Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (31 page)

The woman moaned, and Fletcher knew he must act now. He
located the baby’s foot again. “I can feel the foot, Cathleen. I’m holding it.
How do I turn it?”

“Push it back.”

Using his right hand to push, he splayed his left hand
across the woman’s belly as he began to push.

The woman moaned and began writhing.

He looked back at Cathleen. She was staring at him, her face
frozen. He pushed for what seemed an eternity, and just when he thought this
would not work, that he would have to try something else, he felt the baby’s
foot move. “It’s moving! By God, it’s moving!”

Using his left hand as a guide, he felt the baby’s rump down
toward where it shouldn’t be. Once he had the foot back far enough—or what he
hoped was far enough—he began pushing on her stomach with both hands, trying to
manipulate the baby around so its rump moved up and its head turned down toward
the woman’s pelvis. He pushed firmly, but not too hard, feeling the baby move
slightly, then a little more.

There had never been a feeling like the one he felt when the
baby’s head began rotating downward. Fletcher knew he would never forget the
elation he felt at that moment. He did not have long to wallow in his success
though, for the moment the baby was in the right position, the woman began to
moan and pant. Beneath his hands he felt powerful contractions, and this scared
him.

Keeping his left hand on the woman’s abdomen, he shifted his
position, experiencing tremendous awe as he watched the birth passage widen and
a small head covered with dark hair appear. A tiny, wrinkled face turned toward
him. Then came a shoulder, then another shoulder. A second later, the wet,
slippery baby slid into his hands, followed by a slush of liquid and blood.

He heard Cathleen gasp, and yet he could not help grinning.
It was a boy…with all the necessary equipment.

His heart hammering, his head light with a combination of
thrill, pride, and panic, Fletcher looked down at the baby and gave him a
shake. The infant sputtered, waved his tiny arms, then grew stiff. Terror
gripped Fletcher. He shook the baby again, trying to think of what else he
could do, then suddenly the boy let loose with a royal wail.

It was the most beautiful sound Fletcher had ever heard.

Shaking, like the idiot he felt he was, he didn’t know what
to do now. He looked at the water, the cloths, the knife. He hadn’t used any of
them. What were they for? He glanced at Cathleen, but she was still staring at
him as if in a trance.

He looked down at the baby and the cord that still connected
him to his mother.
Maybe that’s what the knife is for.

Placing the baby on the bed beside the mother, he took the
knife in his hand, turning to look at Cathleen. Her gaze was fixed upon the
baby, who was bawling his head off. He gave her a helpless look, but Cathleen
did not respond.

He turned back to the woman, knowing that he had to cut the
cord but not certain where. Then suddenly Cathleen was beside him. He watched
her tie the string around the cord near the baby’s body. “Cut it there,” she
said, “next to the string.”

He cut the cord.

The baby, bawling his head off, was a whole, complete human
being, now separated for life from his mother. Fletcher felt a great
satisfaction in that. He picked up the infant, not even noticing that both of
them were covered with blood.

Grinning like a baboon, he turned to Cathleen, who was
looking at him with an expression not of fear or terror but of complete and
utter awe.

He held the baby up proudly for her to see. “A boy,” he
said. “As perfect a baby boy as I’ve ever seen.”

He hadn’t actually seen one this new, of course, but he was
the closest thing the wee one had to a papa right now, and somebody had to
crow. He knew he was grinning like a fool, but he could not help it as he stood
there grinning at Cathleen, the baby in his hands. As he watched her face, he
found himself wishing that, just once, he would see this expression on her face
again.

She didn’t take the baby at first, but simply stood there
looking at him. “A boy,” she said.

“In every sense of the word,” he replied, offering the baby
to her.

Her gaze came quickly to his, then she held out her arms and
let him place the baby there. The moment he did, she started to cry.

He thought he had done the wrong thing by handing the baby
to her, so he reached to take him back, noticing the blood and thinking that
this was the reason she cried. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess that wasn’t the
right thing to do. I know how this must seem to you…how ghastly it was for you
to watch.”

She hugged the baby to her. “No. It’s not that,” she said,
“it’s just that this was the most wondrous, the most glorious and holy thing
I’ve ever seen.”

“Yes,” he said softly, “it was, wasn’t it?”

“And you are the most beautiful man I could ever hope to
meet.”

At that moment, after what he had just been through,
Fletcher could not help but agree with her.

Cathleen cleaned up the baby and the mother, whom they had
learned was named Mary MacMillan. Mary then fed her son, telling them she had
decided to name the lad Fletcher Lindsay MacMillan in honor of the two of them.
When Mary and the baby were resting, Cathleen and Fletcher slipped out of the
room, closing the door behind them.

“Now it’s time to attend to us,” he said. “What’s for
dinner?”

She smiled.
“‘A man hath no better thing under the sun,
than to eat, and to drink, and to be merry.’
Ecclesiastes,” she said, going
into the kitchen.

