I will find the traitor and kill them with me bare hands, Mairghread thought angrily as another wave of pain shot through her lower belly. Tight, twisting, ’twas near agony.

They had left the keep an hour ago. Had walked right through the gate without anyone inquiring as to where she was going. The entire courtyard had been eerily quiet. No matter who is to blame, I will find them.

They had walked a good distance in a north-easterly direction, before several men stepped out of the woods. Much to her vexation, Aymer insisted she mount a horse brought to her.

“I can no’ possibly ride!” she had argued. “I be about to have this babe, ye ignorant fool!”

Furious with the disrespect she was showing him, Aymer slapped her hard across the cheek. Blood filled her mouth and trickled from her lips, her cheek burning as white dots blurred her vision. ’Twas the first time in her life she had ever been hit.

“Ye will mount this horse and ye will mount it now!” Aymer shouted.

His voice was still ringing in her ears when they finally reached their destination.

’Twas an old, decrepit mud and daub hut, nestled deep in the woods. She had forgotten all about the place and could not remember who had once lived here. Not that it mattered in the least at the moment. A blend of fear and anger roiled in her stomach.

Her pains were coming closer and closer together, and lasting far longer. Intense, deep pain that made it next to impossible to walk. Aymer pulled her from her mount without warning or ceremony. She fell to the ground, racked with pain.

Frustrated with her, he yanked her by the hair. “Up!”

Unable to move or speak, she could only swallow back the tears. “Hurt,” she finally managed to mutter.

Not so much as an inkling of compassion could she find in his eyes. He all but dragged her into the ancient structure. ’Twas all she could do to breathe.

The small space was void of any furniture. Just a small room with part of the crumbling roof lying on the dirt floor. Decades worth of weeds and vines sprouted from the corners and hung down from the ceiling. It smelled damp, musty.

Aymer pulled her inside, leaving her where she collapsed in a corner near the entrance. On her hands and knees, she rocked back and forth, the pain nearly unbearable. Please, God, watch over me babe! She cried silently. Please, send Brogan to me before it be too late.

The next voice she heard made her want to retch.

“What is wrong with her?” Courtemanche asked. He sounded far more concerned than Aymer.

“It be her time,” Aymer told him. “She is about to give birth.”

Although she could not see him, she heard the worry in Courtemanche’s voice. “Why did you bring her here?” he demanded to know. “Why not wait until she had her babe?”

The frustration in Aymer’s voice was undeniable. “Because we must get to France as soon as possible, ye fool! I told ye, I will need to seek refuge in your castle until I can regain the seat. I can no’ do that with her still sittin’ in it!”

“But it could have waited!” Courtemanche argued. “What will we do with a babe?”

“We are no’ goin’ to do anything with the babe but leave it here. Leave it to the wolves and scavengers. As long as that babe lives, I will no’ be able to take what is rightfully mine.”

Mairghread had heard enough. “Brogan will never allow ye to lead clan Mactavish!” she cried out. “He will see ye dead first.”

His hand swung out once again, just as sharply as before. This time, it landed on her right eye. Bile rose from the pain, from the horror of the moment. “Brogan will kill ye fer that,” she all but spat at him.

“Stop!” Courtemanche shouted, grabbing Aymer’s arm to keep him from hitting her again. “I do no’ want her face harmed.”

Me face? She thought. He cares naught about anything but me face.

Aymer was furious, but backed away. “How much longer?” he snapped at her.

There was no need to ask to what he was referring. “Hours,” she told him. But if the pains were any indication, ‘twould be far sooner than she wanted. ’Twas growing more and more difficult to keep from screaming out, to keep from crying from the pains as well fear. She thought of Brogan and cursed herself for wanting a few hours to herself. It had been a selfish decision to send him away with Reginald and Seamus. ’Twas a selfish act that would lead to the death of her babe as well as herself. Please fergive me, Brogan, she cried silently.

