Lady's Ransom (The First Argentines, #3)

Ransom paced in the hall at the foot of the tower stairs. The cries of pain he heard from Claire tore at him. When she started swearing in Gaultic, he nearly ran up the stairs out of fear and concern. Dearley waited with him, sitting on a little bench by the wall, his head in his hands, his face pale with worry and awful memories. Even when Ransom told him to go, he refused to abandon the scene. Guivret stayed with them, pacing the hall restlessly, but many of the other knights had left them to their vigil.

The torture of waiting, of listening to the agony, made Ransom increasingly miserable. What if he lost Claire in childbirth? He had his sword and scabbard strapped to his belt, and he’d told Keeva to come for him if anything went wrong. Another pained cry rocked through the walls. Some of the servant girls, passing by, shared secret smiles as they watched the misery of the men. It went on for hours and hours. Out the window, silent snow fell from a pale sky that clouded the sun.

Ransom went to the window, closing his eyes as he pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Please, he prayed silently. Let the Lady look after my wife. May you protect her life and the life of our child. I have done your will. I have kept your secrets. Please, if I merit any favor, let it be now. I would give my life for them.

He’d already tossed four coins into the well of the castle, even though it wasn’t a tradition in Legault. There was no reassurance or comfort to him. Just a brutal wait spent listening to his wife suffer.

The torment dragged on. He refused food and drink, his stomach too sour with dread and worry to accept any food. Her pained cries became weaker and less frequent. He kept looking at the door, wondering if he should force it open and march up the stairs. Surely Keeva would come for him if he were needed?

Dearley walked up to him and put a hand on Ransom’s shoulder. “I didn’t think it took this long,” he said with a sigh.

“I can’t even tell without the sun,” Ransom answered. “Thank you for staying with me.”

Dearley offered a sad smile. The two of them had become even closer after Dearley’s son was lost.

“I saw some new birds yesterday,” Dearley said. “I think it will be spring soon. I can’t wait for this accursed snow to melt.”

“Aye,” Ransom said. And then he heard a shrill cry—this was no night bird, but a frightened, mewling thing.

Ransom’s eyes popped wide in confusion. “What is that?”

Dearley brightened. “I think that’s a babe squalling.”

Moments later, Keeva burst into the hall, a grin on her face. “Come upstairs, my lord! Come and welcome your son!”

Dearley grinned and started to weep at the same time. He clapped Ransom on the back before the new father took to the stairs. He rushed up the flight and came to the room, finding Claire exhausted and plastered with sweat but smiling.

“I told you it was a boy,” she said weakly.

The midwife, a stately Gaultic woman, grinned. “And a big un too, milord.”

Claire caressed the babe’s feathery head, crooning softly to him. She looked as if she would fall asleep, and Ransom’s love for her took his breath away. He knelt by the rumpled sheets of the bed and stared, spellbound, at his child. He had a little pink nose, swollen eyes, and a budding mouth, which was rooting against Claire’s throat. A feeling of gratitude filled him to bursting.

And then, suddenly, Claire arched her back and let out a moan of pain. Another Gaultic oath came from her mouth. “It’s starting again! No . . . no . . . no . . .”

Keeva swooped the babe from her arms, and Ransom backed away, eyes bulging with fear and confusion.

“What’s happening?” he demanded.

“I can’t . . . not again . . . no . . . no . . .” Claire gasped, thrashing on the bed.

“It’s all right, my lady,” said the midwife. “The fight isn’t over yet. You must rally. Come, my dear. Show your spirit!”

“I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”

“Is she dying?” Ransom said, choking with fear and doubt.

“It probably feels like it,” said the midwife, giving him a sharp look. “Best go downstairs before you faint. I’ve not a moment to spare for you, milord.”

“Why?” Claire panted. “Why?”

“Because you’ve got another wee bairn inside,” said the midwife. “You’ve two instead of one.”

Dizziness washed over Ransom, but he kept on his feet and remained in the room to watch in fascination and surprise as their second child—another boy—was born shortly after his elder brother.

Ransom held each child in turn, amazed by the enormity of the occasion. He was a father twice over already. The babes were both proclaimed hale and strong by the midwife, who praised Claire’s fortitude for having carried them both for so long. He was struck by feelings he couldn’t describe, feelings that made his own father’s actions even more unfathomable to him. Ransom would never risk his boys’ lives to make a point. He would have given every last drop of his blood to protect his family.

With that thought in his mind, he stared at Claire, who had fallen asleep. He brushed a kiss on her brow while Keeva and the midwife swaddled and tended to the infants. Although he needed to share the good news, he didn’t want to leave the room, the place now hallowed by what had happened there. He saw, at the window seat, the small book that Claire wrote in to chronicle her memories. She’d never shared it with him. She said she never would, for they were private thoughts.

He felt the sudden compulsion to read it. If he knew her thoughts, he could span the last of the distance between them. She would likely never notice if he snatched it and brought it back later. A guilty feeling welled up in his heart for even thinking it.





In old Gaultic legends, having twinborns is either an omen of health, happiness, and prosperity or disease, death, and bad luck. Which is it to be, I wonder? I haven’t written since the boys’ birth because of how weary Ransom and I both are. These sons are voracious and growing so quickly. We agreed that I would name the eldest brother and Ransom would name the younger. I chose the name Willem after my mother’s father. In Gaultic custom, he will choose his own last name, just as I chose mine. The younger brother is Devon, after the Younger King. Willem and Devon were boisterous inside my womb. They are even more so outside of it.

The snow has melted, and spring has come at last. Has the war with the East Kingdoms already begun? I’ve been hoarding our stocks of qinnamon as there is no guarantee we’ll be able to locate more until the conflict ends. More and more ships from Genevar have been sailing past the Fair Isle to bring supplies to the armies assembled so far away. Now that the sea is safer to travel, I can expect another summons from Kingfountain, claiming my husband’s time and devotion. I shall watch him from afar, yet he knows it not.

After the birth of our sons, he asked if he could read this little book. But how would that be fair? I cannot peer into his heart.

—Claire de Murrow

Connaught Castle

The tides of spring





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


Lost


The yard was full of the familiar noise and commotion of knights preparing to ride. Ransom went back to the entrance of Connaught where Claire stood holding little Willem. Keeva stood next to her with Devon in her arms. He brushed his lips against the babes’ scalps, and both lads squirmed.

“I wish I were coming to Atha Kleah as well,” Claire said, tilting her head. “Try not to get into too much trouble.”

“I’m going at your command, if I may remind you,” Ransom said.

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be jealous. Still, the thought of riding a horse for that long makes me wince. Justice must be served, and who better to administer it than my own husband?”