While Cathleen found enough ingredients to make soup,
Fletcher lowered himself into a sagging chair and watched her.

Outside, the storm raged on, but they were as snug and
comfortable as a body could be, and Fletcher nodded off. A while later,
Cathleen roused him by waving a steaming bowl of soup beneath his nose.

Cathleen went to Mary’s room once more, opening the door
slowly and peeking in, then closing it. Turning to Fletcher, she said, “They
are both sleeping soundly.”

“That’s good.”

“Aye.” Suddenly feeling shy, she looked around the room,
wondering if he was thinking about the same thing as she. “I suppose we should
get a little sleep as well.”

He moved the chair closer to the fire. “I know you’re tired.
Why don’t you sleep in the bedroom and I’ll sleep here.”

“No. You take the bed. I’ll stay in here, in front of the
fire.”

He gave her a curious stare. “I couldn’t do that. Nary a one
of these chivalrous bones in my body would rest a bit if I was in that feather
bed and you were all squashed up in this little chair.”

“Well, you did deliver the baby, and not one of my Christian
bones would rest if I allowed
you
to sleep in the chair.”

“Hmm,” he said, giving her a wicked grin. “Then I guess
there are only two choices left.”

“Only two?”

“Yes. Either we both sleep in the chair or we both sleep in
the bed.”

“Hmm,” she said, doing her best to mimic his sound. “I guess
if you put it that way, I’d have to choose the bed.”

“I always had you pegged for a wise lass,” he said,
springing out of the chair and sweeping her up into his arms. She buried her
face in the warm cove of his neck.
Fletcher, Fletcher… How much I love you!

A moment later, he was pushing the bedroom door open with
his foot.

He walked to the bed and stood her on her feet beside it as
he began to remove her clothes. “You had best get out of these wet clothes,” he
said. “I don’t want my lass getting sick.”

“Aye,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt. “So had you.”

When they were both as naked as young Fletcher Lindsay,
Fletcher put his arms around her and, kissing her, lowered her down to the bed
with him. Her arms came around his neck as she began stroking his hair. “I was
verra proud of you tonight. You were wonderful, Fletcher. I’ve never in all my
born days seen anything like that.”

He snorted deprecatingly, but she knew her words pleased him
immensely. “It was I who was proud of you,” he said. “I could not have done it
if you had not helped.”

“You would have done fine without me.”

“Never,” he said. “Of course, it was only the birth of a
baby, which is a perfectly normal process, and women have been giving birth for
centuries without any aid at all. I had never had any experience with this sort
of thing, you see, but—”

She put her hand over his mouth, laughing as she said, “Shut
up, you wonderful, dear man, and kiss me.”

He obliged, kissing her with all the love that she knew was
in his heart and stroking her with his hands, which began to inch lower.

There was little doubt that the thrill of birthing the babe
was now becoming a thrill of another kind.

“Do you think Mary will hear us?” she asked.

“I doubt it, but what if she does? She has given birth, so
she is bound to know what happens when a man and woman get in bed together.” He
paused. “You aren’t trying to make excuses, are you?”

“Would I stoop so low? I want you, Fletcher. So bad, I canna
think of anything else,” she said, kissing him soundly upon the mouth, her own
mouth opening beneath his.

“Cathleen…love,” he said, his hand slipping inside her.
“Lord, you’re as slippery as a trout and as wet as…”

“Please,” she said, laughing, “no more comparisons. It will
take me a month of Sundays to live that first one down. Some women get flowery
verses of poetry or whispered words of love, and what do I get?” She kissed him
again. “‘Slippery as a trout.’ Fletcher Ramsay, where did you learn to speak
like that?”

He seemed to swell up with pride. “I don’t know. It’s just a
natural talent, I guess.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Did I ever tell you that you talk too much?” he asked, not
giving her time to answer, for he rolled over on top of her, pinning her to the
bed, spreading her thighs with his knee, sheathing himself within her as far as
he could go, a single, hard thrust that made her gasp.

“This is ever so much better than talking,” he said, moving
inside of her with slow, sure strokes, but soon he could not hold that pace and
she felt him moving harder, faster, until she moaned and began to writhe
beneath him.

“You belong to me,” he whispered. “When this night is over
you will think of no one but me. I will have you, now and forever, whether you
agree or not. I will not let you go, Cathleen. You are a part of me that cannot
be severed. You will never be free of me. Never.”

She moved in a mindless way beneath him. Sweat bathed their
bodies, a slippery feel that made his hard thrusting moves so much faster and
easier. He drove himself deep, deep into her, wanting to make her remember what
it was like to be loved and loved well. There was no end, only the need to
drive himself deeper, to move faster, each thrust going beyond the limits of
the last, until the moment was near.

