Page 27 of The Highlander's Twisted Deal
“Did you notice any elf’s-loom?” he demanded. “The pink kind, not the white or the red.”
The herb he mentioned was so rare that Ava had to think for a moment before she could conjure up an image of the flower in her head. The plants were tiny with heads that looked like hunks of wool. White was the most common. She didn’t think she’d ever seen pink.
“I havenae,” Ava admitted. “What is it for?”
“To bring on childbirth,” the man responded, not looking up. He hauled open stiff-hinged drawers at the bottom of a cupboard and began rifling through.
“But to bring on childbirth, would ye nae need—”
“Fire peppers, yes, usually. But this problem is a little more complex than simply bringing on labor.” The man sighed, sitting back on his heels and raking his hand through his hair.
He glanced at Ava, seeming to see her for the first time, and his eyes narrowed.
“Who are you, then? What are you doing here? All the healers are gone from the Keep. If you intend to take any of that Indian saffron, you had better write it in the ledger, or the chief healer will have your guts for garters.”
“Well, I’m—”
“She’s me betrothed, Arthur,” came a familiar, cool voice from the doorway.
Both of them flinched, glancing back at Callum a little guiltily.
How long had he been standing there?
Callum looked amused, not angry, his arms folded loosely across his chest. His gaze dropped to the vial of vibrant powder beside Ava.
“Aunt Moira said ye were looking for something unusual. Ye found it, I take it?”
“Aye, I did,” she responded tightly.
He watched her for a long moment. “And here I thought ye were trying to run away from me.”
Ava sucked in a breath, staring pointedly at Arthur. He had his back to them and showed no signs of having heard.
“Ah, I wouldnae worry about old Artie here,” Callum said with a grin, prowling over to pat the old man on the shoulder. “His eyesight is perfect, and he’s as spry as a man half his age, but he’s all but deaf. If he cannae read yer lips, he doesnae ken what ye are saying.”
Arthur glanced up at Callum, but his gaze was absent and inward-looking. Ava thought he looked afraid. She took a step closer.
“Is there anything I can help with?”
Arthur eyed her shrewdly. “A healer, I see. Unusual for a laird to betroth himself to a healer. Still, let me congratulate you both. Laird McAdair is a fine man. I cannot stay, though. Any more delay, and we’ll lose the babe and the mother both.”
A prickle ran down Ava’s spine. In her practice, she hadn’t attended many births. Her mother worked as a midwife, but generally speaking, there was no use for Ava’s expertise, so it had been a long time since she had been called upon to help.
“Wait,” she called as the man turned to leave. “Are ye a healer?”
She glanced down at his hands, noticing a faint green tinge near the fingertips. Faint, but still there.
He stretched out his hands, smiling wryly. “I was apprenticed here in my youth. Now, I’m retired, an old man living in a quiet village with his children and grandchildren. A young woman is giving birth, and our midwife is not long dead. With the healers all away and only me to manage things, I’m the only one to help her. The baby’s the wrong way round, and she’s not pushing like she should, try as she might. I’ve been on half the night and most of the day, and we’re not further forward. She doesn’t have the strength for this.”
Ava swallowed hard. This was bad. This was very bad. There had been cases where a woman’s body wasn’t helping her push the way it should, and there had also been cases of the baby being the wrong way round. She’d managed each in her time, under the sharp eyes of her mother, but never both at once. Never alone.
“I can see by your face you know how serious this is,” Arthur said, grinning mirthlessly. He got unsteadily to his feet, and for the first time, Ava saw exhaustion in his face.
Childbirth was a long, painful, and arduous thing, almost as exhausting for those who were assisting as it was for the one giving birth.
“Who’s the maither?” Callum spoke up, and Ava saw that he was grim-faced, too.
“Brigit,” Arthur replied, his voice a whisper.
