When both men regarded her dumbfounded, she bit back an impatient retort. She knew she looked likely to blow away on a stiff breeze, but she was strong. To survive under Allan Grant’s rule, she’d had to be.
“Would ye?” Gratitude eased the tension in Mr. Mackinnon’s features. “Marina is healthy, but…”
Fiona stepped aside to allow another maid to scuttle past with an armful of fresh towels. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
She wasn’t surprised that he didn’t believe her. Hiding a shudder, she remembered the times when she’d attended births that hadn’t been fine at all.
The Grants didn’t believe in paying for a doctor’s services. Instead they relied on the clan’s womenfolk to assist in delivering any babies. Not that Fiona had anything against wise women. Christina’s birth had been long and difficult. Only the midwife’s skill had saved both mother and child.
“Thank you.” Mr. Mackinnon’s smile was an obvious effort, and she commended his courage. “I’ll take ye up to her.”
“I’m glad I can repay some of your kindness, sir.” If only she could repay Diarmid, who had done even more for her. But he’d rejected the one thing she had to give, and she didn’t know what else to offer him.
Except as she studied the two men, she realized that helping Lady Achnasheen would go a long way toward compensating Diarmid. She’d recognized immediately not just that the Mackinnons loved one another, but that powerful ties of friendship united them both to Diarmid.
When her hosts said they’d do anything for Diarmid, the words were no idle promise. At dinner, Diarmid had told her how the connection began. Mr. Mackinnon had rescued Diarmid and his cousin after the younger boys became lost in the hills behind Achnasheen. It was clear that this friendship established twenty years ago was deep and enduring.
“I told you, ye owe me nothing. In fact, if you help to bring my wife safely through tonight, I’ll be eternally in your debt.” He turned to Diarmid. “It’s the middle of the night, and you’ve been in the saddle all day. Why no’ go back to bed?”
Diarmid gave a contemptuous snort. “And leave ye all alone to fret yourself daft? Not likely, my friend. I’ll see ye down in the library, where a dram or two of Bruce Mackenzie’s finest awaits.”
Mr. Mackinnon didn’t even try to hide his relief. “I willnae be long. Dinna drink it all before I get there.”
Diarmid laughed, as he was meant to. But Fiona had come to know him over the last week, especially over the last days when they’d hardly been apart. She read the concern in his dark eyes, as he studied his friend. Concern they all had a right to feel when a first baby arrived early.
“Come away with me, Mrs. Grant.” Mr. Mackinnon gestured for Fiona to precede him up the stairs, as Diarmid descended to the hall.
She would have preferred to change out of her nightgown, but the only other dress she had was that elaborate silk gown. When she was in the bath, the maids had whisked away her plain gray dress. Once she’d checked what was happening with Lady Achnasheen, she would set about finding something suitable to wear.
Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she wished she’d waited to put on the slippers Marina had sent along with this pretty white lawn nightdress. Despite it being summer, the stone stairs were cold under her feet.
They climbed higher and higher, and she realized they must be entering one of the castle’s towers. When they reached the landing outside a closed door, she heard a long, broken groan from within.
“Marina!” Mr. Mackinnon cried out and pushed past Fiona. He shoved the door open so hard that it crashed against the wall.
As he rushed forward, Fiona took in a candlelit room. Lady Achnasheen was bent over the back of a wooden chair, gripping the top railing with white-knuckled hands. She wore a white nightdress, and her black hair snaked around her shoulders in a wild tangle. She was pale as milk, and her great dark eyes looked like bruises in her face as she panted for air.
“Marina, mo chridhe.” Mr. Mackinnon slung an arm around his wife’s swollen body. A flood of urgent Gaelic escaped him as he supported her through her pain.
While her parents had only ever spoken English, Fiona had picked up some basic Gaelic at Bancavan. She heard him call his wife his heart and his darling. But she only made out a few words of his desperate pleas, which seemed to combine prayers to the Almighty with encouragement to his wife.
“Fergus…” Lady Achnasheen rasped out, straightening gingerly from the chair and sagging against him. Tearstains marked her cheeks, and Fiona didn’t need to recall her agonies with Christina to know what the woman endured. “Madonna, you shouldn’t be in here.”
The room contained four women, other than her hostess. Three maids and an older woman who must be Jenny, the local healer. This woman turned away from the sideboard where she was setting out an array of vials and bottles and marched up to the laird.
“Aye, my lady is right, Mackinnon. It’s nae proper for ye to be here. Bringing bairns into the world is women’s work.”
Fiona’s eyes rounded at the peremptory tone. If anyone spoke to Allan Grant that way, they’d be lucky to escape with a clout around the ears. She’d seen her husband’s brother kill a servant boy who wasn’t quick enough bringing him his wine at dinner.
“It’s my bloody house, ye old besom.” Mr. Mackinnon tightened his grip on his wife. “Cannae ye see she’s in pain?”
“Och, aye, she is.” Even more surprising, the woman didn’t quail at the angry response. “And she’ll be in more pain before she’s done. It’s nature’s way. If the Good Lord wills, the mistress will come through like the braw lassie she is. She’s strong, and she’s got a lot to live for.”
“The bairn is early.”
“Aye. He’s an impatient wee laddie, just like his daddy was. Dinna fash yourself, Mackinnon. It will all work out in the end.”
“He?” Marina asked in a breathless voice.