"Oh."

Ian once more let himself get lost in the blue of her eyes, the shape of her red lips, the way the moisture behind her lower lip made him want to lick her there. He'd kissed her many times since that first night at the opera, and he never grew tired of it.

He leaned down to kiss her now, but Beth put her fingers over his lips.

"Are you telling me that you don't care that I broke your bowl?" she asked.

Ian had thought they were finished with the discussion. "Yes," he said.

"But . . . it took so long for you to find it and cost so very much money."

Ian slid his hands to the curve of her waist. "I wanted to have it, because it reminded me of you," he said. "But I'd rather have you."

The uncertainty in Beth's eyes cleared, though they again swam with tears. She twined her arms around his neck. "Ian, I love you so much."

This was better. Much better. The darkness that had started to grip Ian, the one that told him he'd never learn how to make her happy, flowed away to nothing.

"My Beth." Ian looked straight into her eyes, letting himself be lost, not fighting it.

Beth kissed him, her lips shaking but warm, tasting of honey and her spice.

Ian opened her mouth with his, ready to taste her further, but she said, "I need to tell you something.

I've meant to, but it never seemed the right time."

Ian waited, not asking. Beth would tell him, or she would not. Sometimes, she took a while to say what she needed to.

She wet her lips, making them all the more kissable. "Very soon, you'll have something else to remember me by. And to love." She leaned close, her voice dropping to a sweet whisper. "I'm going to have another baby."

That, Ian understood. He went still, and the world stopped with him. Then a wave of joy poured over him, sweeping away everything except Beth, her smile, and the words that she'd just spoken.

Ian picked her up off her feet and spun around with her. He felt his mouth stretching into a smile he couldn't stop, as he whirled his laughing wife around and around.

Ian at last set her down, Beth's face pink, her smile beautiful. The worried pucker between her brows was gone, Beth again in love with Ian.

Ian thought the gestures Daniel made when he was excited. One seemed appropriate now.

Ian threw his arms straight up, his fists balling, and roared: "Yes!"

Ruby scrambled to her feet, barking, and the half-open door banged into the wall. Hart was there, filling the space. "Damn it, Ian. What happened?"

Hart, the interfering pain in the backside, had brought the whole family. Even Eleanor was there, behind Hart, leaning heavily on Daniel's arm.

No matter. Ian wanted to shout it to the world. "I'm going to be a father!"

"Again," Beth added quietly.

The tense silence burst into noise and laughter. The family poured in, Ruby swarming among them with her large body, her tail waving.

The ladies rushed to hug Beth; the Mackenzie brothers, Daniel, the McBrides, and David Fleming to clap Ian on the shoulders and shake him hard. Why good news involved the man being pounded, Ian had never understood, but he knew that the gestures made Mac, Cam, and Hart happy. Ian stood quietly and took their hand clasps, arms around his shoulders, liking that he was part of them, brothers who had never deserted him.

The shouting wound down to excited talking and laughter, still as noisy as only Ian's family could be.

Beth had disappeared into a cloud of ladies' skirts, bustles, and laughter, and he heard Daniel say, "The wagering will open as soon as I fetch my books. No side betting, please, gentlemen," and Cameron's warning, "Danny."

"I'll put you down for a hundred then, shall I, Dad? Boy or girl?"

"Ian." Eleanor had broken from the feminine circle to pull Ian aside for a kiss. She had to use his arm to steady herself, but she was smiling and pink. "Beth told me why you weren't upset about the broken bowl. You really are the most romantic man in the world, do you know that? You ought to give your brothers lessons."

"I can hear you, El," Hart said from her other side.

"Yes, I know. Does that mean, Ian, that I could break another bowl, and it wouldn't matter?"

She reached toward a glass case, and Ian caught her wrist in sudden panic. "No!"

Eleanor laughed. "I am teasing you."

Ian's heart thumped as he released her. He didn't mind so much Beth breaking the stupid bowl, but no one else could. He gave up trying to make sense of them all, returning his thoughts to Beth and the brother or sister he would get to show Jamie and Belle.

"You know I'd never touch your exquisite bowls, Ian," Eleanor said. "They are yours, and I can be a bit clumsy, and . . . Ah." Eleanor's gaze became fixed, her face draining of color.

Hart stepped forward and steadied her. "I knew this was a bad idea," he growled. "Back to bed with you."

"Yes, I think that would be best." Eleanor swayed, her hand going to the small of her back. "Perhaps we ought to hurry. I believe his little lordship is coming. Right now. "

As the words left her lips, Eleanor sagged, and she collapsed so swiftly that Hart barely had time to catch her and lift her into his arms.


* * * * *

Chapter Fifteen

Dark night came on--these days, the sun hardly appeared at all. To Hart the darkness and the cold matched his fear, as he paced the sitting room down the hall from Eleanor's bedchamber.

Ian was with him. Hart's quiet brother stood looking out the window at the blackness as Hart walked the room behind him. Restlessness bothered Ian and made him want to emulate it, so he'd learned to turn away and block it out.

Eleanor had decorated this room, making it a place in which they could be private after supper, or sit with family and close friends. Other members of the family had made their contributions: Ainsley had embroidered cushions with her neat skill to strew about the sofa; drawings done by Mac's children--

Aimee's quite skilled, the others barely discernible scrawls--decorated the walls. Beth and Ian had purchased the long, comfortable sofa to replace the old-fashioned, overly carved horsehair one from the old duke's day.

