Page 26 of The Duke’s Lance (The Duke’s Guard #12)

Two months later…

O ’Malley rubbed his wife’s back, wondering what in the bloody hell he could say that would make her feel better.

“I love ye, lass.”

The sound of her retching had his stomach muscles tightening.

“There cannot be anything left inside yer belly.”

He should have kept his comments to himself—the poor woman heaved again.

Still leaning over the chamber pot, she held out her hand for the damp cloth. He placed it in her hand and watched as she swiped it over her mouth, folded it, and handed it back to him. O’Malley’s strong constitution weakened with each successive day that his wife puked up her guts. He tossed the cloth into one of the spare chamber pots he’d insisted they have on hand after the first time he witnessed what Helen went through upon rising.

As God was his witness, he vowed he’d never plant another babe in her belly!

She held out her hand again. This time he gave her one of his handkerchiefs. The lass promptly blew her nose, folded it, and handed it back to him. He tossed it into the pot with the cloth.

Finally… finally , she sat back on her heels—his cue to let go of her hair. “Do you want to know what I think, O’Malley?”

It was telling that she called him O’Malley and not Eamon. “Aye, love, tell me what do ye think.”

“Our babe will be a boy. Your son will grow up to be just like his father: a man who faces down death with a smile, whose body is riddled with scars, and who irritates the life out of me every time he tries to tell me what to do.”

He gently pulled her onto his lap and eased her into the shelter of his arms. With her cheek leaning against his heart, he rasped, “ Mo ghrá , if the Lord blesses us with a healthy babe, who are we to question whether or not our babe has some of me best qualities or yers?”

Helen groaned, and he braced himself for another round of holding back her hair while she puked up the lining of her stomach.

O’Malley wasn’t prepared when she jabbed him in the gut with her elbow. “I’m praying we have a little girl, who will be sweet as sugar, with a temperament as soft as a morning in May.”

Seven months later, their prayers were answered…

“Ye’re brave, beautiful, and I promise to never—ever—make ye pregnant again.”

Helen smoothed her hand over the ebony peach fuzz on their daughter’s head. “See that ye keep that promise, O’Malley.”

He used the tip of his finger to trace the pale-as-moonlight silk atop their son’s head. “Do ye think ye’ll be calling me Eamon again anytime soon?”

“Mayhap when our daughter is sitting in the garden serving us tea from the tiny tea set Their Graces gave us.”

“And just what do ye think our son will be doing? Having tea with his sister?”

She snickered. “He’ll be tossing rocks at a bottle on top of the fence post, pretending he was shooting at it with your rifle.”

Seven years later…

“Roisin! Haven’t ye heard yer ma calling? She wants ye to finish yer chores.”

The miniature version of his wife never ceased to amaze O’Malley. Her slashing dark brows over violet faery eyes would bedevil some poor man a decade from now. Lord, don’t let it be sooner than that!

“But I can’t stop now,” Roisin protested. “Eamon and I are even. All I need is to knock off this last bottle and I win!”

“You won’t win. I’m stronger, bigger, and have better aim,” young Eamon said.

“Someday, lad, ye’ll learn that ’tis the women who are stronger,” his father replied.

“In battle?” Eamon asked.

“Aye, son…in the battle to give birth.”

His twins tossed the rest of their rocks on the small pile by the back of the stable where they’d been having their morning competition. They rushed over to his side. Roisin grabbed his left hand. Eamon grabbed the right, and tugged on it until O’Malley glanced down at him. “Do ye think if we’re really quiet, Ma will let us hold Finola? She said once the babe was a few weeks old that we could.”

“Ye’ll need to wash yer hands until they sparkle, lad.”

Roisin yanked on his other hand. O’Malley grinned. The stubborn lass was always trying to prove she was stronger than her twin. “I want to hold her too.”

“We’ll see. First ye’ll wash yer hands and finish yer chores.”

She pouted. “I folded a few things.”

“Ah, but ye need to fold the rest. Yer brother did his half of the folding. ’Tis no skin off me nose if ye don’t finish yer chores. I’m certain Eamon won’t mind eating yer share of the teacakes Constance sent over this morning.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The iced ones?”

“Aye. When ye finish yer chores, Constance was hoping ye’d help pick berries.”

“Berry tarts,” Eamon murmured.

“Jam,” Roisin replied.

“She said Deidre would be helping her too. I’m thinking between the three of ye helping pick the berries, ye’ll gather enough for Constance to bake tarts and cook up a pot of jam.”

Roisin grinned. “You’ll have to make sure Uncle Patrick doesn’t find out where she hides the jars of jam.”

“Deidre will tell her da,” Eamon grumbled. “She always does.”

“Does not!” Roisin cried out.

“Does too!” Eamon let go of O’Malley’s hand and ran toward the back of the cottage.

“Does not!” Roisin yelled, chasing after her brother.

If O’Malley and Helen’s babe wasn’t already awake and nursing, Finola was sure to be by the time the twin terrors reached the cottage.

Taking a moment to watch them racing and laughing, O’Malley felt his heart overflow with gratitude. “Lord, it’s Eamon again. Thank ye for the gifts in me life. Me wife, our twins, and our new babe. Ye know I didn’t want Helen to suffer through all-day sickness again. The lass suffered for nine months the last time, and it broke me heart.”

He remembered how tiny their babes had been and how he worried that the birth would be too much for Helen to handle. But he’d be damned if she did not bounce back, and start putting the bug in his ear every time another one of his cousins’ wives gave birth to another babe.

O’Malley had faith enough to trust that the Lord knew what he was doing. He added a prayer that little Finola would be the mild-tempered, sweet-as-sugar daughter the lass had prayed for the first time.

Three years later…

“Lord, it’s Eamon again. I’m thinking ’twill be me last prayer, as ye’ve stopped listening to me entirely! The lass is as big as our cottage—though I’ll never tell her that—and she wasn’t supposed to have any more children. She puked up her guts every morning for nine months…again!

“Our little Finola sneaks out of the house every morning, following after her older brother and sister. Lord, have pity on me. They’re teaching her how to knock bottles off the fence post with a handful of rocks!”

Two years later…

“Lord, ’tis obvious that ye only answer me wife’s prayers.” He kicked at a clump of dirt with his boot and sighed. “Forgive me. Ye did answer me prayers when Helen only puked up her guts for the first three months this time. She’s still glowing, Lord, even after giving birth just three days past. Our new daughter, Brigid, is healthy. And just like the other three, she has ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes, two ears, and a nose.

“Thank ye, Lord, for the gift of me wife and blessing us with a family to love.”

Halfway back to the cottage, he paused to add, “Thank ye, Lord, for the gift of life, and the gift of one more day.”