Page 72

IT WAS A night Brodie would never forget.

The night his brother fought a deadly fever.

The night Greer went into labor.

It was an endless night too, and the scales of fate hung in the balance for far too long.

For hours, he paced outside the tent where Greer struggled to bring a new life into the world.

Her cries chilled his blood, yet when he’d tried to stay with Greer, the surgeon had banished him, opting instead to have Sheena assist.

Meanwhile, Bonnie remained in the tent next door, watching over her husband as he thrashed about in his cot.

The fever that had gripped Iver earlier in the day had worsened.

He’d now fallen into a fitful sleep, sweat pouring off him.

The surgeon had done all he could and had pronounced that Iver’s condition at dawn would tell them all whether he’d survive.

Bonnie had wept at this news, and Brodie had choked down the urge to slam his fist into the surgeon’s face.

However, it wasn’t the man’s fault.

He was merely the bearer of bad tidings. And now, the same man was struggling to help Greer birth her bairn.

Brodie wore a path in the grass between the tents, snarling at Colin Campbell when he suggested he should get some sleep. He wouldn’t rest until he was assured both Iver and Greer were out of danger.

The hours crept on, as did the grunts and cries from Greer’s tent.

Brodie’s fingernails bit into his palms. Christ’s teeth, surely she’d be exhausted by now?

Many women died in childbirth, he knew that, but the reality of it had never truly hit him—even when he’d learned of Bonnie’s difficult labor a few months earlier—until now.

Now, every cry, every gasp, twisted his gut in knots.

Eventually, Sheena emerged from the tent. The older woman’s usually impeccable bun had come loose, and silver strands framed her haggard face.

“Is it done?” Brodie croaked, forgetting that he never spoke to his stepmother. He hadn’t done so, unless provoked, for years.

Sheena shook her head. “Not yet.” She paused then, swallowing. “She’s tiring though.”

Brodie’s gut dropped to his boots, nausea washing over him. “No,” he whispered. “I can’t lose her.”

Moments passed, and then, to Brodie’s shock, Sheena stepped forward and took his hands in hers. “She’s a fighter, that lass of yers,” she said, her voice low and firm. “Don’t ye give up on her.”

Brodie stared back at his stepmother, aware of how strong her hands were, and how fierce her stare was. And for the first time ever, he felt a connection between them.

“I won’t,” he replied between gritted teeth. “But I feel so useless standing here … unable to help Greer.”

Sheena’s dark-blue eyes glinted. “She needs yer strength. Ye and I both know it. So, get in there, ignore that curmudgeon of a surgeon, let her grip yer hand … and see her through.”

And Brodie did. The surgeon, too wearied now to argue, merely cut him an irritated look. Brodie ignored him. Instead, he crouched at Greer’s side and took her hand.

She lay upon her back on the cot. Her face was flushed, sweat pouring off her, and her breast rose and fell hard as she rested between birthing pains. Brodie’s heart jolted at the sight of her; she looked truly drained.

“Ye are getting too tired to push like this, lass,” the surgeon muttered.

“Well then, we need to try something else,” Brodie replied curtly. Wetting a cloth, he wiped the sweat off Greer’s brow. “Can ye move into a position that’ll help ye better, love?”

Greer’s grey eyes, dark with pain and fatigue, met his. An instant later, she nodded. “Help me up.”

“Ye need to stay still,” the surgeon snapped.

Brodie ignored him once more and lifted Greer under the armpits, allowing her to shift into a crouching position. “Is that better?”

She nodded weakly. “Give me yer hand again.”

He did, and she gripped it so hard that he felt the bones creak. He suffered through it, for what she was enduring was far worse than a crushed hand. Greer bore down then, grunting with effort.

The surgeon moved into position between her legs. “That’s right,” he said, relief in his voice now. “The head is crowning … finally!”

“Good, lass,” Brodie urged her. “Just one last push … get ready.”

The intervals between birthing pains were narrow now, and it took just moments before they swept over her again.

And this time, as she clung to his hand, Greer threw her head back and gave a long, anguished cry. As she did, something slithered between her thighs onto the blood-soaked sheepskin beneath her.

