“Yes,” she said. “And borne a child of my own. You won’t be sorry you let me help.”
“You should call me Marina.” Her hostess’s smile was tight-lipped with strain. “Oddio, I have a feeling we’re soon going to be on very close terms indeed.”
So did Fiona. She smiled back at the tall, dark-haired woman. “I’d be honored. And please call me Fiona.”
Chapter 17
Diarmid glanced up as Fergus trudged into the library, and his greeting died unspoken. His friend always bestrode the world as if he owned it, especially here at Achnasheen where he was master. But tonight trouble weighed him down and cast a pall over his powerful personality.
Reminder, should Diarmid need it, of the price love extracted from its victims. Look at his father, destroyed by his enduring love for a woman who didn’t know the meaning of the word.
But when he looked at Fergus, he couldn’t maintain his habitual sourness on the subject of love. The circumstances here were different. The love Fergus and Marina shared had enriched both of them, brought out a generosity of spirit in her and a humility in him that had made them better people. On their own, both had been strong, but together they were stronger.
He found himself saying yet another silent prayer that the birth went well. Fergus had been married a little less than two years. He and his beloved wife deserved many happy years together, and God willing, a tribe of healthy children to bring up to find happiness of their own.
“Here.” He stepped forward to offer his friend the dram he’d poured earlier. “Ye look like you need this.”
As he accepted the glass, Fergus’s hand was shaking. Diarmid had never seen his friend afraid, had never imagined he could be. “Thanks.”
The raw anguish in Fergus’s expression as he raised his eyes shocked Diarmid. He turned away to stoke the fire, to give him a moment’s privacy. After a decent interval, he set down the poker and picked up his whisky.
Fergus had already drained his glass and now poured another. He lifted the decanter in a silent invitation, but Diarmid shook his head as he sank into his chair. “How are things upstairs?”
“How the hell would I know?” With a helpless gesture, Fergus slumped into the chair opposite Diarmid’s. “It looks like life and death to me, but Jenny looks to be taking it all in her stride. Mrs. Grant seems verra capable.”
“She’s stronger than she looks. Nobody knows that better than I do. Through all that rough travel, she never uttered one word of complaint.” Diarmid stared into his half-empty glass. “Between Fiona and Jenny, I’m sure Marina will be all right. She’s got everything to live for, after all.”
Fergus hadn’t yet started his second whisky. Instead he dangled the hands holding the glass between his spread legs and stared blindly into the fire. “Diarmid, I dinna ken what the hell I’ll do if Marina doesnae make it.” His voice cracked with emotion. “I never thought I could love anyone the way I love that lassie. She’s my soul, the reason behind my every breath.”
Diarmid had never heard Fergus talk like this. In other circumstances, he might have been uncomfortable. But he could see fear for Marina drove Fergus to the brink of his control.
By God, he envied his friend. Whatever happened tonight, Fergus had experienced a great love. Diarmid wondered whether he was so clever after all to steer clear of emotional entanglements.
“Did Jenny mention how long she thought it would take?”
Fergus looked up from where he brooded into the flames. “Hours, she said.”
If the child was slow arriving, Fergus would go mad with only his fears to entertain him. With sudden purpose, Diarmid stood and crossed to an inlaid wooden box on the desk. “Let’s play piquet. A penny a point.”
Fergus looked up with a dazed expression. “What did ye say? I wasnae attending.”
“Cards.” Diarmid held up the pack. “It will pass the time until we have news.”
Fergus looked terrible, haggard and miserable, and the skin clung tight to the powerful bones of his face. “Ye arenae tired?”
Diarmid began shuffling the deck. “Not too tired to beat ye into penury, laddie.”
With a sigh, Fergus rose. “It’s the one time in history ye might have a chance of coming out ahead.”
Relief flooded Diarmid. While he knew that nothing except news of a healthy mother and baby would ease Fergus’s panic, a few hands of cards would help fill the wait. He opened up a mahogany games table and placed two chairs on either side. He sat on one and set the cards in the center of the green baize top.
“Ye keep telling yourself that, my friend. It might ease the pain of your drubbing.”
Actually he and Fergus were very different players, but well matched for all that. Fergus played with dash and brilliance, whereas Diarmid was cool-headed and strategic. Despite his taunting, he wasn’t expecting an easy win.
With another sigh, Fergus sat opposite him and the hand that cut the cards was almost steady.
***