Unraveled By The Rebel (44 page)

The minutes stretched to over an hour, but he helped support his wife against him, holding her knees back while she pushed. Bridget was struggling, and her expression looked grave as she tried to ease the child out.

“Take her,” Paul commanded. Though his mother had delivered thousands of bairns, this was his Juliette. He needed to see for himself what was wrong, or he’d never be able to live with himself.

Bridget took his place, holding on to Juliette while Paul examined his wife. Only one leg had emerged from her womb, and he didn’t doubt that the tiny infant was fighting for life at this moment.

God be with us,
he prayed, casting another glance toward his bag. He pushed back, feeling for the infant’s leg, trying to adjust the child. His brain was screaming at him, while he recalled just how many of the infants had died in the cases he’d read.

He had to make a decision. Now, before he lost both of them.

J
uliette was hardly aware of anything but a sea of pain. Her husband and his mother were arguing, and without warning, she felt the sharp slice of a blade. Warm blood spilled against her, but she was past the point of knowing what was happening.

The man she adored was fighting for her life and the life of their child. In the blur of agony, she saw the fear on his face. But there was nothing she could say to reassure him. Nothing except a weak “I love you, Paul.”

“Stay with me,” he warned. “Don’t give up, Juliette. Keep trying.”

She wasn’t aware of anything, but her body was past exhaustion and had now slipped into a haze of defeat. Hands were pushing against her, and a moment later, she heard the faint cry of a newborn. The sound of the infant’s voice slashed through her consciousness, dragging her back.

Their baby was alive. Through her tears, she managed a smile, and a moment later, Paul placed the baby on her stomach. “It’s a girl.”

The grateful look in his eyes was mingled with awe, as if he could not believe he was a father.

“She’s a darling wee bairn.” Bridget smiled. “A little bruised, but she should be fine.”

Juliette reached out to touch her daughter, and a tear spilled down one cheek. “She’s beautiful.”

But though she marveled at the tiny life, a dizziness took hold, causing the room to dip. “You’d better take her, Paul,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “I need to… rest now.”

She felt the strength slipping away from her, while Bridget claimed the baby.

“Juliette, no. Don’t give in. Look at me,” Paul demanded. “I had to cut you to keep you from tearing too much. You need to deliver the afterbirth, and then I’m going to sew you up again to stop the bleeding.”

“I’m tired,” she whispered.

“And you can sleep all you want, later. Right now, you’re going to push a little more.”

“I can’t.”

“Aye, you can.” He manipulated her womb, and she winced at the pain. “You’ve endured more than any other woman I know, and it’s made you stronger. You can get through a little more, and then you’ll hold our bairn.”

She gritted her teeth as he helped her deliver the afterbirth, and soon enough, he began stitching her up. “We’ll have to come up with a name. Have you any you’d like?”

“Grace,” she murmured. “I always liked that name.”

“Grace Fraser, she shall be,” he promised. “She’ll be a sweet one, won’t she? She has my eyes, I think.”

“All babies have blue eyes,” Bridget said. “Though you can be believing that if you like. She has her mother’s bonny face, too.” The older woman’s face held joy, and she wiped a tear away.

Juliette fought to keep her eyes open, but she endured the stitching until Bridget came to sit by her, holding the baby close, asking, “Your first birth was hard, wasn’t it?”

She nodded. “The midwife told me I would never have another child. I had such a terrible fever afterward, I nearly died from it.”

“But the labor,” Bridget said, “was it much like this one?”

Juliette tried to think back. “It took much longer, and I kept bleeding. I don’t remember much except that.”

“I don’t think the midwife stitched you up after,” Bridget said. “It sounds as if she was naught more than a butcher.” She leaned over and showed Juliette her daughter. The tiny rosebud mouth
and the serious blue eyes stared back at her. “Ye did well enough in your labor, my lamb. If it’s more children you’re wanting, there’s naught to stop you from it. A breech birth happens from time to time, but ye both are fine.”

Juliette took her baby back into her arms. “We are, yes.” From deep within, the sharp flare of hope broke through her. Seeing her baby daughter alive and well brought a joy that she’d never expected. This tiny new life belonged to her and Paul. Nothing would ever part them.