Joy exploded within Brodie like a sunburst. He’d never seen a newborn bairn before and hadn’t realized it would be covered with blood and mucus. The surgeon picked the babe up and held it aloft, the purple umbilical cord hanging from its belly still connecting it with Greer.

“Ye have a lass here,” the surgeon announced. And suddenly, the man wasn’t glowering anymore. Instead, a grin split his weathered face. “A bonnie wee thing she is too.”

The bairn gave a mewling cry, and Greer gasped, a sob of joy then escaping her. “A daughter, Brodie.”

“Aye,” Brodie croaked, his throat tight with emotion.

“Is she healthy?” Greer asked. Worry had crept into her voice.

Brodie moved forward, peering down at the crumpled wee face as she gave another squawk. He knew little of bairns, yet this one looked strong. Her tiny hands balled into fists as her eyes gazed up at him. “Aye,” he reassured her huskily. “She’s perfect.”

The surgeon handed the bairn to Brodie to hold while he cut the umbilical cord. The man then wrapped the newborn in a soft woolen shawl and passed her to Greer.

Watching the delight on Greer’s face as she stared down at her daughter—and the fierce, protective light in her eyes—Brodie’s heart kicked against his ribs.

By God, he loved this woman.

Once the afterbirth had been passed—and after reassuring himself that both mother and child were well—Brodie left Greer to rest while Sheena fussed over her. He went next door to check on Iver.

Head nodding as she fought sleep, Bonnie sat at her husband’s side, upon a low stool, while Reid slumbered in a small wooden crib a few feet away.

Approaching the cot where Iver lay, Brodie knelt on the sheepskin next to it. He then placed a gentle hand on Bonnie’s arm, rousing her.

Bonnie’s head snapped up, her gaze meeting his. “Greer?” she murmured. “Is she—”

“She’s well … and we have a daughter,” he replied.

His throat started to ache as he said these words.

We have a daughter.

The surgeon had said the bairn, although small, had been carried to term. The bairn was likely his, yet right now, he didn’t care if it was or not. All that mattered was that Greer had survived giving birth and that both she and the bairn were well.

Nothing else was important.

Joy flowered across Bonnie’s face, her eyes glittering with tears. “That’s wonderful news,” she murmured, clutching at his hand. “I’m so happy for ye both.”

Brodie swallowed. The emotion roiling within him could hardly be contained. However, when his attention shifted to his brother’s sweat-slicked pale face, a knot of dread lodged under his breastbone.

“How is he?”

“Still fighting.”

Brodie moved around to the other side of the cot. He then wet a cloth from a bowl of water on the floor and wiped off Iver’s brow. “That’s right, brother,” he said softly. “Don’t let it beat ye … we all need ye.”

He rinsed out the cloth and wiped Iver’s face.

And then, to his surprise, his brother groaned, his eyes flickering open.

Brodie stilled, his breath catching. God’s troth, I have a healer’s touch tonight.

Meanwhile, Bonnie gasped and reached forward, her hand gripping his. “Iver!”

“Aye, lass,” he rasped. “I’m still with ye.”

“Ye must be feeling better,” Brodie replied, the knot in his heart loosening just a fraction. It was a relief to see his brother awake. “If ye can make quips.”

Iver’s gaze shifted from Bonnie’s face to his. “Ye won’t rid yerself of me so easily,” he said, his voice still croaky.

Brodie gave a soft snort and reached for a cup of water. He then slid a hand under his brother’s head and lifted it off the nest of pillows, placing the cup to his lips so he could drink. “That’s a relief to hear. Ye are a pain in the arse … but I’m used to having ye around.”

Bonnie muttered an oath, even as she clutched her husband’s hand tightly. “Just listen to the pair of ye … I’ve never understood why men trade insults at times like this.”

Iver took a couple of sips of water and sank back on the pillows. He then favored his wife with a weak smile. “It’s just our way, lass.”

“Aye,” Brodie agreed softly. “We don’t want anyone to see our soft underbellies.”

Bonnie sighed before giving her head a wry shake. Her gaze met Brodie’s. “Well then, aren’t ye going to give Iver the happy news?”

Brodie’s mouth quirked. “Aye … I was getting to that.” He shifted his attention to Iver once more, his smile widening. “Ye are now an uncle.”