He groaned, and she knew he had to withdraw now or spill his
seed within her. With one swift move, he began to withdraw.

She clutched at him.

“Cathleen…”

“No,” she whispered.

“Cathleen…love…please. I promised you…”

“No,” she said, her legs going around his hips, her arms
holding him to her. “I want you. All of you. Don’t leave me now.”

He only had time to cover her mouth with his, before she
felt his release, a continuous shudder that gripped him harder with each
thrust. Soon she could think of nothing else, for she felt herself coming with
him, beyond pain, beyond pleasure, to a point of pure and complete sensation.

“God!” she cried. “I never knew. I never knew.”

“You know now,” he whispered, keeping pace with her. “And
I’ll see that you never forget it.”

She arched up against him, panting, digging her nails into
his back, clawing, writhing beneath him as if she were trying to become one
with him, and then he seemed to understand.

“Come with me,” he whispered. “Come.”

Her cry mingled with his, and for a moment they were both
lost, out of touch with reality, with the world, as they seemed to dissolve
into a timeless, formless being before taking their shape again, the world
about them suddenly righting itself as sanity slowly returned.

But even then, as he held her against him, she knew that
from this moment on, nothing for them would ever be the same.

It was some time later before she returned to herself, lying
in his arms, her head resting on his chest, their bodies still wet with sweat
and the rewards of their lovemaking. His breathing was deep, heavy, and she
tapped her fingers on his chest, establishing the rhythm of his heart that she
knew pounded out a message of love for her, just beneath her ear.

“Why did you stop me?” he asked. “Didn’t you realize it
could get you with child?”

“Aye,” she said, kissing his chest, his throat, his mouth,
“I knew.”

“But why?”

How could she tell him? How could she explain to him that
after she had seen the birth of Mary’s babe, she could think of little else
save having a babe of her own? Where were the words that would make him
understand that she loved him enough to want his child; too much ever to expect
anything more?

“Because I want that part of you,” she whispered.
A part
that can never be taken away.

That seemed to satisfy him, for he said nothing more as he
lay there, stroking her back with his hand, stirring occasionally to kiss the
top of her head.

“When did you know it was a boy?” she asked, wondering if he
had had a premonition that Mary’s child would be a boy.

“When I saw his…that is…”

Cathleen doubled over with laughter. “That’s one way to do
it,” she said in a fit of laughter, not having the heart to tell him that that
wasn’t exactly what she’d meant.

“Go to sleep, sweet love,” he whispered, pulling the blanket
over them. “Little Fletcher MacMillan will be making demands early in the
morning, and I fully intend to let you take care of him.”

She smiled, thinking there was nothing she would like
better. Then with a satisfied sigh she closed her eyes and drifted off to
sleep.

She awoke early the next morning, when Mary MacMillan’s
husband, Ian, arrived with the doctor.

Hearing the approach of horses, Cathleen woke Fletcher, then
dressed quickly. She had barely reached the main room when the door burst open
and two men stepped inside.

After getting over the initial surprise of seeing her
standing there, the larger of the two men said, “Who are you?”

Cathleen explained who she was and what she was doing there
in his house, introducing Fletcher when he walked into the room.

“You must be Mary’s husband,” Fletcher said.

“Aye,” he said, “I’m Ian MacMillan. This is Dr. Ross.” He
frowned. “My wife…”

“She is doing fine,” Fletcher said. “And you have a fine,
healthy son. I know, because I delivered him myself.”

Dr. Ross went with Ian into Mary’s room.

A few minutes later, Ian came out, a look of awe upon his
face. “Mary told me what happened. How can I ever thank you?”

“We were glad to help,” Fletcher said. “All in all, I’d say
it was a pretty fair exchange for a hot bowl of soup and a good night’s sleep.
We were worried about you, however.”

“Aye. I had the devil’s own time of it,” Ian said. “I was
plagued with bad luck from the time I left here. By the time I reached the
bridge, the rains had washed it away. I had to go miles out of my way to get to
the village, and once I found Dr. Ross, we had to come back by the same way. I
was worried sick about my Mary.”

Dr. Ross came out of Mary’s room. Looking at Ian, he said,
“You can go in. Everything with her and the babe is as well as could be.”

With a wide grin, Ian hurried into Mary’s room.

‘“Twas a fine job you’ve done, lad,” the doctor said,
looking at Fletcher. “I couldna done a better job myself.”

“I’m glad I was here to help, but it isn’t something I would
want to do again,” Fletcher said, smiling at Cathleen, his arm going around
her. “Although I would have doubted it at the time, I know now that God in His
infinite wisdom knew exactly what He was doing. He gave me the strength to do
the job, but it was Cathleen who had the wisdom.”

Cathleen looked at Fletcher and smiled. “Aye.
‘Wisdom
always prevails over strength.’
Proverbs,” she said, basking in the
sunshine of Fletcher’s warm laugh.