She wondered, though, did Emmy’s own husband not see it? That the outward bitchiness was nothing but a façade for the fear beneath? Not fear for her own fate but for those elements beyond her control?
Having lived most of her life among the sort, Scarlett could spot a control freak from a thousand paces. And unless she missed her guess, Emmy was as big of one as they came. The woman could give a few actresses Scarlett knew a run for their money. Here in this time and place, she’d have zero control over the outcome of anything much less the birth of a child.
Then to put her up against Donell who took control as if he owned it?
The entire situation must scare her more than it did Scarlett.
Scarlett
“So, what do you think of this plan?” Laird asked, as he carefully set Scarlett on her feet next to their bed.
He held her steady as she reached under her outer skirt and untied her multiple layers of wet woolen petticoats. Once she let them drop, he lifted her onto their feather bed as though she were an invalid. He tried to cover her up but she pushed the quilts away, unwilling to be bound when her deepest instinct was to run.
Scarlett stared up at him, searching his chiseled face for the answers. He’d always been able to provide them for her, but now Laird looked as troubled as she. His calloused fingertips traced the edge of her jaw and down the long line of her neck.
“Come, lass, I ken ye’ve always an opinion.”
“I don’t want to go.” Scarlett swept a hand over her rounded belly. She hadn’t had another contraction yet, but with her water broken, it was only a matter of time. “I mean, I suppose I have to go given the option, but I don’t want to.”
“Ye ken ye dinnae hae to,” came his soft response.
Choices.
But to not go could mean losing their child if it was too premature to survive on its own. High infant mortality rates in the sixteenth century had provided Laird a far more philosophical outlook than she had on the subject.
Babies often died, it was a part of life here. Accepted. When Laird’s young sister, Aileen, had recently miscarried during her first pregnancy, she and her husband had been saddened. Already they had moved on, however, thinking ahead to their next child.
If she and Laird lost this baby, he would mourn. Fully. Perhaps forever in his heart. But life would move on.
For him.
Even after so many years in the sixteenth century, Scarlett couldn’t fully embrace their fatalistic attitude. When she’d begged Donell to return her to 1513, to Laird, she’d assured him she would accept whatever fate had in store for her. Mostly, as he’d pointed out. However, she hadn’t fully realized how a medieval lifestyle might affect her until their daughter had been born. The realization that at any moment some disease, or even infection from the most miniscule injury could take Hermione from her had turned Scarlett into the worst sort of helicopter mom for a long while.
Taking a philosophical view on life had been a difficult process for her. She still didn’t excel at it.
Hugging her stomach to cradle the babe within, she considered the alternative. Hope mingled with fear. Laird’s big hand covered the top of her belly, his thumb caressing back and forth. He loved to feel the baby move, feel the life growing.
Hermione, with all the energy of a three-year-old, burst into the room and bounced up on the bed between them. She snuggled against Scarlett’s side and Scarlett hugged her close, rocking her gently.
Laird moved his hand to Hermione, stroking her cheek tenderly. He was torn, Scarlett knew. Torn between the safety and security of each of them. In this moment, though, she knew without a doubt he’d choose Hermione’s safety and future over their unborn babe. He’d had three years of loving her to cement the choice. However medieval the logic, Hermione’s loss would crush him more than that of a child he’d yet to meet, as much as he loved that child already.
“My love for ye all consumes me.” His low brogue was rough with emotion. “I ne’er imagined such joy in my life. Nor nae greater sorrow at the thought of losing one of my dear lassies. I cannae risk ye. Risk this.”
In a way, she understood this thought process, understood his loyalty to his precious daughter. To the family he had in his reach. But Scarlett had that new life within her. Felt it. The love she had for her unborn baby was as powerful to her as it was for her daughter.
Still…
“I don’t want to take any chances that I might not make it back either,” she admitted quietly. Hermione’s eyelids began to droop and soft, breathy snores ruffled her hair. Scarlett brushed the strands back from her face with a smile. Gambling on the future of her whole family petrified her.
Unaware of her inner debate, Laird gave a short, harsh laugh. “If it ‘twere to happen at all.”
Scarlett grinned at his skepticism. “Part of you still doesn’t believe in Donell’s magic, does it?”
“Do ye? Deep down?”
“Of course. That magic showed me a whole new way of perceiving life. The world.” She reached up and ran her fingertips along his bearded jaw, brushing them back and forth. “It brought me to you, Laird. It gave me this life. There’s nothing more real to me than what I have with you.”
A little shudder of trepidation rattled her. God, she really didn’t want to lose what she had here. But she didn’t want to lose her baby either.
“What am I to do?” Low and
