Page 99 of My Scot, My Surrender
Briannon nodded, blushing, her hands grasping her husband’s. “Yes, though not very far along.”
“What wonderful news,” Langlevit said and lifted his glass. “Congratulations, both.”
Gray smirked at his sister’s announcement. “See? The Findlays are virile. Fertile, I mean.” He laughed, narrowly escaping one of Brandon’s wooden soldiers that Briannon launched at his head. “It seems that more celebrations are in order!” Grinning at Archer, he clapped his brother-in-law on the back. “If you need any advice, Hawk, on how not to lose your sanity with four children, you know where to find me.”
As if on cue, Gray and Lana’s nearly four-year-old son, Oliver, and his two-and-a-half-year-old sister, Kate, darted in front of the group, each of them screaming and laughing. A moment later, the reason why came roaring out of the dogwoods behind them. Their older sister, Sofia, now eight, had donned one of the masks her cousins had brought down from the Worthington Abbey attics in order to act out a play during tea that afternoon. The hairy beast mask was a ghoulish-looking thing, and she was clearly enjoying scaring the wits out of her younger siblings. Archer and Briannon’s daughters, Clara and Philippa, nearing four and five, followed on her heels, clearly frightened but determined to imitate their daring older cousin.
“Come now, girls, take pity on the young ones,” Briannon called out.
“Sofia!” Lana called from where she and Sorcha had stopped strolling. “You’ll give them nightmares for a week!”
“Have you heard the news?” Irina asked excitedly as her sister approached to hand over the sleeping twins to the unobtrusively waiting maids. She went to check on the babies, cooing over them gently. “Brynn’s expecting.”
“How lovely,” Lana said, taking Sorcha’s arm to help her into the chair beside Brandt.
“Lovely news indeed,” Sorcha said with a slightly discomfited smile. “Though I wish for the sake of all mothers that pregnancy was less…everything.”
The women laughed and nodded. Brandt wouldn’t know. He didn’t think he, or any man for that matter, had the strength to withstand such an ordeal. Archer, North, and Langlevit seemed to be of the same opinion as well. Anyone who said that women were the weaker sex was sadly misinformed.
“Less long, less painful, less swollen,” Irina said.
“Less hungry,” Lana added. “Less thirsty.”
Briannon grinned. “Less grumpy, less messy.”
Brandt leaned over to stroke his wife’s hand, threading her fingers through his. Tired blue eyes met his, and, though a reassuring smile touched her lips, he saw a quick spark of pain. Her teeth sunk into her lower lip as her hand gripped his with terrible force.
“Oh,” Sorcha breathed, her eyes going wide. Her expression alternated between agony and mortification. “Speaking of less messy,” she whispered, “it seems the latest Montgomery has decided to make an appearance.”
Everyone jumped into motion at once, and a flurry of servants appeared at Briannon’s decidedly unladylike shout. Discussion broke out as to the best way to get Sorcha back to the abbey and whether she should remain in the chair. Someone else gave an order in an authoritative voice to fetch Dr. Hargrove, the longtime physician who had already been summoned to Worthington Abbey by the duke in advance of their arrival as a precaution. He had delivered nearly all of the children in residence, with the exception of Sofia.
“But it’s not time,” Brandt heard someone say, and realized that it was his own baffled voice.
“Time or not, Your Grace,” Irina told him, her violet eyes sparkling, “yourbairn—that is the proper Scottish term, is it not?—is coming. Now are you going to sit there all day or get up and do something?”
Brandt snapped out of his shock and stood. He leaned over and scooped his pale wife into his arms. He met the shocked gazes of the servants who had been about to lift the chair and the impressed stares of the other men. “I’m stronger than I look.”
Even fully pregnant, Sorcha weighed nothing in his arms. He would walk to the ends of the earth this way if he had to. By the time they reached the house, an airy room on the first floor had already been prepared. He deposited her into the wide bed, kissed her clammy forehead, and was instantly shooed from the room.
Bewildered, he stopped a rumpled-looking Dr. Hargrove on his way into the suite. “It’s too early, isn’t it? For the babe to come?”
“It will be fine, Your Grace,” the doctor said, but Brandt thought he detected an odd note of worry in his voice.
Brandt clutched the man’s arm, his nostrils flaring. “Don’t let…please, don’t let…” He trailed off, the awful words clogging his throat. There was no way he could articulate his fears. No way hewantedto. But the onset of Sorcha’s labor was way too early. “Please do whatever you can,” he finally said in a hoarse whisper.
Dr. Hargrove nodded. “Of course.”
Brandt sank to his knees on the plush rug and remained there long after the door closed. After a while, he felt strong hands helping him up and leading him down the corridor to a study. Archer’s study. A glass was placed into his hand, his body pushed into a chair. He sipped through the unnatural lethargy that had taken hold of his limbs. Felt the burn of whiskey sear a path to his roiling stomach.
“She’s in good hands, Brandt.” Archer’s voice, he registered dimly.
“The best,” Langlevit agreed.
“It’s too early,” Brandt whispered, staring into his drink for answers that weren’t there. He set the glass on the table. “I have to be with her.”
A firm but gentle hand rested on his shoulder. “Sit.”
Brandt looked up into the eyes of his most trusted friend. A friend who he wouldn’t hesitate to smash to bits if he kept restraining him.
