Page 41 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

“And as you’re probably bursting to tell me,” Claire cut in, grinning.

“That, too,” Ivy admitted. Her smile softened. “We had the most wonderful time, Claire—really talked, and that was before—” She stopped abruptly, bending, one hand clutching her middle.

Claire was at her side in an instant. “Ivy?”

Ivy blew out a shaky breath. “I think—oh God—oh, boy.”

Claire’s eyes lit, not with alarm but delight. “You’re going to be a mother soon.” She slipped an arm through Ivy’s, steadying her as they turned back toward the keep.

Ivy gave a weak laugh, half-whine, half-disbelief. “I need to tell Alaric.” She pressed a hand harder against her belly, shuffling her weight. Her frantic gaze found Claire. “She’s early—almost a week early.”

“And still everything is going to be just fine,” Claire said with a confidence that soothed Ivy, then she spun abruptly toward the bailey and bellowed, “Alaric! Someone fetch Alaric!”

Ivy gasped, scandalized. “Claire!”

“What?” Claire shot back, not the least bit apologetic. “I wasn’t about to leave you here and go running after him. He could be anywhere.”

Ivy groaned, shaking her head as they continued on. “I just imagined we’d send someone once we actually reached the hall.”

“Oh, yeah. I suppose we could have done that.”

By the time they reached the gates, Ivy was lumbering and holding her back for the pain there.

And then suddenly, Alaric appeared, sprinting from the yard with his men—as if Claire’s wild call had actually reached him.

“Ivy.” His voice was hoarse, ragged, as he reached her side and took her hand. “Are ye—? Is it—?”

She nodded, swallowing at the same time, trying to smile to assuage the stricken look on his face.

“Aye.” His voice was a rasp, his face gone pale. In an instant he had her in his arms, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. “Clear the way!” he barked over his shoulder just as the great doors opened before them, his shout carrying across the bailey. “Send for the midwife!”

Claire hurried after, piggybacking on Alaric’s orders, saying to the cluster of servants just inside the doors, “And hot water—clean cloths, plenty of both!”

Alaric carried Ivy up the stairs, his arms iron bands around her, his breath harsh in her ear. “I’ve got ye, lass. I’ve got ye.”

Claire skipped up the stairs after them, her skirts in her hands.

Inside Ivy’s chamber, Alaric eased her onto the bed where just last night, he had indeed gone further than second base.

“No, wait,” Claire said quickly, shaking her head. “Hold her up a moment, so I can untie her laces.”

Alaric perched on the side of the bed at once, drawing Ivy forward until they were face to face. His big hand spread over her back, steadying her as Claire’s nimble fingers worked at the laces of her gown.

A contraction seized Ivy then, sharp and consuming. She tried to hold back a cry, mostly succeeding, her hands fisting in Alaric’s tunic. His other hand rose to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing across her damp skin.

“Everything will be fine,” he said, his voice low but certain.

She leaned into him, forehead pressed hard against his, drawing strength from the heat of his breath and the solidity of him, holding fast until the pain ebbed and released her at last.

Ivy turned her face up to Alaric but spoke to Claire. “It’s starting too fast. What if—”

“Nope, it’s fine,” Claire assured her. “You can lay her down now,” she said to Alaric, before assuring Ivy further, “I haven’t timed it yet, but they are not too quick, seem right on time.”

Just as he lowered Ivy, Alaric turned his sharp gaze to Claire, hope in his tortured gaze. “Ye are a midwife? Ye have birthed bairns?”

“I have,” Claire said confidently. “And I’ve met Ruth, the midwife, and between her and me, Ivy is in good hands, I promise you.

” When Alaric looked as if he needed more convincing, Claire added, her tone tender, “She’s young and strong, and I have every confidence she will sail right through this. ”

The door opened again, Evir arriving with a stack of clean linens.

Claire received them. “Thank you, Evir, and would you see Laird MacKinlay to the hall—maybe find him something stronger than ale.”

Alaric bristled, coming to his feet. “I’ll nae leave her.”

The midwife bustled in just then, Ruth’s sleeves already rolled up and her face set in brisk lines of command. She clucked at Alaric as though he were simply a wayward boy underfoot. “Out wi’ ye, laird. ?Tis nae place for men.”

Alaric looked helplessly at Ivy.

She reached for and squeezed his hand, forcing a smile she did not entirely feel. “It’s all right. I promise. I can do this.” Her voice came out steady, stronger than she’d imagined.

