Too Scot to Hold (The Hots for Scots #8) - Caroline Lee Page 0,34

with a grimace.

Davina’s sole experience with childbirth had been holding Fiona’s hand a fortnight ago, but she was determined to help now, since she was the only one capable. “Come along,” she said firmly, holding Evelinde’s elbow. “Let us get ye to yer rooms, where this fine lad might be born.”

As they hobbled together, stopping frequently, Evie panted, “I wouldnae mind a lass. A mother can only take so many penis jokes, ye ken.”

Davina thought it might’ve been a jest, but her thoughts were on what lay ahead. Thank the saints the chamber Evelinde and Malcolm shared was nearby, because Evie was practically stumbling when they reached the room. The dark-haired woman was moaning now, almost a constant keening, as she leaned against one of the posters at the bed’s corners.

“Let me get that gown off ye, and get ye into bed,” Davina ordered with false cheer, as if she had any idea what was going on.

“Nae time.” Evelinde clutched the wooden pole as if it were a lifeline. “I waited…’til the last moment.” Her voice was tight with pain, as was her face.

Davina lunged toward her. “What are ye saying?”

“Tomas was like this too,” Evie panted, sinking slowly into a squat as she held the pole. “I was…alone with Liam…then. Just us. I…dinnae want him to be— Oh God!” she cried out, her eyes squeezing shut. “Be afraid. I didnae want him to be—” She broke off with a feral groan Davina had never heard before. In between the pants, her friend was making sounds she’d never imagined sweet, quiet Evelinde could make.

“What do ye want me to do?” she asked in a shaking voice, glancing toward the door, wishing someone—anyone—would come.

Now, Evelinde was rocking back and forth slightly, holding onto the wooden poster to hold her balance as she squatted, moaning almost constantly.

“Soon,” she whispered, over and over again. “Soon.”

Frantic now—what in damnation did she know about birthing bairns?—Davina hurried toward the door. Flinging it open, she startled one of the serving lasses who happened to be passing by at that moment, a basket of used linen on her hip.

“Jessie!” Davina thought that was the lass’s name. “Fetch Graham, please!”

The servant’s eyes went wide as she glanced over Davina’s shoulder. “Master Graham, milady?”

She had to trust Liam would find Malcolm, who would fetch Merewyn. But Graham was here in the castle somewhere, God willing. “Aye,” Davina croaked out in a hoarse voice. “He’ll be able to help.”

At least he knew more about childbirth than she did. As Jessie nodded, Davina shut the door and whirled back to see Evelinde—pale and panting—with her forehead pressed against the poster.

Davina crouched beside her friend. “What do ye need me to do?” she asked, imagining Evie might want a drink of water or a nice cool bath or something.

But when Evelinde lifted her face, sweat dripping from her temples, Davina knew it was too late for such measures.

“I need to push,” Evie croaked. “And ye? I need ye to catch.”

“Milord, if ye’ll just see reason—”

“Reason?” roared Laird Angus MacKinnon, his arm around Aunt Agatha. “Reason? Ye accost me on the way to my chambers with my wife and throw a ridiculous request my way, and dare to lecture me on reason?”

Graham wasn’t certain where things had gone wrong. A few hours ago, in the stables, he’d been so certain this was the right step, the next step, in making Davina his.

But he tried to hold onto his calm demeanor. “ ’Tis no’ a ridiculous request. Ye’ve heard it afore—”

“And I said nay, did I no’? Ye are naught but a-a vagabond. Ye’re no’ a warrior, ye’re no’ a diplomat. Ye’ve naught to recommend ye to be the next MacKinnon Laird.”

Davina loves me.

‘Twas enough.

Straightening his shoulders, Graham glared down his nose at the skinny old man. “I have trained with some of the best doctors in England and Scotland combined. I’ve completed schooling, I’ve traveled this country from one end to another, helping those who need me. I—”

“A scholar?” the laird scoffed. “Ye think a scholar is the type of man I want for the next MacKinnon?”

Aunt Agatha poked her new husband in the side. “My great-nephew is a good man, Angus. And he loves Davina.”

MacKinnon’s scowl eased as he glanced down at her. “We’ve been lucky to act on our feelings, Aggie,” he muttered gruffly, “but I cannae risk my clan’s future by putting it in the hands of a bastard-born—”

“Willie’s sons are all bastards,” she reminded him, “and ye were willing