Page 97 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Our beginning," he echoed, before claiming her lips in a kiss that tasted of wine and promises and all the love that would carry them through whatever the future might bring.
Below them, the celebration continued, the ancient halls of MacAlpin castle ringing with joy as two clans became one, and two hearts became whole.
One Year Later
The first pain hit Isolde, doubling her over in the castle's great hall. She gripped the edge of the oak table, her knuckles white as the contraction seized her.
"Me lady!" Martha, one of the serving women, rushed to her side. "Is it time?"
Isolde couldn't speak through the pain. When it finally eased, she straightened slowly, one hand pressed to her swollen belly. "Fetch me husband. And send fer hot water and fresh linens."
But even as the girl hurried away, another pain struck—stronger, more urgent. Isolde's water broke in a rush, soaking her skirts and the stone floor beneath her feet.
"Christ," she whispered, panic fluttering in her chest. This was happening too fast.
Ciaran found her doubled over again, fighting not to cry out. "Isolde!" He was at her side instantly, his strong arms supporting her. "How long?"
"Just started," she gasped. "But something's wrong. It's too quick—" Another contraction cut off her words, and this time she couldn't hold back a groan.
"The healer?" Ciaran asked as he helped her toward the stairs.
"In the village with old Daniel’s wife—she's been laboring fer two days." Isolde panted, leaning heavily against him. "There's nay time, Ciaran. The baby's coming now."
He scooped her up without hesitation, carrying her toward their chambers. "Then we'll manage ourselves. Ye're strong, love. Stronger than any woman I ken."
In their room, he helped her onto the bed, his hands gentle but his eyes fierce with determination. "Tell me what tae dae."
"Martha's bringing hot water and cloths," she managed between contractions. "And pray this babe has more patience than its maither."
But patience was not to be found. The pains came faster, harder, each one stealing her breath. Ciaran never left her side, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle as he helped her through each wave.
Martha appeared in the doorway, arms laden with steaming basins and clean linens. "Me lord, I brought—" She stopped short, eyes wide as she took in the scene.
"Set them there and go," Ciaran ordered quietly. "Close the door behind ye."
"I can see the head," he said to Isolde, his voice tight with concentration. "Black hair, just like his maither."
Isolde laughed breathlessly. "Me hair's nae—" The next contraction hit like a hammer blow, and she bore down with everything she had.
"Again," Ciaran urged. "Once more,mo chridhe."
With a final, wrenching push, their son slipped into the world and into his father's waiting hands. The baby's indignant wail filled the chamber, and Isolde collapsed back against the pillows, tears streaming down her face.
"A son," Ciaran whispered, his own voice thick with emotion. He raised the tiny bundle to the sky before he placed the squirming infant on her chest. "We have a son."
Isolde looked down at the tiny, perfect face and felt her heart expand until she thought it might burst. "Alistair," she murmured, touching one miniature fist. "Fer me faither."
"Alistair MacCraith," Ciaran agreed, pressing a kiss to her sweat-dampened forehead. "Future laird of MacCraith lands."
After tending to both mother and child with the hot water Martha had brought, Ciaran opened the chamber door to find the young servant girl waiting nervously in the corridor.
"Martha," he called softly. "Come here, lass."
The girl approached with wide eyes. "Is the lady well, me lord? We heard the babe crying."
"Both maither and child are perfect," Ciaran said, his face glowing with pride. "A son. The MacCraith heir is born."
Kenna's face broke into a delighted smile. "A son! Oh, me lord, how wonderful!"
