Risk Everything (42 page)

Authors: Sophia Johnson

BOOK: Risk Everything

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Then she heard his whispered words.

“Ah, Meghan mine. I love you more than life.”

Five months later, Rimsdale Castle seemed ready to burst with people. All Meghan’s loved ones from Blackthorn were there. Brianna would see her through the birthing with Netta’s help. Should there be any difficulty, Bleddyn would take over.

Had it not been for his skill, Brianna would have been lost after her first birthing.

The men lounged back on their seats, sipping wine chilled in the well. Now and again, they would grin between themselves, for Rolf paced and near pulled the white hair at his temples from his head.

“She still refuses to marry me,” Rolf said for at least the thirtieth time in the last four days. “Each night for the past five months I have asked her. I have e’en thrown my pride out

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yon window, gone down on my knees and begged her. Each time she has answered nay.”

He paced back and forth and stopped in front of Connor.

“You are her brother. Tell her ’tis not seemly her child is to be born a bastard.”

“Huh! Not me. From the sounds of it, Meghan’s temper is short. She may well take that fancy new sword to my arse.”

Rolf huffed and raked his fingers through his already wildly disheveled hair. He eyed Damron and Mereck. Bleddyn had gone to see how the women fared. Choosing Damron as the head of the Blackthorn family, he besought him.

“Damron, you are my last chance. You can order her to marry me. She will listen to you as her laird.”

“Uh huh. The way she listened to me for the last ten and more years? Ye know better than that, Rolf. She will decide in her own time. Wait and see.”

“Is our new baby here yet, Da?” Serena hollered as she burst into the room. She raced over to pull on Damron’s tunic.

Ede and Elise hurried after her, each carrying a babe. Never had Rimsdale had so much laughter and giggling and little ones crawling and toddling about.

“Nay, my sweet. Still, ye must all be very good if ye wish to see the bairn today.” Damron hugged her spindly little body to him and nuzzled her neck.

“Rolf,” Bleddyn spoke softly from the doorway. “Meghan asks that you be there for the birthing as is Blackthorn’s custom. The time is short now. Father Mark awaits outside the door. Be wise and do not tell Meghan of it.”

“Now? ’Tis time? Now?” Rolf felt panic for the first time in his life.

“Aye. If ye dinna wish yer ears boxed, ye had best go as soon as she calls for ye. We can all tell ye our wives become ragin’ boars when they are a birthin’.” Damron laughed, for at that moment Meghan added her own command.

“Rolf!” Her scream turned Rolf ’s legs to porridge. He tripped over his feet in his haste to get to her.

Meghan knew she had no time to lose. Rolf flew through

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the door and knelt on the floor beside her bed. He looked affrighted out of his wits. She scowled at him. “Dinna tell me ye will faint like Mereck did when Netta birthed.”

Rolf looked desperate on hearing the news. His eyes widened. ’Twas evident the men had not told him the feared Baresark had fainted.

“I willna. Meghan mine.” Unthinking, he clasped his hands together in a prayerful way and begged, “Please dinna deny me again. Wed me and let me be a husband to you. I know that which I denied you, you have denied me. You have punished me aplenty. Dinna punish our bairn. I will do anythin’

you ask—”

“Will ye halt yammerin’ at me, love, and call the priest? I willna have our babe born a bastard.” She took quick panting breaths like Brianna had taught her. As the pain ebbed, she added, “Dinna scare the good man by the look on yer face into thinkin ’tis the last rites ye want.” She could not resist a chuckle as Rolf scrambled to his feet and raced out the door.

“Father Mark,” he bellowed, “hurry! She has agreed!”

Meghan knew the good father had to be right outside the door for him to arrive so speedily. At his heels were the men of Blackthorn and their wives to bear witness to the vows. She knew if they didna soon get on with it, it would be much more they would witness. She took a slow breath and tried not to scream, for poor Mereck would likely land on the rushes again.

Never had she heard a priest speak the wedding vows so quickly. His eyes looked straight up at the ceiling of the room.

“I pronounce ye husband and wife,” was as far as Father Mark got afore he fled the room. He collided with Mereck, who she had seen backing toward the door moments earlier.

Thankfully, the room cleared like magic just as she felt the little head begin to force its way from her body.

“Look, Rolf. Your bairn’s hair is as dark and lush as Meghan’s,” Brianna’s happy voice informed him.

Meghan clutched his arms. “Ahh, dinna move if ye value yer life,” she gasped the words at him. “Hold me, husband.”

With a glad cry, Rolf leaned over and placed his arms

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around her shoulders. The warm, solid form of her love surrounding her helped her give that final great push that brought their daughter into the world.

A short time later, once Brianna and Netta had seen to the happy chore of bathing mother and daughter, and the servants had freshened up the bed with clean linens, Rolf gazed down at his love. Though he had sought Meghan as a means to his revenge, he vowed he would happily spend a lifetime proving to her his everlasting love.

He cuddled wee Mari to his chest after having shown her to all and sundry, who made over the little babe with a powerful cry. They were properly impressed.

“Ye are in for it now, Rolf,” Damron had said. “If Meghan does not have her riding astride and wrestling with her cousins by the time she is four winters old, my name isna Damron.”

Rolf looked down at his beautiful wife and almost hesitated to speak. He eyed the small chest in the corner of their room where she had placed the babe’s clothing.

“Meghan mine? You dinna have tiny breeches tucked away in yon chest . . . do you?”

Meghan’s husky chuckle gave him hope. In but a moment, she dashed it.

“We will see, love. We will see.”

Author’s Note

“Swings by his thigh a thing most magical. . . .” This is an old Anglo-Saxon riddle Meghan told which upset Rolf. The riddle was translated by Michael Alexander, and taken from

“The Old English Riddles of The Exeter Book,” Craig Williamson, Chapel Hill, University of North Carolina Press.

When I read these riddles, I imagine a cold winter night in the Highlands. Stormy clouds hide the moon as icy rain falls on a medieval keep. In the crowded great hall, rowdy men have staked out a trestle table near the fire. While a sot-ted man composes his riddle, his hand flashes out to steal a pinch on a buxom serving lass’s derriere. Can you picture the other men cackling and buffeting each other off their benches when he challenges the listeners to solve his racy rhyme?

I have tried to keep “modern” words out of the manuscript dialog, but if an author truly used words suitable to this period, it would have to be in Old English. I doubt that telling a medieval tale would be possible, for how could anyone but a scholar in old languages interpret it?

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