“We can not have her giving birth here,” Courtemanche said. His voice was filled with panic and worry. “We do not know the first thing about births. You should not have brought her here.”

Rolling his eyes, Aymer said, “Would ye like to take her back to the keep?”

He paled visibly at the notion. “Of course not. But she could die, you fool. I swear to you, if she dies, Aymer, you will not get one red cent from me. Nor will I give you refuge.”

Clenching his jaw, Aymer growled angrily. She watched him pace back and forth like a cornered wild beast. Undoubtedly, he was trying to think of his next course of action.

Her own mind was racing for a way out, a way to, at the very least, save her unborn child. She cared not what Aymer or Courtemanche did to her. The only thing she cared about was Brogan and their child. She had to do something and quickly.

Desperate, she was not above bargaining. “If ye fetch Martha to help me have this babe, and if ye let my babe live, I will give the seat of chief to ye.”

Aymer studied her dubiously for a long moment. “Ye lie.”

Shaking her head she choked back tears. “I care no’ what ye do to me, Aymer. Just let me babe live. I swear to ye, I will go with ye to France.” Nodding her head at Courtemanche, she said, “I care no’ what he does to me either. I am too tired to fight ye anymore.” Most of what she said was a lie. There was no way in hell she was going to go anywhere with these men.

From his pursed lips and furrowed brow she could see he was giving some weight to the idea.

“Please, Aymer, I beg of ye, let me babe live,” she said, her voice filled with undeniable fear. Pleading, begging, she would do what she must to see that her babe lived.

Breathing out through his nose, he crouched low, to look her in the eyes. “And let him someday try to rest the seat from me?”

“Nay, he will no’! Brogan will return to his family.” If she did in fact die, ’twas her fervent wish that he do just that. Take their babe back to Mackintosh lands, where he could grow up in peace, surrounded by people who would love him and protect him. Tears pooled in her eyes when she thought of not being able to watch her child grow. ’Tis better I die than me babe. Nothing was worth this babe’s life.

Another pain formed, growing, building, twisting, taking her breath and good senses away. No longer able to think clearly, she cried out. Screaming from the intensity, she rocked back and forth again, on her hands and knees. Sweat covered her face, her back and hands, her dress clung to her skin.

Aymer’s voice sounded far away, barely audible over her own screaming. But she could not focus on what he was saying. She only knew he was angry.

Unable to hold herself up, she collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony. Tears blended with sweat as she grew uncomfortably hot.

Aymer and Courtemanche were arguing again, but she cared not and paid no attention to it. Gradually, the pain let up, but did not go away completely. God, please bring Brogan to me.

* * *

It took some vigorous convincing. Reginald, Henry, Liam, and Comnall, had helped to get the man to see things their way. Eventually, he got tired of the blows to his face, gut, and groin and began to disclose what he knew in earnest.

“’Twas Aymer Mactavish,” he said as he spit a glob of blood on the floor.

Brogan had already suspected that at the least, Aymer had ordered something be done before he was put to death. “But who carried out his order?”

The man laughed. “Think ye he is dead?”

“David ordered his execution,” Henry said harshly.

The man smiled lopsidedly. “Aye, that he did. But Aymer paid much to gain his freedom. He bribed the guards.”

The room fell silent as a fissure of fear raked Brogan’s spine. He knew the man was telling him the truth. The news should have surprised him but didn’t. Instead, he became furious. There were many questions to be asked, such as how they had gotten into the keep, who were the traitors who allowed them access. But he asked the most important one first. Grabbing him by his tunic, Brogan leaned in. “Where is me wife?” His words were harsh, clipped, and filled with rage.

The man took no time at all in telling him the whereabouts of Mairghread.

“But good luck with gettin’ out of the keep,” he added with a sloppy and pained smile.

Brogan’s brow knotted into a fine line as he asked him what he meant.

“Yer keep,” he chuckled, sounding like a madman. “It be surrounded.”

* * *

He had not lied.

