A Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift

Eleanor opened her eyes. Hart thought she might call to him, but her face distorted, and she emitted a long wail that ended in a scream. Her body arched, spasms wracking it.

She fell back to the bed, breathless. Beth stroked her hand, her attention all for Eleanor. Eleanor gasped for a few seconds, then she wailed again.

Hart was across the room, pushing aside the maids, reaching for Eleanor. Eleanor moaned again, her head moving on the pillow, but she grasped Hart's outstretched hand and held it hard. More than hard. She squeezed it to the bone.

She fell back again, spent. "Hart."

"I'm here, El."

"Really, Your Grace. It's not fitting." The midwife, a large Scotswoman with fire-red hair, put her hands on her hips. Hart might be a duke, but this was her demesne.

"Please, let him stay," Eleanor said. "Please."

Hart read the pain in her blue eyes, the fear, the hope. He kissed her fingers, her hands so pitifully swollen.

"Beth says it shouldn't be long now," Eleanor whispered.

Hart saw, out of the corner of his eye, the midwife and Beth exchange a glance. They'd lied to soothe her.

"Good," Hart said. "That's good."

Ian, saying nothing, came around the bed, dragged a chair next to Beth's, and sat down. He took Beth's hand in his, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

Hart knew Eleanor's fears and shared them. She was thirty-three, this was her first child, and first children could be difficult. Eleanor was much more robust than Hart's first wife had been, but childbirth was dangerous in any case.

Hart had taken far too long to find Eleanor again. They'd had less than a year together, and he might lose her tonight.

Eleanor squeezed his hand, this time gently. "Are you all right, my love? You look a bit green."

"Which is why husbands should wait outside," the midwife said. "They're not good with what a woman can take in her stride.

"I'm fine," Hart snarled. "I . . ." He swallowed, forcing the bile down. "I'm fine, love."

"Good," Eleanor said. "I'm fine too." She closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath, and then her body went slack.

"What's the matter with her?" Hart asked in alarm.

The midwife looked harassed, but Beth answered. "She's only asleep. She's been drifting off from time to time. It's all right. Sleep is good for her. Gives her some peace."

But Eleanor looked too wan, her face too waxen for Hart's comfort.

The night wore on. There was another confounded clock in here, ticking, ticking. Eleanor woke up, groaning in pain, but the midwife still shook her head. Not yet.

Eleanor drifted off again, moaning a little in her sleep. Ian stayed with Beth, holding her hand as he dozed.

Hart stroked Eleanor's hand, wishing he could take all the pain away. In the days before his marriage to Eleanor, he'd spent time with women who liked Hart to inflict pain on them--to bind them and command them, and to use the pain, binding, and words to drive them to pleasure. He'd been good at it. Hart had mastered the technique of squeezing a woman's throat just enough so that when air cut off, her climax was that much more robust. A dangerous practice, but Hart had had the touch.

But he'd always been the master. He could twist and take, but when it was time to stop and soothe away the hurt, Hart had done it. He'd been excellent at that as well.

He looked at the woman he loved most in the world, knowing he couldn't take away her hurt, couldn't help her, and it killed him. Hart Mackenzie, the specialist in ultimate control and exquisite pleasures, could do nothing to relieve his wife.

Not true, he realized--he could do a few things. When Eleanor swam again to wakefulness, he got up onto the bed beside her, where he could snake his hands behind her back and gently rub it. He massaged there then worked his way up to knead her neck, and then her scalp.

Hart knew how to soothe, how to bring a woman down from unbearable ecstasy. He used the same movements as he glided his hands to her wrists, then to her ankles and back up her calves, trying to take away pain.

Eleanor, who knew what he was doing, smiled at him, her eyes heavy lidded. "I love being married to a wicked husband."

Hart gently kissed her lips. He'd spent many years mastering the art of cruelty, but then he could turn around and be kindness itself. Now he wanted to help his wife the only way he could, to let her know he was with her, and would be until the last.

"I love you, El," he whispered.

She smiled faintly. "And I love you, Hart. You should sleep. It might be a while yet."

"I'm not leaving you."

"No?" Her red brows climbed in her too-white face. "Good thing the bed is nice and wide."

"It's our bed."

"Yes, I know." She lightly patted the mattress. "Although I admit, I'm growing a bit tired of it at the moment."

"This will soon be over," Hart said. "And we'll snuggle down again, like an old married couple."

"Do hush. And sleep. You're cross as a bear when you don't get your sleep."

Hart softly kissed her again then laid his head on the pillow next to her.

He had no intention of sleeping, only of resting curled in her warmth, but the next thing he knew, Eleanor was crying out again, and the midwife bustled around, a smile on her face.

"It's now, Your Grace," the midwife said. "I believe the little gentleman is coming. Time for you and his lordship to go."