March, 1563
Kilchurn Castle, Argyllshire, Scotland
“N-Niall!”
The weak but insistent cry rose above the muffled sobbings, carrying across the large, stone-walled bedchamber to the fireplace.
A man, tall and powerful, jerked upright. With a resolute straightening of his shoulders, he released his white-knuckled grasp on the mantel and was at the bed in a few quick strides. Waving aside the midwife and maidservants, he lowered himself onto the soft down comforter. Gently, he grasped his wife’s hand.
“Aye, lassie?” Try as he might, Niall couldn’t hide the catch in the dark register of his voice.
Her slender fingers squeezed his. “Och, my braw, sweet Campbell.” She smiled wearily up at him. “I’m so verra sad, I am . . . to leave ye. I’d never willingly cause ye such pain . . .”
He gathered her to him. “Wheesht, lassie. Save yer strength for what matters. Ye . . . yer healing.”
“N-nay,” she said, her voice quavering. “It isn’t time . . . for false hopes. I pray only that our babe lives—” A sharp hiss of pain escaped as yet another contraction shuddered through her.
Niall swallowed hard against his angry, helpless anguish. Dear God, why must she suffer so? Give me the pain. Let me bear it.
His grasp on her tightened, and he willed all the strength of his heart, his body, into hers. God forgive him, but he’d sacrifice the babe if only he could keep his bonny wife. How would he go on without her? She must live. She must . . .
“Ye m-must go on. Take another wife.” Her eyes, bright with understanding, stared up at him from a waxen yet still hauntingly lovely countenance. “A wife . . . who’ll give ye . . . a son. A wife . . . to love . . . as ye’ve loved me.”
“Love again?” Niall’s bitter laugh pierced the air. “And how can that be, when ye’re the only one for me? Nay.” Vehemently, he shook his head. “There’ll be no other—now or ever!”
“P-promise me! Promise—”
Her words were lost in a strangled scream. Her eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “The babe. Och, sweet husband. At last . . . our babe comes!”
For one final, exquisitely tender instant they clung to each other. Love, deep and bittersweet in this moment of truth, arced between them. Then there were hands, pushing them apart, drawing Niall away.
“Yer pardon, m’lord,” came an anxious voice. “It’s time. It’s women’s work now. Step aside.”
The tortured sounds followed Niall as he stumbled back to the hearth. Muted cries, choking sobs, mingled with the snapping, crackling clamor of the hungry fire. Time passed with lumbering slowness as Niall stared into the agitated flames, hearing it all from some place far away, even as the night’s horror charred its memory into his soul. Never had he hurt so, not from any wound in battle, not from . . .
He paused. The sounds had ceased. His ears strained for some word, a babe’s first cry—anything. There was nothing.
Niall turned. His anguished gaze sought the form in the bed. She was still now, her beloved features relaxed, peaceful. A tight, smothering sensation constricted his chest. He wrenched his to the women surrounding her.
All but one averted their eyes. Niall’s glance riveted on her.
Old Agnes, his wife’s loyal maidservant, returned his gaze, the answer to his question flickering despondently in her eyes. A shudder wracked Niall’s big, hard-muscled frame. He shook his head, his black mane of hair grazing his shoulders in a movement of tortured disbelief.
A cry rose in his throat, tearing past the strict control, the years of well-schooled discipline. His glance moved back to the frail, lifeless form in the bed, oblivious to the small bundle of white lying in her arms.
“Nay!”
The shout echoed across the room, reverberating off the walls to carry far beyond the chamber’s thick wooden door. With staggering, stumbling strides, Niall returned to the bed, throwing himself down to gather his wife into his arms. Soundless spasms shook his body as he rocked the limp form to and fro, murmuring her name.
Quietly, the servants drew back to afford the grieving husband a semblance of privacy. They stood there, huddled in the shadows, uncertain what to do. All, that is, but one.
An ebony-haired maid slipped from the room. As she closed the chamber door, her glance swept the dim, torch-lit corridor. A beckoning movement from a dark corner caught her eye. With a knowing smile, she scurried over.
“She’s dead then?” a deep voice demanded.
The girl nodded.
“And the bairn?”
“Stillborn, m’lord.”
A mirthless sound rose from the shadows. “Good. Then there’s still time for the misfortunes of my family to be righted. Still time for the clan chieftainship to pass from Niall Campbell to me.” He chuckled, an icy rim of triumph sharpening his voice. “Aye. Time enough indeed . . .”