Brogan stood along the walkway of the wooden wall, looking out at the sight before him. Surrounding the keep were some one hundred armed men. Aymer’s mercenaries.

“Bloody hell!” he ground out angrily.

Henry, Reginald, and Comnall were standing with him. They were almost as furious as he. Almost, for none of them had a wife being held captive by dark, sinister, insane men. A wife who was about to give birth.

Liam came racing up the ladder to join them. He took one look at all the armed men below and gave a low whistle. “Shall I give the order for Iarainn to begin handin’ out weapons?”

As much as he wanted to ride through the gate and kill every last one of them, he knew such thoughts were useless. The Mactavish men were not trained in the fine art of battle.

“Have ye interrogated the traitors yet?” he asked, gritting his teeth. The mercenary hadn’t known the names of the men who had given entry to Aymer. But he was able to describe them well enough. They were two young men, neither of which Brogan could recall even talking to. Their parents were amongst those who had left months ago, when Mairghread had taken her rightful position as chief.

“Aye,” Comnall nodded. “They swear there be no others who aided Aymer.”

“Ye be certain of that?” he asked, his brow furrowed, his face growing darker and darker with fury.

Comnall smiled as he gave his right fist a good shake. Brogan took note of the bloodied knuckles. “Aye, I be certain.”

* * *

With the traitors in the gaol, Brogan gave the order for every one within the keep to be armed. What they truly needed, however, were more men. More well-trained men, as Henry pointed out.

“We need more than just a handful of cooks,” Henry said. “’Tis a death sentence to be certain.”

“Thank ye fer pointin’ out the most obvious,” Brogan ground out as he climbed down the ladder.

Iarainn was waiting for him at the bottom. “Be it true?” she asked breathlessly. “Be we surrounded?”

“Aye, ‘tis true. Have ye armed everyone?”

She swallowed hard before answering. “Much to me consternation, aye, I have. But I warn ye, I have armed Tilda and Gertie as well.”

The thought of Gertie and Tilda armed sent a shiver of dread up and down his spine. Gertie was fighting mad when he had first discovered her tied to the chair.

“The order was fer everyone,” Iarainn politely reminded him. “And no’ even I be brave enough to tell those two ‘nay’ on anythin’. Especially this day.”

The image of Gertie and Tilda leading the charge to slay the men responsible for taking their lady was an amusing one. It almost brought a smile to his face.

To Liam and Comnall he said, “Bring everyone to the yard at once.”

* * *

The mercenaries were all that stood betwixt Brogan Mackintosh and the rescuing of his wife. He now stood in the courtyard, looking out at his people with a most heavy heart. Cooks, sculleries and maids, plus his own men.

‘Twas a certainty they would be defeated.

Before he could utter any encouraging words, Reginald and Henry pulled him aside. “We have a plan,” Reginald told him.

“If the plan involves our people suddenly gainin’ the experience and heart of a thousand highland warriors,” he began.

Reginald cut him off. “Nay,” he said, sounding most serious. “We need to get to Mairghread. And quickly.”

Gertie and Tilda appeared at Reginald’s side, each of them holding a broadsword nearly as long as they were tall. “And how do ye intend to do that?” Gertie asked angrily. “Sprout wings and fly?”

“Of course no’!” Reginald growled. Turning his attention back to Brogan, he said, “Ye ferget, there be more than one way out of this keep.”

It took a moment for Brogan to realize what Reginald was speaking of. The secret door!

Reginald smiled knowingly when he saw clarity dawning in Brogan’s eyes. “I have already checked, Brogan. They have no one set below.”

Brogan was so relieved he could have kissed the man.

“Ye can take a few of the men with ye,” Reginald said. “Michael Mactavish and his family live no’ far from here. Ye can get to them, get horses, and be on yer way to Mairghread without the men surroundin’ us even knowin’.”

“What be ye goin’ on about?” Henry asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Brogan quickly explained about the secret passage out of the keep. His relief faded instantly when he remembered the lack of stairs. “But we have no stairs built yet,” he all but growled.

