Page 68 of Wed to the Highlander
When a knock came at the door, Duncan rose reluctantly to answer it.
A footman bowed and handed him a sealed note. Duncan broke the wax, scanning the contents before his smile returned in full.
“It’s from Sommerville,” he said, glancing over at her. “Cici has delivered a healthy baby girl. Andrew says they are both doing well.”
Warmth bloomed in Maggie’s chest. “That’s the best gift of all.”
Duncan returned to her and cradled her in his arms once again. “It is, lass,” he murmured. “Until our own arrives.”
***
At dawn on the first day of the new year, Maggie’s water broke.
Duncan had never moved so fast in his life. One moment, she was gripping his arm with a startled gasp; the next, he was out in the hall rousing the castle, barking orders to the footmen, sending for the midwife, Fiona, the village healer. He didn’t have to send for Duchess Catherine, who was already rushing his way. Within the hour, the chamber had transformed: basins of water steamed, clean linens were stacked at the ready, and the fire was stoked high. Maggie, pale but composed, was breathing through the pain as she walked between her mother and Fiona.
“Shouldn’t she be in bed?” he asked, when she bent double at a longer, harsher pain.
“Walking helps the babe along,” the midwife reassured him.
He tried to stay. He wanted to stay. But the healer—stern and seasoned—shooed him out with a sharp gesture.
“She’s holding back for you,” she said. “Go. Let her do what she must.”
He protested, of course. But Fiona and the dowager backed her up. Maggie nodded, eyes tight with pain.
So he kissed her and left.
Now, he paced the corridor, a man possessed, boots echoing against the stone floor, hands clenched at his sides. Lachlan, father of three, had pressed a glass of whiskey into his hand.
“Drink,” he said. “It helps.”
“Nothing will until this is done,” Duncan muttered but drank anyway.
Hours passed. Snow piled against the windows. Servants came and went with fresh linens and towels. Duncan asked questions no one could answer. Most often, he demanded, “How much longer?” He cursed the healer’s silence—and prayed to gods he didn’t believe in.
And then—just after the tenth hour—a cry rang out.
Sharp. Lusty. Alive.
Duncan didn’t wait. He crashed through the chamber door without knocking, heart in his throat, eyes searching for her.
Maggie lay against the pillows, damp curls clinging to her forehead, her nightgown rumpled, her cheeks flushed with exhaustion. In her arms, swaddled in soft wool, was a squalling, ruddy-cheeked bairn with a shock of dark hair and lungs that could wake the glen.
Duncan stopped short, breath stolen.
Fiona stepped aside, smiling through tears. The midwife gave a nod of approval. The healer inched up next to him and laid her hand on his arm. “’Tis a braw lad, laird. Congratulations.”
Duncan crossed to the bed and dropped to his knees beside it.
Maggie looked at him, eyes glassy but radiant. “Are you all right?”
“You’re askin’ me that? Lass, you’re a wonder.”
“I thought we might name him after my brother and your father, who we lost last year,” she whispered hoarsely. “James Donal MacPherson.”
Duncan nodded, unable to speak. His throat burned. His eyes stung. He reached out, cradled his son’s tiny head, and pressed a kiss to Maggie’s damp brow.
“’Tis a fine name,” he managed.