Her heart ached with such love, she couldn’t stop the tears from spilling over.

Bridget smiled warmly. “I’ll get you some healing herbs to help with the pain, and you can have some time with your husband and daughter.” She departed the room, leaving them alone.

Paul washed his hands again and came to sit by her. He put his arm around Juliette, holding her and their new daughter. “I told you I would take care of you.”

“You were right,” she admitted. “I was so afraid, after the last time. I believed the midwife when she said I’d never have another child.”

Paul touched their daughter’s head, offering, “I hated seeing you in pain. I might’ve delivered seventeen… well, eighteen babies,” he amended. “But it’s no’ the same as seeing your wife suffer.”

He kissed Grace’s head and then kissed Juliette’s cheek. “I would have done anything to save you both.”

“And you did,” she whispered, pulling him back for a longer kiss. The happiness went so deep, Juliette reached for his hand. For a moment, she smiled up at him, marveling that they had endured so much together. Letting go of her son was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she knew that Matthew was well and happy. And although her son would follow a different path, one day, he would know the truth—that she’d wanted to give him a chance at his own happiness.

She touched Grace’s tiny head and looked up at Paul. “I never imagined it was possible to feel this way.” Paul had been her best friend for as long as she could remember. She loved this man so much, it hurt to imagine a single moment without him.

“I did,” he admitted. “From the first moment I laid eyes on you. I knew we were meant.”

There was no man who understood her heart and her very soul the way he did. When she smiled through her tears, she marveled at all of her blessings. She had a husband she loved more than life itself, and a daughter who had utterly captured her heart.

“We have the rest of our lives together,” she promised her husband.

And it was enough.

E
XCERPT FROM
U
NDRESSED BY THE
E
ARL
, B
OOK
T
HREE IN THE
S
ECRETS IN
S
ILK
Q
UARTET

L
ONDON,
1815

A
melia Andrews had waited four excruciatingly long years to marry the Viscount Lisford. Although everyone said he was a wicked rake who gambled and took advantage of innocent women, she didn’t care. He was, by far, the handsomest man she’d ever seen. His hazel eyes were mysterious, and his golden hair reminded her of a prince. This was going to be the year he finally fell in love with her, even if she had to throw herself at his feet.

Well, she could faint in front of him, anyway. Diving at a man’s shoes wasn’t exactly what her mother would deem ladylike.

In her mind, she envisioned reforming him, until he fell madly in love with her and—

“Planning your attack, are you?” came a voice from behind her. Amelia suppressed a groan. David Hartford, the Earl of Castledon, was here again. Sir Personality-of-a-Handkerchief, as she’d once nicknamed him.

He never danced and had never courted a single woman during these past few years since his wife died. He was just
there
all the time. Watching, like a wallflower.

“I’ve never understood why the ladies here are so fascinated by Viscount Lisford,” he remarked. “Would you care to enlighten me?”

She shouldn’t be speaking with Lord Castledon, although they’d had numerous conversations in the past year with him
addressing her back. If she didn’t turn around to face him, it seemed less improper.

Besides that, Lord Castledon was safe—a man she would never consider as a suitor. He wasn’t so terribly old, but he’d been married and widowed. He wasn’t at all dashing or exciting.

In all honesty, he was perfect for her sister Margaret.

A hard sense of frustration gathered in Amelia’s stomach at the thought of her prim and proper eldest sister. There had been a time when she’d
hated
Margaret—for her sister had nearly married the man of Amelia’s dreams. The viscount had cried off only days before the wedding, leaving Margaret a spinster and Amelia a shred of hope.

That had been years ago. Surely her sister would forget all about Viscount Lisford, especially if
she
had another man to wed. And Amelia strongly believed that sensible people ought to be paired together. She was not at all sensible. Impulsive, her mother had called her. Amelia preferred to think of herself as spirited.

“Viscount Lisford is quite wicked,” Amelia answered honestly. “When you dance with him, you sense the danger. It’s delicious.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said drily.