“Nay, but we have ropes,” Reginald said. He was far more hopeful than Brogan.

“Ropes would work,” Henry agreed after thinking on it for a long moment. “I fear it be our only hope.”

Brogan knew there was no other choice. Looking out at the people in the yard – less than forty in all – he was reluctant to leave them behind to face the mercenaries beyond the wall.

Tilda pursed her lips and shook her head. “’Tis too bad those ten thousand horse thieves Henry spoke of are no’ here. We could let them fight those men outside whilst we waited for reinforcements.”

Each of them stared at her as if she were daft. “Och! Are ye mad?” Gertie asked. “’Twould be easier to fight the men beyond the walls than ten thousand thieves and murderers!”

‘Twas then that Henry began to smile. A most devious smile that made his eyes twinkle. “I think we could manage to scare up a few of them,” he said.

Brogan was almost afraid to ask what he meant.

In the end, he was quite glad that Henry Mackintosh was on his side.

* * *

With Henry’s plan set in place, Brogan, Henry, and Reginald were soon making their way through the secret passage. Moments later, they were scaling down ropes along the side of the cliff.

In less than a half an hour, they were beating down the door of Michael Mactavish’s home. The puzzled, brown-haired man stepped outside, leaving his frightened wife huddled near the hearth with their three children.

Reginald quickly explained their quandary. By the time he finished, Michael was fighting mad. “I ne’er did trust Aymer!” he said, spitting the ground at his feet. “I have fifteen horses and ye be welcome to all,” he said as he started walking toward the corral.

“We only need three,” Brogan pointed out. “For that is all we have with us.”

Michael chuckled low and deep. “Knowin’ Aymer as I do, three men will be all ye need to go against that coward.”

“He has at least ten men with him,” Brogan told him as he pulled himself atop a grand, black stallion.

“Then I suggest we stop at me brother’s home along the way. He has three grown sons who will be glad to help us.”

In no time at all, they were mounted and heading north to gather Marcus Mactavish and his sons. They rode bareback for the man didn’t own enough saddles for everyone.

All the while, Brogan prayed silently for God to watch over his sweet Mairghread.

* * *

In between her pains — which were coming in great waves now — she prayed frantically. Prayed for Brogan to find her, prayed she would not have to give birth in this filthy, abandoned place. She prayed for her child, for his future, and that God would somehow find it in His heart to see her babe live.

Aymer and Courtemanche continued to argue. Courtemanche was frantic with worry that someone would hear her screams. Aymer was worried they would not make it to France if she did not hurry and have this child. Courtemanche continued to threaten to abandon Aymer if she died. They talked about plots and alliances and the future.

But neither of them made any attempt to help her.

Each time she cried out in agony, they stepped farther away until they were huddled in the far corner of the hut.

Soaked with sweat, twisting and turning in tormenting pain, she lay on the floor, praying, hoping, wishing with all her heart for relief and for Brogan. How much time passed, she didn’t know. Doubt crept in. He should have been here by now.

Chances were he was still out counting horses with Reginald and Seamus. And what of Gertie? Was she still bound to a chair in her room? Had the dark stranger killed her? Her only hope was that Tilda had found Martha, which would have led to the discovery of Gertie. Unless Aymer’s man killed each of them, one by one.

And even if it was soon discovered she was missing, how on earth would they find her? Doomed. She felt doomed to give birth on this filthy floor, alone, with no help, while two deranged men argued over seats of power and gold.

Another wave of pain washed over her. Cursing the madmen to hell, she screamed. Low and guttural and loud with suffering. Her screams drowned out the sounds of her tormentors, the men she prayed would die slow, horrible, painful deaths.

