Born in Shame
Page 6
After less than an hour she’d already forgotten the strain and fatigue of labor. The sweat of it, and even the prickles of fear.
She had a child.
“She’s real.” Grayson Thane said it reverently, with a hesitant stroke of a fingertip down the baby’s cheek. “She’s ours.” He swallowed. Kayla, he thought. His daughter Kayla. And she seemed so small, so fragile, so helpless. “Do you think she’s going to like me?”
Peering over his shoulder, his sister-in-law chuckled. “Well, we do—most of the time. She favors you, Brie,” Maggie decided, slipping an arm around Gray’s waist for support. “Her hair will be your color. It’s more russet now, but I’ll wager it turns to your reddish gold before long.”
Delighted with the idea, Brianna beamed. She stroked the down on her daughter’s head, found it soft as water. “Do you think?”
“Maybe she’s got my chin,” Gray said hopefully.
“Just like a man.” Maggie winked at her husband as Rogan Sweeney grinned at her across the hospital bed. “A woman goes through the pregnancy, with its queasiness and swollen ankles. She waddles about like a cow for months, then suffers through the horrors of labor—”
“Don’t remind me of that.” Gray didn’t bother to suppress a shudder. Brianna might have put that aspect of the event behind her, but he hadn’t. It would live in his dreams, he was sure, for years.
Transition, he remembered with horror. As a writer, he’d always thought of it as a simple move from scene to scene. He’d never think of the word the same way again.
Unable to resist, Maggie tucked her tongue in her cheek. Her affection for Gray made her honor bound to tease whenever the opportunity arose. “How many hours was it? Let’s see. Eighteen. Eighteen hours of labor for you, Brie.”
Brianna couldn’t quite hide a smile as Gray began to pale. “More or less. Certainly seemed like more at the time, with everyone telling me to breathe, and poor Gray nearly hyperventilating as he demonstrated how I was to go about it.”
“A man thinks nothing of whining after putting in eight hours at a desk.” Maggie tossed back her mop of flame-colored hair. “And still they insist on calling us the weaker sex.”
“You won’t hear it from me.” Rogan smiled at her. Being part of Kayla’s birth had reminded him of the birth of his son, and how his wife had fought like a warrior to bring Liam into the world. Still no one thinks of what a father goes through. “How’s your hand doing, Grayson?”
Brows knit, Gray flexed his fingers—the ones his wife had vised down on during a particularly rough contraction. “I don’t think it’s broken.”
“You held back a yelp, manfully,” Maggie remembered. “But your eyes crossed when she got a good grip on you.”
“At least she didn’t curse you,” Rogan added, lifting a dark, elegant brow at his wife. “The names Margaret Mary here called me when Liam was born were inventive to be sure. And unrepeatable.”
“You try passing eight pounds, Sweeney, and see what names come to mind. And all he says, when he takes a look at Liam,” Maggie went on, “is how the boy has his nose.”
“And so he does.”
“But you’re okay now?” In sudden panic Gray looked at his wife. She was still a little pale, he noted, but her eyes were clear again. That terrifying glaze of concentration was gone. “Right?”
“I’m fine.” To comfort, she lifted a hand to his face. The face she loved, with its poet’s mouth and gold-flecked eyes. “And I won’t hold you to your promise never to touch me again. As it was given in the heat of the moment.” With a laugh she nuzzled the baby. “Did you hear him, Maggie, when he shouted at the doctor? ‘We’ve changed our minds,’ he says. ‘We’re not having a baby after all. Get out of my way, I’m taking my wife home.’ ”
“Fine for you.” Gray took another chance and skimmed a fingertip over the baby’s head. “You didn’t have to watch it all. This childbirth stuff’s rough on a guy.”
“And at the sticking point, we’re the least appreciated,” Rogan added. When Maggie snorted, Rogan held out a hand for her. “We’ve calls to make, Maggie.”
“That we do. We’ll look back in on you shortly.”
When they were alone, Brianna beamed up at him. “We have a family, Grayson.”
An hour later Grayson was anxious and suspicious when a nurse took the baby away. “I should go keep an eye on her. I don’t trust the look in that nurse’s eyes.”
“Don’t be a worrier, Da.”
“Da.” Grinning from ear to ear, he looked back at his wife. “Is that what she’s going to call me? It’s easy. She can probably just about handle it already, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Chuckling, Brianna cupped his face in her hands as he leaned over to kiss her. “She’s bright as the sun, our Kayla.”
“Kayla Thane.” He tried it out, grinned again. “Kayla Margaret Thane, the first female President of the United States. We’ve already had a woman president in Ireland,” he added. “But she can choose whichever she wants. You look beautiful, Brianna.”
He kissed her again, surprised all at once that it was absolutely true. Her eyes were glowing, her rose-gold hair tumbled around it. Her face was still a bit pale, but he could see that the roses in them were beginning to bloom again.
“And you must be exhausted. I should let you sleep.”
“Sleep.” She rolled her eyes and pulled him down for another kiss. “You must be joking. I don’t think I could sleep for days, I’ve so much energy now. What I am is starved half to death. I’d give anything and more for an enormous bookmaker’s sandwich and a pile of chips.”
“You want to eat?” He blinked at her, astonished. “What a woman. Maybe after, you’d like to go out and plow a field.”
“I believe I’ll skip that,” she said dryly. “But I haven’t had a bite in more than twenty-four hours, I’ll remind you. Do you think you could see if they could bring me a little something?”
“Hospital food, no way. Not for the mother of my child.” What a kick that was, he realized. He’d hardly gotten used to saying “my wife”—now he was saying “my child.” My daughter. “I’m going to go get you the best bookmaker’s sandwich on the west coast of Ireland.”
