Twas long after the midnight hour when Muriel woke Rodrick with three little words that can evoke fear in even the bravest of men. Words that have made the legs of many a man since the dawn of time weak and tremble. Words that can cause a man with a sound mind to babble like an idiot.

“Me waters broke,” she whispered harshly.

Like an arrow shot from a crossbow, Rodrick leapt from the bed. Standing in naught but his braes — the undergarment he wore only out of respect for his wife — his eyes were wide with horror. “Now?” he stammered in horror. “But I do no’ ken how to help ye!”

Muriel rolled her eyes at him. “Ye daft man,” she began as she rolled herself out of the soft bed. “’Tis no’ like she will be born in the next moment.”

“Oh,” he replied, the horror fading from his face, but still coursing through his veins.

As he stood like a lummox, watching his wife struggle to her feet, he felt seven kinds a fool with his feet apparently frozen to the floor. His mind went blank as his heart hammered against his chest.

‘Twasn’t until she was on her feet that he was able to move. “What should I do?” he asked, afraid to touch her or move any closer.

“Go get Angrabraid,” she told him.

“Right,” he replied with a quick nod. Spinning on the balls of his feet, he tore open the door with such force Muriel thought he’d unhinged it.

“Rodrick,” she called to him softly.

He stopped and spun to look at her.

“Ye might want to at least grab a cloak,” she said. “It be a might cold outside.”

Shaking his head, he looked at her with astonishment. “I be a warrior, lass. ’Tis a short walk to Angrabraid’s.”

Muriel raised a brow. “Aye, ’tis true. But ye might want to cover yerself nonetheless.”

When he noticed she was staring at his chest, then his lower regions, he took a gander at himself.

Slapping his hand to his forehead, he went to dress as quickly as possible.

Just as the sun was beginning to rise the following morn, Muriel pushed her wee baby girl into the world. Rose bundled the bairn into swaddling cloth as Angrabraid stepped outside to give the news to Rodrick and Ian.

Rodrick, covered from head to toe in fur, looked like a giant bear about to pounce on an unsuspecting animal. He was pacing back and forth, running his hand through his hair, looking every bit the worried husband and father. Angrabraid clucked her tongue and shook her head. Men! She mused. They’d rather fight a horde of rabid wolves disemboweling a cow than be anywhere near their woman when it came time to birthin’.

“’Tis a fine lass,” she told Rodrick as she drew her shawl around her hunched shoulders. “A wee, bonny lass.”

Rodrick stopped his pacing and stared at her with wide, fear-filled eyes. He was not quite ready yet to set aside his worry. “And Muriel?” he asked, holding his breath.

“She be fine,” Angrabraid told him. “A strong woman, yer wife is. A good, strong woman.”

The breath left him in a loud whoosh as his shoulders sagged with relief. Ian slapped him on the back and smiled. “A lass,” he said, feigning sadness. “Ye have me sympathies.”

“Sympathies?” Rodrick asked incredulously. “Why be ye givin’ me yer sympathies? Did ye no’ hear Angrabraid?” He didn’t bother with waiting for Ian’s reply before rushing into the cottage to be with Muriel.

* * *

The moment he walked into the tiny hut and looked at his wife, he nearly fell to his knees. Though her hair stuck to her head from hours of sweat and birthing pains and dark circles had formed under her eyes, Rodrick thought she looked so magnificently beautiful it bordered on the celestial.

’Twas the look of utter joy and happiness painted on her face that nearly did him in. In her arms she held their tiny babe, bundled in swaddling cloth. And Muriel was smiling and speaking to her in hushed, motherly whispers.

For weeks he had worried she would change her mind and want nothing to do with their babe, that she would turn the child away, and in turn, him. In his heart, he knew he couldn’t have blamed her or held her in low regard if that had been her choice. Aye, it would have devastated him, but he would have understood.

Muriel slowly tore her affectionate gaze away from her daughter and looked up at him. “Rodrick,” she smiled up at him with damp eyes. “I would like ye to meet yer daughter. “

All at once, every worry he had ever held onto, every fear, fell away. The tension, the doubts were now gone. Expelling a quick breath, he rushed to Muriel and knelt beside her, using every ounce of courage to fight back his own tears.

For a long while, he could not tear his gaze away from his wife, such was his relief and utter joy. This moment would forever be burned into his memory and his heart.

“She be a bonny wee lass, aye?” Muriel asked as she looked fondly upon the bundle in her arms.

Finally, he looked down at the babe.

Then back again at his wife.

And back to the babe who sported an entire head of dark red hair.

He’d never met Fergus MacDonald, but he was quite certain this child resembled him in every way.

* * *

Red hair.

Muriel’s hair was a beautiful shade of golden blonde. His own was dark brown.

There would be no way they could pass this innocent babe off as his.