From behind her, she sensed him stepping closer. Lord Castledon was quite tall, and even without Amelia turning around, his presence evoked a strange sense, as if he were touching her. The air between them grew warmer, and the silk of her gown made her skin more sensitive.

She stole a quick glance behind her and saw the solemn cast to his face. It didn’t seem that he ever smiled, though the earl wasn’t unattractive. Aside from being tall, he had black hair and shrewd blue eyes. She’d never seen him wear any color except black. And he rarely spoke to anyone, but her. She had no idea why.

“Dangerous men are nothing but trouble,” he continued, moving to stand beside her. “You’d be better off choosing a more respectable man.”

“That’s what my mother says.” Amelia opened her fan, adding, “But marriage to a man like Lord Lisford would never be dull.”

“Marriage is not meant to be entertaining. It’s a union of two people with a mutual respect for one another.”

She eyed him with disbelief. “That sounds awful. Surely you don’t mean that.”

From the serious expression on his face, she realized he did. “Didn’t you ever have fun with your wife?” she asked. “I don’t mean to pry, but I thought you loved her.”

“She was everything to me.”

There was a glimpse of grief that flashed over his face before he masked it. And suddenly, her curiosity was piqued. This boring man, who all too often lurked near the wallpaper, had enjoyed a love match. Try as she would, she couldn’t quite imagine him engaged in a passionate tryst. But perhaps there was more to him beneath the surface.

Amelia’s heart softened. “No one will ever compare to her, will they?” She stared at him, trying to imagine a man like the earl in love with anyone.

“No.” There was a heaviness in his voice. “But I made a promise to my daughter that this Season, I will find a new mother for her.” His features twisted as if it was not a welcome idea.

A thought suddenly sparked within Amelia. There was nothing she loved more than matchmaking. She’d successfully paired her sister Juliette off with her husband, Paul, and now here was another chance to find a match for Lord Castledon. Her sister Margaret was nearing five-and-twenty, and after being jilted once, she might be amenable to a man like the earl.

“I have an idea,” she told him, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. And oh, it was simply perfect. “We could help one another.”

The sidelong look he cast at her was undeniably cynical. “And what could
you
do for me, Miss Andrews?”

“Reconnaissance,” she said brightly. “You’ll tell me all of your requirements in a wife, and I shall investigate your options. I know all the eligible ladies here, and I’m certain I could find the perfect woman for you.”

If Margaret wouldn’t suit, there were a few wallflowers who might fit his conditions.

His mouth twisted. “Indeed. And for this ‘service,’ what do you want from me?”

She hid her face behind her fan. “I want Viscount Lisford. You could speak to him and put in a good word for me.”

He crossed his arms, staring across the room. “You’re not worthy of a man like him, Miss Andrews.”

Amelia felt her cheeks grow hot. “And why not? Is there something wrong with me? I know I talk too much, and most people believe I’m a featherbrain. But surely—”

She didn’t finish the sentence, for she suspected what he would say.
You’re too young. Too innocent.

And that might be true, but why couldn’t she set her sights on the man she wanted? Why couldn’t she marry the handsomest man in London who set her pulse racing? Why should she settle for a titled gentleman with a respectable fortune, when she could have so much more?

No. She didn’t need Lord Castledon’s help. Not in this.

There were ways to capture a man’s attention, and she was
certain
that this was her year. To the earl, she remarked, “Thank you, my lord, but I don’t need your help after all. Especially if you believe I’m not worthy of the viscount.” She marched in the direction of her aunt Charlotte, hoping no one would see her embarrassment.

David Hartford stared at the young woman as she took long strides away from him. Amelia Andrews was impulsive, spirited, and filled with more
joie de vivre
than anyone he’d ever met.

“No, you’re not worthy of the viscount,” he remarked under his breath. “You’re worth far more.”

A
lthough doctors during the Regency era were largely unaware of how infection and diseases were spread, the Scots were a highly superstitious people. Dr. Paul Fraser would not have known that hand-washing or boiling instruments would kill germs, but he would have recognized that he lost fewer patients than his contemporaries. I took literary license in creating a Scottish character who washes his hands out of superstition, without really knowing why doing so helped his patients.