My Fair Mistress (50 page)

Dragging his fingers through his already tousled hair, Rafe stepped out into the hall and cast his eyes up the staircase toward her bedroom. “Perhaps I should go to her?”

“And do what?” Ethan asked from his seat on the sofa. “The women have things well in hand without any interference from you or me. Come, why don’t you have a bite of this breakfast Cook made us before it goes cold.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Ethan gave a snort of disbelief. “You haven’t eaten a decent meal in days, nor have you slept more than a handful of hours since well before we left London. The strain is beginning to show. Frankly, you look like the very devil.”

Rafe supposed he did look rather worse for the strain—his cheeks rough with stubble, his hair standing on end, his cravat gone, flung aside hours earlier along with his bloodstained coat. But what did it matter how he looked? Whether or not he’d eaten or slept? His wife was lying upstairs, in torment as she tried to bring their child into the world.

What will I do if she dies? How will I ever go on without her?

Of course he knew he mustn’t think like that, but still, what a tragic irony if he had saved her from St. George only to have her die in childbirth!

And I’ve never even told her I love her.

He wanted to rush upstairs and say the words, tell her how much she meant to him before it was too late, but he held himself back.

She will be fine. She has to be fine.

Turning, he found Ethan at his elbow. “If you won’t eat, then at least have some tea.” He held out a cup.

Reluctantly, Rafe took it and forced himself to down a swallow, then another before crossing to take a seat. Silently, he set the beverage aside.

“Hannibal arrived not long ago,” Ethan said. “He had my note and came directly. Since we brought Middleton’s body with us, I had to send word to the local magistrate. Cobb is a decent sort, and given that the viscount’s death is a clear-cut case of self-defense, there’ll be no difficulties from him.”

“Nor in London, I assume,” Rafe said, linking his fingers together, then letting them hang between his knees. “No doubt there will be questions, but considering everything that has transpired, I suspect most everyone will be relieved by the outcome. Gentlemen never like a trial against their own.”

“No, not even for a lord as obviously guilty as Middleton.”

A new round of wailing sounded from above, all thoughts of the viscount abruptly wiped from Rafe’s mind.

Is it my imagination, or are her cries growing weaker?

Springing once more to his feet, he resumed his pacing.

Seconds later, a shrill, heart-wrenching scream pierced the air.

God in heaven, she is dying!

Knowing he had to go to her, he rushed out of the room and bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Flinging open the door to her temporary bedchamber, he charged inside.

Four women turned to look at him, including Julianna, who lay in the center of the bed, her nightgown folded up over her mounded stomach, leaving the lower half of her body exposed. Her dark hair was plastered against her head, damp with perspiration, her pregnant frame contorted in obvious pain and distress.

From her position at the foot of the bed, the midwife pinned him with a reproachful look. “My lord, what is the meaning of this interruption? You cannot be here. I must ask you to leave.”

Ignoring the older woman, he strode forward, his gaze locked on Julianna. “I heard you scream. I came to see if you are all right.”

Julianna gave another sharp cry, arching upward as she strained and panted against the pain. He watched the muscles in her spread thighs and calves flex, her belly rippling visibly as the contraction took her in its unforgiving grip. Tensing, he felt her misery as if it were squeezing deep in his vitals as well as hers.

“Lady Pendragon is giving birth and must not be disturbed.” The midwife motioned with an impatient hand, silently ordering her assistant and a young housemaid to eject him from the room.

Rafe planted his feet, holding firm against the women’s not-so-gentle shoves. “She’s been giving birth for hours now. I’ve been downstairs listening to her. I’m not leaving until I know she’s not in danger.”

“She’s in no more danger than any other woman bringing a life into the world. The baby is coming. I must insist you remove yourself from this room.”

“What do you mean the baby’s coming?” An arc of surprise flashed through him as her meaning sank in. “You mean now?”

“Yes. I mean
right now
.”

Another contraction arrived, traveling fast on the heels of the last. Julianna screamed and rose up for a moment on her elbows before falling wearily back against the sheets.

Realizing his presence might be causing more harm than good, he allowed the women to shove him backward a step or two.

Julianna rolled her head toward him and stretched out an arm, her dark eyes luminous and beseeching. “No, Rafe, don’t go.”

Her plea stopped him.

Without hesitation, he shook off the women’s hold and hurried to her side. Dropping to his knees, he grasped her delicate palm in his own, then stroked a comforting hand over her head. Fingers trembling faintly, he smoothed damp tendrils of hair off her hot forehead and cheeks.

“I’m here, sweeting. I’m here,” he murmured, gazing into her eyes.

“It’s hurts so badly.” She inhaled sharply as another contraction hit, teeth clenched as she did her best to hold on through the agony that threatened to strip away the last of her tenuous strength.

Slipping an arm beneath her shoulders, he did what he could to support her, her body quivering from the exertion. Seeing her this way, in such misery, tore him apart.

How he wished he could bear her pain himself. He would gladly trade places with her, if it were possible. But this was a woman’s burden, a torment only she could endure. All he could do now was stay by her side as she’d asked, and see her through it.

“My lord, I really must insist you go,” the midwife ordered. “This is no place for a man.”

“Place or no, man or no, I am staying.”

He focused again on Julianna.

“I’m scared,” she confessed, a tear sliding down her cheek. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” he said in a stern voice. “Any woman courageous enough to do the things you’ve done can do this. You’re my brave girl. You can do anything. Now squeeze my hand and squeeze it hard, hard as you like, when the next pain comes. I’m with you, sweeting. I won’t let you go.”