For the entire time he had been pacing out of doors, he had only one concern: the safety and wellbeing of his wife and child. Not once had it entered his mind that this babe would resemble the man he now desperately wanted to see burning in hell.

Words were lodged in his throat, and for a long, long moment his heart did not beat. Muriel’s previous worries about the child reminding her of Fergus had come true. This babe, innocent as she was, would forever be a constant reminder of the son of a whore who had raped Muriel and nearly destroyed her.

He began to worry that he could not love his babe as his own.

“Would ye like to hold her?” Muriel asked as she began to hand the babe to him.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, he shook his head ever so slightly. “I’ve never held a bairn—”

Muriel did not allow him to finish his protest as she placed the babe in his shaking arms.

All he could do was stare down at the babe in dumbfounded incredulity. One little hand was balled into a fist, the other wrapping itself atop her wee head. Atop her red-hair covered head.

“Look at ye!” Muriel exclaimed, albeit weakly. She sounded tired, worn out, and done in, but proud all the same. “I do believe she likes ye.”

Lord, how he wanted to feel a sense of overwhelming pride! Of fatherly devotion, of some form of kindness, but for the life of him, those feelings would not come.

Red. Hair.

He could not get past the red hair and the fact that no one would ever believe the child his.

Muriel was speaking to him, but he did not, could not hear her. His mind was a swirl of doubt, dread, and anger. Nay, he was not angry with the innocent babe sleeping most contentedly in his arms. He was angry, nay furious, with the man who had sired her. The man who had hurt his sweet Muriel to the point she had at one time wished and prayed for her own death. The man who had hurt her to the point she could not stand the thought of being a wife to him.

Fury towards a man he’d never met. A man who had somehow managed to steal away Rodrick’s dreams and hopes for a happy future with wife and bairns.

There was only one thing to be done about it. He was going to kill Fergus MacDonald if it was the last thing he ever did on God’s earth.

* * *

Muriel sensed Rodrick’s unease, but she believed ’twas simply born of the fact he’d never held a newly born babe before. He was staring at their babe — and yes, that was how she chose to look at this child, as theirs — with such a look of fright, that she almost giggled. Here was her strong, braw husband, so tall and manly, and he was done in and turned mute by a tiny babe.

Muriel stretched, wanting very much to sleep for a good long while, but her heart was filled with so much happiness, she knew ‘twould be next to impossible. This overwhelming sensation of love and adoration toward her child was beyond her reasoning. She had not expected to feel this way about her.

Doubt and worry had been her constant companions these many months. But the moment Angrabraid placed the babe on her belly whilst she cut off the cord, all those feelings flew away in the blink of an eye. And when she heard her daughter cry for the first time? All she could do was weep with joy and relief.

“I dare say I never thought to feel this way about her,” she admitted to Rodrick. “But from the moment I saw her, I knew.”

Rodrick’s gaze seemed to be glued to their daughter and he remained awfully quiet.

“And when I saw all that red hair?” she said with a smile. “Och! I must admit I was verra glad to see it.”

Rodrick, upon finally hearing her, lifted his head so quickly she was surprised his neck didn’t snap. “What?” He asked, sounding perplexed if not a bit horrified.

Muriel smiled fondly at her husband. “I said I was verra glad to see all that red hair.”

“But why?” he asked, his eyes wide with puzzlement.

“Me da had red hair,” she told him. “He would have been so proud to have a grandchild who looked like him. Charles and I, we have our mum’s colorin’, ye ken.”

There was no mistaking her husband’s relief. His breath came out in a great whoosh as his shoulders sagged. She understood then, why he’d remained so quiet. “Ye worried the red hair was a gift from the man who sired her,” she said, unable to be angry with him for she too, had worried over that very thing.

Rodrick was fighting hard to find the right words to deny her accusation. Guilt and worry filled his blue eyes.

With a slow shake of her head, she smiled up at him. “Rodrick, do no’ fash yerself over it. Each of us had the same worry, aye?”

* * *

Suddenly, he felt seven kinds of a fool for worrying over something so insignificant as the color of his daughter’s hair. But he could not deny the relief he felt when he learned his wee daughter took her grandsire’s coloring.

Looking back at the babe, he smiled for the first time since seeing her only moments ago. “She be a bonny lass, aye?” He all but beamed with pride and adoration.

Rose piped up from across the room, where she had been busy sorting through bloody sheets and cloths. “I should think so!” she declared. “She looks just like her mum.”

Rodrick had to agree. She did — sans the red hair — very much resemble her mother.

“Have ye named her yet?” Rodrick asked as he touched the babe’s cheek with his index finger.

“Aye, I believe I have,” Muriel replied sleepily. “I would like to call her Cora.”

Rodrick’s eyes grew damp as his heart constricted with nothing short of unadulterated love toward his wife. “After me mum?” he managed to stammer out.

“Aye, after yer mum,” Muriel said.

God’s teeth! He mused silently. But these women are fully intent on seein’ me cry this day!