The midwife planted herself firmly near the door, her hand on the latch. “Ye will go now. Else I cannae do my work. I’ll send for ye when it’s done.”

For a heartbeat Ivy thought he would argue, but his grip only tightened painfully on her hand before he bent, pressed a kiss to her temple, and whispered, “I’ll be just below.”

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him, and Ivy found herself breathing differently—less afraid of distressing him.

Claire shifted to Ivy’s side, smoothing her hair back from her damp brow. “I’m right here,” she murmured. “I know you’re entering unknown territory, Ivy, but everything is going to be fine. In a few hours, you’ll be holding your daughter.”

Claire and Ivy had discussed the birth more than a week ago, Claire insisting she didn’t want to interfere with the midwife—but that if she saw something she didn’t like, if she thought for one minute that the midwife didn’t know what she was doing, she would step in. “I will toss her ass out,” she’d said.

Claire and Evir then proceeded to undress Ivy, removing everything but her chemise, which was bunched around her waist. When they were done, Ivy let her head fall back against the pillows, sighing, bracing herself for the next contraction.

This was happening. At last, the moment she had dreaded and longed for was here.

After the first hour, the pains came steady and hard.

At first, they were only tightening bands across her belly, sharp enough to catch her breath but not enough to steal it entirely.

For a while, the midwife sat idly—Claire assured Ivy there wasn’t anything she could do at the moment, anyway—but did bustled about here and there, stripping Ivy’s bed to clean linens after Ivy’s water had broken a few hours in, laying cloths at the foot, setting water to steam in the hearth and herbs to steep.

“Walk, if ye can,” the woman ordered at one point. “It’ll bring the bairn quicker.”

Claire slipped an arm around Ivy’s waist, helping her pace the chamber.

Ivy’s knees wobbled with each contraction, but she obeyed, pacing between the bed and the hearth, her free hand pressed hard to the small of her back.

Claire kept her tone bright, almost merry.

“You’re really doing it, Ivy. You’re going to meet your baby before the sun goes down, I bet. ”

Since her water had broken, the pains had grown sharper, radiating down her thighs, leaving her breathless. Ivy leaned on Claire’s shoulder, whimpering despite herself. “I can’t—”

“You can,” Claire whispered back. “Every woman since Eve has. And so will you.”

***

Alaric paced as well, stomping the length of the hall like a caged beast, the rushes scattered by his boots as he turned back and forth until a clear line of flagstones was visible.

His hands flexed and clenched, useless things when the only work they longed for was barred from him.

Above his head, muffled through timber and stone, came the faintest sounds—women’s voices, hurried footsteps, and every so often a cry that made his stomach knot until he thought he might retch.

Ciaran sat at the high table, sipping on ale. “Ye’ll drive yerself mad like that,” he said at last. “Come outside. Let us ride. Or set the men to drills—anything to take yer mind from it.”

Alaric whirled on him, breath ragged. “Ride? Drill?” His voice cracked, nearly incoherent. “I canna leave her, not when she’s...” He broke off, swallowing hard, running a hand through his hair. “I need to be here. If she calls for me—I need to be here.”

Something softened in Ciaran’s face then, the guarded look slipping a fraction. He knew. He happened to have been at Braalach when Gwen....

He’d seen it before, the helplessness of waiting, the terror of what might be lost in a single moment.

Alaric dragged in a breath, forcing himself still, though every muscle vibrated with tension.

He lowered onto the bench, elbows braced on his knees, staring into the rushes.

“She’s strong,” he muttered, more to himself than to Ciaran.

“Stronger than she might believe of herself even. She’ll see it through. ”

Above them, another cry carried faintly down, and Alaric’s head snapped up, jaw tightening. His hands closed into fists again. “I’ll wait,” he said fiercely. “I’ll wait here, until they bring her through it.”

***

Another pain tore through Ivy, so strong she nearly sobbed with it. Claire leaned close, clutching her hand, her voice brisk but teasing. “Breathe now, Ivy—deep, steady. Don’t tense up, you’ll strain your abdominables.”

Despite herself, Ivy barked a laugh through the pain, nearly choking on it. “Abdominables? Really? A Pitty Pat-ism now?”

Claire grinned, brushing damp hair from Ivy’s brow. Straight-faced, she instructed, “Don’t argue with Pitty Pat—she’s practically a medical authority.”

The contraction ebbed, leaving Ivy trembling but smiling faintly, the sharp edge of fear and pain blunted for a moment.