She had a child.
“She’s real.” Grayson Thane said it reverently, with a hesitant stroke of a fingertip down the baby’s cheek. “She’s ours.” He swallowed. Kayla, he thought. His daughter Kayla. And she seemed so small, so fragile, so helpless. “Do you think she’s going to like me?”
Peering over his shoulder, his sister-in-law chuckled. “Well, we do—most of the time. She favors you, Brie,” Maggie decided, slipping an arm around Gray’s waist for support. “Her hair will be your color. It’s more russet now, but I’ll wager it turns to your reddish gold before long.”
Delighted with the idea, Brianna beamed. She stroked the down on her daughter’s head, found it soft as water. “Do you think?”
“Maybe she’s got my chin,” Gray said hopefully.
“Just like a man.” Maggie winked at her husband as Rogan Sweeney grinned at her across the hospital bed. “A woman goes through the pregnancy, with its queasiness and swollen ankles. She waddles about like a cow for months, then suffers through the horrors of labor—”
“Don’t remind me of that.” Gray didn’t bother to suppress a shudder. Brianna might have put that aspect of the event behind her, but he hadn’t. It would live in his dreams, he was sure, for years.
Transition, he remembered with horror. As a writer, he’d always thought of it as a simple move from scene to scene. He’d never think of the word the same way again.
Unable to resist, Maggie tucked her tongue in her cheek. Her affection for Gray made her honor bound to tease whenever the opportunity arose. “How many hours was it? Let’s see. Eighteen. Eighteen hours of labor for you, Brie.”
Brianna couldn’t quite hide a smile as Gray began to pale. “More or less. Certainly seemed like more at the time, with everyone telling me to breathe, and poor Gray nearly hyperventilating as he demonstrated how I was to go about it.”
“A man thinks nothing of whining after putting in eight hours at a desk.” Maggie tossed back her mop of flame-colored hair. “And still they insist on calling us the weaker sex.”
“You won’t hear it from me.” Rogan smiled at her. Being part of Kayla’s birth had reminded him of the birth of his son, and how his wife had fought like a warrior to bring Liam into the world. Still no one thinks of what a father goes through. “How’s your hand doing, Grayson?”
Brows knit, Gray flexed his fingers—the ones his wife had vised down on during a particularly rough contraction. “I don’t think it’s broken.”
“You held back a yelp, manfully,” Maggie remembered. “But your eyes crossed when she got a good grip on you.”
“At least she didn’t curse you,” Rogan added, lifting a dark, elegant brow at his wife. “The names Margaret Mary here called me when Liam was born were inventive to be sure. And unrepeatable.”
“You try passing eight pounds, Sweeney, and see what names come to mind. And all he says, when he takes a look at Liam,” Maggie went on, “is how the boy has his nose.”
“And so he does.”
“But you’re okay now?” In sudden panic Gray looked at his wife. She was still a little pale, he noted, but her eyes were clear again. That terrifying glaze of concentration was gone. “Right?”
“I’m fine.” To comfort, she lifted a hand to his face. The face she loved, with its poet’s mouth and gold-flecked eyes. “And I won’t hold you to your promise never to touch me again. As it was given in the heat of the moment.” With a laugh she nuzzled the baby. “Did you hear him, Maggie, when he shouted at the doctor? ‘We’ve changed our minds,’ he says. ‘We’re not having a baby after all. Get out of my way, I’m taking my wife home.’ ”
“Fine for you.” Gray took another chance and skimmed a fingertip over the baby’s head. “You didn’t have to watch it all. This childbirth stuff’s rough on a guy.”
“And at the sticking point, we’re the least appreciated,” Rogan added. When Maggie snorted, Rogan held out a hand for her. “We’ve calls to make, Maggie.”
“That we do. We’ll look back in on you shortly.”
When they were alone, Brianna beamed up at him. “We have a family, Grayson.”
An hour later Grayson was anxious and suspicious when a nurse took the baby away. “I should go keep an eye on her. I don’t trust the look in that nurse’s eyes.”
“Don’t be a worrier, Da.”
“Da.” Grinning from ear to ear, he looked back at his wife. “Is that what she’s going to call me? It’s easy. She can probably just about handle it already, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Chuckling, Brianna cupped his face in her hands as he leaned over to kiss her. “She’s bright as the sun, our Kayla.”
“Kayla Thane.” He tried it out, grinned again. “Kayla Margaret Thane, the first female President of the United States. We’ve already had a woman president in Ireland,” he added. “But she can choose whichever she wants. You look beautiful, Brianna.”
He kissed her again, surprised all at once that it was absolutely true. Her eyes were glowing, her rose-gold hair tumbled around it. Her face was still a bit pale, but he could see that the roses in them were beginning to bloom again.
“And you must be exhausted. I should let you sleep.”
“Sleep.” She rolled her eyes and pulled him down for another kiss. “You must be joking. I don’t think I could sleep for days, I’ve so much energy now. What I am is starved half to death. I’d give anything and more for an enormous bookmaker’s sandwich and a pile of chips.”
“You want to eat?” He blinked at her, astonished. “What a woman. Maybe after, you’d like to go out and plow a field.”
“I believe I’ll skip that,” she said dryly. “But I haven’t had a bite in more than twenty-four hours, I’ll remind you. Do you think you could see if they could bring me a little something?”
“Hospital food, no way. Not for the mother of my child.” What a kick that was, he realized. He’d hardly gotten used to saying “my wife”—now he was saying “my child.” My daughter. “I’m going to go get you the best bookmaker’s sandwich on the west coast of Ireland.”
