An instant later the high-pitched wail of a newborn infant filled the room. Katrine, still panting from the effort, sagged back against the pillows.
Some time afterward she opened her eyes. She wanted to hold her child, but she wanted more to comfort Raith. He looked as exhausted as she felt. His knuckles were white, his raven hair disheveled, and beneath the dark stubble, there were lines of tension around his mouth that hadn’t been there yesterday.
“You look…” she whispered, her voice still husky from her cries, “as green as I did…when Hector gave me that sheep’s stomach.”
“Hush,” Raith ordered, “don’t try to talk, love.” Bending over her, he gently brushed back the wisps of flaming hair that were curling in damp tendrils around her pale face. “Save your strength.”
Katrine started to protest, but then Flora was at her other side, urging her to take a sip of herbal tea. When she had drunk dutifully, Katrine’s gaze returned to her husband, coming to rest on the strong hand that was still clutching hers. Just then she caught sight of what she had done to him while in the throes of labor; her nails had scored half-moons in his palm till it was a mass of red welts.
“I hurt you!” she cried softly.
Raith saw what she was staring at. “Good God, Katrine, this is nothing.”
Shaking her head, she brought his hand to her lips, pressing her mouth consolingly against his palm. “I’m sorry.”
Raith reciprocated with her own hand, kissing her slender fingers one by one, reverently, with restrained ardor. “You’re the one who had to suffer the pain. If I could have borne it for you, I would have.”
Katrine’s smile was weak but full of tenderness. “I know, but this is one task only women can do.”
They looked at each other, their gazes locking in shared affection. Then Raith squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. “God, I don’t ever want to go through that again,” he said with heartfelt fervor.
Before Katrine could answer, Morag’s triumphant voice interrupted. “Yer son, m’lord.”
Recalling himself, Raith glanced over his shoulder. Morag stood there, holding out the squalling baby whom she had cleaned and wrapped in swaddling.
Hesitantly, Raith reached for him. At Morag’s low-voiced instructions, he took the child in his arms, holding him tentatively against his chest, supporting the fragile head with his hand. Amazingly the child’s cries quieted to a whimper.
For a long moment Raith stared down at his son, a look of awe on his face. When he finally looked up, his expression had changed to gratitude. “Thank you…Morag,” Raith said quietly. “For bringing them safely through.”
The old woman nodded solemnly, only the glimmer of moisture in her eyes betraying the emotion of the moment.
Katrine watched the exchange with relief and joy swelling in her heart. She had wanted to heal another bitter wound, and she had succeeded.
Yet she was also impatient to share her son. “Raith, I thought you said he was our child, not simply yours or mine,” Katrine complained. “Do you ever intend to let me see him?”
Her husband sent her a smile of pleasure. “You may do more than that, madam.” Carefully, Raith slid onto his knees, laying the infant on the mattress beside her.
Lifting her head from the pillow, Katrine stared. “Oh, isn’t he beautiful?” she exclaimed softly with the kind of blind admiration only a mother could feel. The tiny face was crinkled and red, while a thatch of black fuzz gave the infant a rakish air.
Raith eyed his son with skepticism, but agreed dutifully, if untruthfully, with Katrine’s observation. Then he amended it into a compliment as he reached for her hand. “Not as beautiful as his mother.”
Katrine smiled as the fingers she had kissed moments before threaded through hers. “How can you say you wouldn’t go through this again? He is worth ten times the pain.”
“Ye’d best leave now, m’lord,” Morag broke in, her trained eye on the new baby. “The mistress will be wanting to clean up and feed the bairn.” As if on cue, the infant screwed up his face and let out a wail that vied with the bagpipes in power and volume. “Aye, ‘tis a hungry laddie, he is,” Morag said in a soft croon.
“From the sound of his lungs, he takes after his mother,” Raith commented with amusement.
Biting back a smile, Katrine shot him an admonishing glance. “Go away now, Raith. I have to feed your son.”
He didn’t obey, however, as Katrine drew the squalling child closer and freed her milk-swollen breast from her nightshift. Still on his knees, Raith watched, fascinated, as the tiny mouth began rooting for the nipple.
Katrine was too preoccupied with attending to her child properly to be embarrassed that her husband was flouting p
ropriety by staying to observe. A warm glow filled her as her son instinctively found her nipple. It was a strange, joyful sensation, knowing that she was providing sustenance for such a small life.
Some time later Raith lifted his gaze to Katrine. She was watching their son, her pale, weary face glowing with pride and love. The beauty of the sight made Raith’s throat ache. He couldn’t have spoken just then, any more than he could have torn himself away.
It was Flora who finally broke the spell. When the child had finished suckling and had fallen asleep, the dour housekeeper proceeded to take the laird to task for getting in the women’s way.