“’Tis my Carenza,” Dunlop said. “She’s goin’ to have the bairn.”
“Now?”
“Aye, and ’tis takin’ so long, I fear—”