“Please, Claire, run down and tell Alaric everything is fine, progressing as expected,” Ivy begged, exhausted. “Lie if you have to.”

“I wouldn’t have to lie,” Claire assured her, “but I know my head would roll if I left your side. I’ll give that message to Evir to convey when next she pops her head in.”

The midwife came then, checking her progress with brisk efficiency, her roughened hands surprisingly gentle. “Another while yet,” she muttered. “The bairn’s slow, but she’s coming.”

The afternoon wore on. Servants padded in and out with hot water, with cloths, with herbs.

The air grew thick with steam and the sharp bite of crushed rosemary.

Ivy gripped Claire’s hand through each wave, knuckles white.

Between, she slumped back, hair plastered to her cheeks, lips silently murmuring her baby’s name—she’d decided on Lily.

At one point the midwife urged her to squat, propped by Claire and another maid. Ivy obeyed, trembling, until her legs gave way. She collapsed back onto the bed, sobbing. “I can’t—”

Claire stood beside her, brushing damp hair from her face. “Yes, you can. You already are. And when it’s over, you’ll hold Lily in your arms.”

The words struck through Ivy’s fog of pain: Lily. Her daughter. The hope steadied her.

By late afternoon the pains grew fierce, tearing through her body with an urgency that left her hoarse from her grunting cries. Claire held cool cloths to her brow, whispering nonsense comforts. The midwife’s voice cut through it all, steady, commanding: “Now push, lass. With all ye’ve got.”

Ivy bore down, groaned deeply, and thought she would break apart. Again. Again. The world narrowed to fire and blood and the rasp of her own breath. She was certain she would die. And then—

Heat, the pressure gone, relief.

A thin cry split the chamber. High, wailing, indignant.

The sound pierced Ivy like sunlight breaking storm clouds. She sagged back, spent, tears streaming as the midwife lifted a slick, squirming bundle and set her onto Ivy’s chest. “A lass,” the woman announced with satisfaction. “Strong lungs, too.”

Ivy stared down at the tiny, red-faced creature, her daughter, her heart breaking open. Claire laughed softly, tears in her own eyes, leaning close. “She’s perfect, Ivy. You did it.”

***

The chamber had quieted after the storm of labor. The midwife moved briskly about, tidying cloths and murmuring instructions to the maid, while Claire perched right beside Ivy, their shoulders touching.

Ivy was exhausted but couldn’t even think about resting now, not with her cleaned and swaddled daughter bundled warm against her chest.

“She’s perfect, right?” She asked Claire. “You counted her toes? Her fingers?”

“Everything,” Claire confirmed. “Your little mini-me is precious, Ivy.”

“Thank you, Claire,” Ivy said softly, leaning her head against her friend’s. “Thank you for being here.”

The door creaked, and Alaric stepped inside, Claire having given the all-clear to Evir a minute ago, when Ruth had finished stitching Ivy and she’d been changed into a fresh gown, just as Claire had laid the babe in her mother’s arms.

For a heartbeat he did not move, only stood on the threshold, as though unsure if he should enter. His face was pale—paler than Ivy’s, she suspected.

“Here,” Claire offered, vacating the spot next to Ivy.

He crossed the room slowly, almost reverently, until he reached her bedside. His gaze was first for Ivy, trained on her as to ascertain for himself that she was all right.

Ivy smiled brilliantly at him. “Hi.”

“Ivy,” he breathed, sinking down to his knees, which put him nearly eye to eye with Ivy.

His hand came to the one stretched extended to him, rough thumb brushing over her knuckles, and then he bent and kissed her.

Not hurried, not desperate—just full of joy and release, as though that kiss was the first breath he’d taken in hours.

“This is Lily,” she said to him, beaming with pride and love.

He leaned close, gaze fixed on the tiny features, the scrunched pink face, the damp wisps of dark hair. His breath caught audibly. His eyes shimmered with wonder, with tears he did not bother to hide.

“She’s... she’s flawless,” he whispered, voice rough.

His great hand hovered, hesitant, before brushing one careful finger against the baby’s small fist. Lily twitched in response, curling her hand around his finger, and he let out a broken laugh.

“God help me, Ivy, she’s nae my own bluid, yet I’ve never been prouder in all my days. ”

Ivy’s throat tightened, tears slipping down her temples. “But can she be, Alaric? Can she be yours? Ours?”

He nodded fiercely, too choked up to speak.

Claire added her two cents from the background. “She might as well, already has him twisted around her fingers.”