* * *

Brogan leapt from his horse before it even stopped. Henry, Reginald and the rest of their men took care of the guards posted along the perimeter of the hut as Brogan thundered across the clearing to the small structure. He paused only once when he heard his wife’s guttural screams. But his pause was brief as fury coursed through his veins, turning his blood hot. When he stepped inside and saw his wife writhing in pain while Aymer and Courtemanche huddled in the far corner, ’twas all he could do to breathe.

He made no inquiries as to what they were doing. He gave them no time to defend themselves or plead for mercy. With his sword in one hand, his dirk in the other, all the rage and fury he had bottled up came rushing out in his own low, guttural growl. In span of a few furious heartbeats, he was thrusting his sword into Aymer Mactavish’s heart, tearing through bone and flesh as it pinned him to the dirt wall. What he might have said, Brogan did not hear, nor did he care.

Whilst thrusting his sword into Aymer, he took the dirk and sliced it across Courtemanche’s throat. Their deaths were in tandem, like a macabre, morbid dance. Blood drained from Aymer’s belly, it spurt from Courtemanche’s throat.

Clutching his wound with both hands, a look of horrific surprise was permanently etched on the Frenchman’s face. Just like Aymer’s.

Over the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, Brogan heard his wife cry out. He went to her and knelt down beside her. “Mairghread, I be here!” he exclaimed. ’Twas then his hands began to shake.

Lying on her back, wracked with sobs and tears, she finally opened her eyes. “Brogan!” she cried out.

He did not know what to do for her. Lost, terrified he would lose her, he quickly removed his plaid, then his tunic. Using the tunic, he wiped the dirt, grime and sweat from her face. “I know not what to do,” he said, his voice filled with worry.

Grabbing his arm, she looked up at him with pain-filled eyes. “Get me the bloody hell out of here!”

“But ye’re havin’ the babe,” he said, at a loss to what he should or shouldn’t do.

She was taking in deep breaths of air into her lungs. “I ken that! But I will no’ have this babe in this filthy hut whilst two dead men stare at me!”

Henry and Reginald came rushing inside then. Each were covered in blood. “We killed half of them,” Henry said.

“The other half ran off,” Reginald informed him.

“Get me out of here!” Mairghread cried out.

Henry and Reginald stared down at her, their eyes wide with horror. Brogan, not wanting to cause his wife any further distress, scooped her up in his arms. “I do no’ think we can get ye back to the keep,” he stammered out.

“Just get me outside,” she pleaded with him.

* * *

Wracked with another wave of pain as Brogan carried her outside, the urge to push came over her. There was nothing to grab on to for purchase or strength, save his shirtless chest and arms.

As quickly as he could, he took her to the nearest tree and gently set her on the ground. Immediately, she rolled to her hands and knees. “Help me,” she ground out as she continued to sweat.

“God’s teeth!” Henry cried out. “She be havin’ her babe?” Panic stricken, he knew had no more an idea what to do than Brogan.

Reginald stepped forward, looking just as terrified as Brogan and Henry. “It can no’ be much different than a horse givin’ birth, can it?”

Knowing that if he did not take charge of the situation, Brogan took in a deep breath and squatted down on his knees in front of Mairghread. “Give me yer plaids,” he ordered both men. Without questioning his order, they both removed their plaids and tossed them to Brogan.

Mairghread grabbed each of his arms. “I need to push,” she told him through gritted teeth.

Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t left the room whenever the women in his life began to talk about birthing babes. But he did know enough that when pushing was mentioned, it meant only one thing; the babe would soon be here.

Helping her into a squatting position, Mairghread clutched his arms and held on for balance. “Henry, put one of the plaids under her.”

From his scandalized expression, one would have thought he’d just asked the poor man to strip naked and run through he streets of Edinburgh wearing flowers in his hair. “Henry!” he barked out.

With his eyes half closed, he tried to do Brogan’s bidding. “I swear I’ll no’ look,” Henry muttered nervously.

“For the sake of Christ,” Brogan ground out while his wife was bearing down. “Just put it under her to catch the babe!”

“I can no’ catch a babe!” Henry said, appalled at the idea.