Moments later, she did as he’d told her, gripping his hand so tightly he feared she was cracking a couple of bones inside. He dismissed the pain, knowing his damaged hand was nothing compared to what she was suffering.

“I see the head,” the midwife called. “Just a couple more pushes and the baby will be out. Don’t bear down until you feel the next pain come on you, my lady.”

“Nearly there, darling. Nearly there,” Rafe encouraged.

Julianna screamed through the next pair of contractions, clinging to him like a lifeline. He felt her entire body shake as she forced the baby from her body in a slick rush of agony.

When it was done, she crumpled against him, weeping weakly from the strain.

A baby’s furious cry filled the room.

Lowering Julianna gently back against the pillows, he leaned up to peer at his child, the tiny body red and wrinkled and shiny.

“What is it?” Julianna asked, voice faint with exhaustion.

“A boy,” he told her, heart hammering in jubilation. “It’s a boy!”

“You’re crying,” she murmured, lifting trembling fingers to touch his cheek.

“Am I?” he asked in happy surprise, blinking at the wetness. He bent close. “If I am it’s because I love you so much,” he whispered. “Thank you for our son.”

Then, uncaring what the others in the room might see, he pressed his mouth to hers and shared a kiss of grateful relief and profound joy.

Julianna passed the next two days in a weary haze.

The ordeal of being abducted by Middleton, combined with the physical and emotional toll of giving birth, had left her suffering from an exhaustion that seemed to penetrate all the way to her bones.

Sleeping in snatches, she would awaken to feed her new son, then drift back to sleep again. The baby had shocked her the first time she’d fed him, his tiny mouth latching onto one of her tender, milk-swollen breasts with an astonishing eagerness for a child only a few hours old. Soon, though, she’d grown accustomed to the novel sensation, finding it oddly pleasant, even comforting. Often during those moments she would stroke his tiny head with a single finger and marvel at the puff of downy black hair adorning his head.

The marquis’s housekeeper—a sweet, motherly woman with a no-nonsense way about her—had taken on the role of temporary nursemaid, tending to the baby even as she tended to Julianna. This included encouraging Julianna to eat.

“You need nourishment, my lady, if you’re to keep that young one strong,” the older woman said as she pushed a dish of hot beef broth upon Julianna only an hour after the birth. Despite her exhaustion, the housekeeper refused to take no for an answer. And so Julianna ate and slept and slowly regained her strength.

As for Rafe, she had seen little of him since the delivery. Mrs. Mackey told her that he stopped by often to check on her but refused to stay, knowing Julianna needed her rest.

When it came to the baby, however, he was far less reticent. She remembered rousing slightly one afternoon to find Rafe rocking the baby in his arms as he murmured soft words into his son’s little ears. Dropping a kiss upon the infant’s head, Rafe had returned him to his cradle before departing on silent feet. She’d fallen back to sleep, waking later to wonder if the memory had been a dream.

Another memory she questioned was the one of Rafe telling her he loved her. Had he truly said the words, or had she only imagined what she’d wanted to hear during those final, pain-filled moments of the birth? She wasn’t sure, her uncertainty only made worse by his absence.

On the third morning, with dawn just sliding over the horizon, she awakened. Without even opening her eyes, she realized she felt stronger, her mind clear for the first time in days. Turning her head on her pillow, her pulse danced to find Rafe seated in a chair next to her bed. “Rafe?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, his voice low.

“You didn’t, I awakened on my own. It’s so early…what are you doing here?”

A faint smile crossed his lips. “Just watching you sleep. This is the first time you’ve caught me.”

A warm tingle spread through her. “You’ve been here before? I didn’t know.”

“You were too exhausted. How are you feeling?”

She shifted slightly against the pillows. “Better. A bit sore.”

From across the room came a small grunt, then a cry.

“He must have heard us,” Rafe said.

She nodded. “It’s also nearly time for his feeding.”

When she moved to toss back the covers, he stopped her. “I’ll get him. You stay there.”

A moment of shyness engulfed her when he returned and she had to open the bodice of her nightgown to his view. But as soon as the baby settled in her arms and began to suckle, her reticence fell away.
How right it feels having Rafe here to share this,
she realized.

“A little glutton, isn’t he?” he commented, reaching out to skim a finger over one translucent cheek, his hand huge beside the infant. “What shall we call him?”

It was long past time they gave their child a name, she realized. “What would you think of Campbell? Cam? It was my maternal grandfather’s name. He was a kind and wise old man. I remember the silly stories he used to tell when I was young. He always made me laugh.”

“It seems a fine, strong name. Campbell, it shall be.”

Gazing down upon their son, she traced the shape of his beautiful face, and the tiny features that grew more discernible by the day. Strong forehead, square chin, shell-shaped ears. His eyes were blue, though already showing marked tinges of green. Would they turn fully green or darken later to a shade more her own? Would he have his father’s eyes? There was no mistaking the fact that he already looked like Rafe, a small replica in the making.

“I had a note from Maris and William,” Rafe said, leaning back in his chair. “They send their congratulations on the birth. Maris wanted to come, but I wrote to say that we’ll be in London again soon enough.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “As comfortable as this house is, I would like to be home again. It will be wonderful to see her and William when we arrive.”

His stomach full, the baby stopped nursing and dozed off to sleep. Lifting him to her shoulder, she carefully patted his little back to expel any trapped air. Once done, Rafe reached out and took the baby, carrying him back to his cradle.

After buttoning her nightgown, she settled against the pillows.

Rafe returned to her bedside. Leaning over, he straightened her sheet and blanket, then reached out to smooth a curl off her cheek. “I should let you get some more sleep.”

“Don’t go. I…I’m not tired—well, not much, anyway. You could stay and…talk.”