A homey room, a room for family. Hart had never known such a retreat before his marriage.

"Damn it." He halted his pacing, sank to the sofa, and buried his head in his hands.

Eleanor's presence filled every corner of this room. If she did not live through the night . . .

There, he'd thought it. If she did not live, Hart would never enter this room again.

He smelled the sharp bite of whiskey and lifted his head to find Ian holding a glass out to him, brimful of Mackenzie malt.

Hart took the glass and poured half the contents down his throat. He coughed, wet his lips, and gulped down the other half.

Ian took the glass away and returned with it full again. Hart drank half of that before he sighed and set the whiskey on a table. His head spun, his gut churned, and still he feared.

A clock ticked on the mantelpiece, another pretty gift, this one from David Fleming. The clock chimed eleven, the fire burned, and Hart waited.

No news came. Hart and Ian didn't speak. The clock kept up its relentless ticking--chiming twelve, one. Finally Hart rose, stalked to the mantelpiece, ripped open the clock, and slapped its small pendulum to a halt. Only Ian's presence kept him from dashing the clock to the floor entirely.

"What is taking so confounded long?" Hart growled, staring at the now-still clock.

"Beth took a long time with Jamie," Ian said. "A day and a half. You can sleep if you want. I'll call you."

"Did you sleep?"

"No."

"Well, then." Hart resumed his pacing.

He did concede to eat something when Marcel carried in a light supper. Marcel also brought the news that Eleanor was in labor but the midwife did not believe she'd give birth for a while yet. Hart returned to moody contemplation, barely remembering to thank Marcel for his trouble. Marcel departed after Hart had downed a few mouthfuls, and Hart's gloom descended once more.

Now that he'd put the clock out of commission, Hart had to check his watch for time, which he found himself doing every five minutes. Another hour crawled by, and another.

Hart told Ian to go, but Ian stubbornly remained. Even when Beth entered, smudges of exhaustion on her face, and embraced Ian, Ian did not offer to leave.

Hart couldn't make his lips move to form questions to Beth, or his legs unbend to rise from the sofa.

Beth came to Hart, sat next to him, and took his hand. Always a bad sign, when a woman did that.

"Eleanor is very strong," Beth said.

"What does that mean?" Hart snapped. He heard the rage and impatience in his voice, but he couldn't take the time to apologize.

"The baby is ready to come, but Eleanor's body is being slow to make the passage wide enough. It happens. The midwife is certain she'll come through it, and the baby will be born without trouble. It's just taking time."

"Tell me what it really means. If she can't birth naturally . . ."

"Then we send for a surgeon. But it's early days, yet."

Hart's body went numb. He couldn't feel, couldn't move. "If they have to cut the baby out, El could die."

"Surgery has progressed in the last years, and you have the best surgeon in the Highlands waiting to be sent for if needed. She'll be in good hands."

But surgery was always risky, because though the surgeon might do a fine job, the wound could become infected, or Eleanor could lose so much blood that she wouldn't be strong enough to live.

Eleanor would die.

The thought whirled around in Hart's head and through his stomach, sloshing with whiskey and what little he'd managed to eat, and made him sick.

Hart stood up abruptly, throwing off Beth's helpful clasp, and ran out of the room. His old bedchamber smelled stuffy and cloying, but the bathroom that opened from it had a working cistern. Here Hart lost all the whiskey and dinner Marcel had brought to the bowels of the house.

He rinsed his mouth, dabbing his lips with a towel. When he left the bathroom, he found Ian waiting for him in the bedroom.

"Where's Beth?" Hart asked him.

"Back to Eleanor."

"You don't have to stay with me." Hart looked around his old bedchamber with its monstrously high ceiling, paintings of gods and horses around the frieze, and its old and chunky furniture. This had been his father's bedchamber--the dukes of Kilmorgan had slept here since the house had been built.

"Ian, if I lose her." Hart wandered to the bed he'd abandoned months ago to move into Eleanor's cozier bedchamber down the hall. "Losing Sarah and my boy was the hardest thing I've ever lived through. But even then, you see, I knew that Eleanor was with me. If not here, then at least in the world, where I could find her. I could think of her living in that old house with her father, I could write to her if I chose. She was the anchor in my world, no matter how far I was from her. But if I lose her . . . Ian, I lose myself. I can't live. Not without Eleanor."

Ian listened with his usual expression--focused, brows slightly drawn, mouth straight--saying nothing.

Whether he followed Hart's words or not, Hart didn't know. He never knew, with Ian.

He looked up at the ceiling. "God, I hate this room. I'm removing all furniture to the scrap heap and tearing out those bloody awful paintings. After . . ."

Ian held out his large hand to Hart. "Come with me."

"Come with you where?" Hart wasn't in the mood for expeditions.

Ian said nothing. He never explained. He simply expected Hart to trust him.

Hart gave up and followed his brother out of the room. Ian didn't go far. He led Hart down the hall to the chamber in which Eleanor lay and pushed open the door without knocking.

Hart smelled closeness, heat, the bite of the coal fire, too many people in a room with no fresh air, and blood. The room was too dark, too stuffy.

A maid swung around, alarm in her eyes. "You can't be in here, Your Grace. Your lordship."

The room teemed with women, maids in caps and aprons, the plump midwife, the wet nurse with her own baby, waiting to take Eleanor's. Beth sat on a chair on one side of the bed, holding Eleanor's hand.