Panting harshly, Mairghread said, “Just put the bloody plaid under me!”

Quickly, he did her bidding and stepped away as if he were afraid he’d catch fire.

Reginald knelt beside her and began to rub her back. “I fear none of us know what to do, lass.”

There was no way to reply, for the urge to push was too great. Closing her eyes, she groaned and bore down. Exhausted and worried, she pushed with all her might.

Brogan could not see a thing from his current vantage point. “Be it out?” he asked.

“Nay,” she said through heavy panting breaths.

It went on like that for what seemed to all an eternity. Several more attempts to push went unfulfilled. Dread settled deep in his gut. Mairghread collapsed against his chest. “I can no’,” she said, sounding exhausted beyond hope. “I can no’ do it.”

Brogan knew she must. Letting go of one arm long enough to lift her chin, he said, “Ye can and ye will.” His voice was firm yet kind. “Just lean on me, love. Do no’ give up.”

* * *

She wanted to close her eyes and sleep for a sennight. She wanted to scream that he did not have any bloody idea what she was going through. She wanted to slap the warm smile from his face. Yet at the same time, she wanted to hold on to him for dear life.

“’Tis a good thing I love ye,” she said harshly.

Brogan could not resist the urge to chuckle. “And I love ye.” He kissed her forehead and smiled warmly at her. But there was no mistaking the worry in his eyes. “Now, ye keep pushin’, aye?”

Truly, she felt she did not have any strength left. But the warmth and love in the eyes staring into hers was what she needed to see. Weakly, she began to push again when the urge came.

“Come, Mairghread,” he said. “Push now. Ye can do this, I know ye can!”

She knew exactly where her newfound strength came from. It came from the love in his eyes as well as his encouraging words. Laying her head against his chest, she clung to his arms as she pushed and pushed and pushed.

Finally, she felt the squish of her babe beginning to leave her body. “Someone catch him!” she cried out.

’Twas Reginald who kept the babe’s head from hitting the ground.

One strong push later, and the babe was out.

Relief consumed Mairghread when she heard her babe’s strong cries for the first time.

“’Tis a boy!” Reginald shouted happily.

Clinging to her husband, she sobbed uncontrollably. Using the laces from her dress, Reginald tied off the cord. Poor Henry had to step away then, for he had no desire to learn what happens after a babe is born.

* * *

Brogan leaned against the tree, holding his wife against his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around her and their babe. In her arms, she held their son, a strong lad, with a head full of dark red, curly hair, and strong lungs. Overcome with joy and relief and a heart bursting with love and pride, Brogan’s eyes grew damp. He cared not who saw them, for ’twas the happiest moment of his life. He had a son.

The sun had begun its late afternoon descent. A peacefulness had fallen over the little yard. While some of his men took their prisoners back to the keep, the others had left them alone to go build a makeshift litter. There would be no way for Mairghread to ride just yet. As far as Brogan was concerned, they could take their time. He wanted to make this special moment last as long as he could.

“He is so beautiful, aye?” Mairghread asked as she caressed their babe’s cheek with her fingertip.

Now was not the time to argue over whether or not a man or lad could be considered beautiful. “Aye, he be a right handsome lad.”

Mairghread sighed contentedly then placed a sweet kiss on the tip of her son’s nose. “What shall we call ye?” she whispered, unable yet to take her eyes off him.

“Would ye like to name him after yer father?” Brogan asked softly.

Tearing her gaze from her son, she looked into Brogan’s eyes. “Me da?” she asked. “Why no’ yer da?”

Brogan chuckled. “Do ye ken how many of his grandson’s carry his name? Six, at last count.” He kissed her forehead and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Nay, I think Gavin suits him better.” Besides, ‘twould be one more thing to haunt Aymer while he rots in hell.

“Brogan, do ye have any idea how much I love ye?” she asked as tears pooled in her eyes.

He chuckled before answering. “If it be at least half as much as I love ye, then we have more love than could fill the entire world.”