"The Improper Wife"
A Warner Forever Release
November 2004
ISBN: 0-446-61437-8
©2004 by Diane Perkins
Gray drew his hand through his hair. What hellish retribution was this? The only fathomable reason for a pregnant woman to seek him out was . . . unfathomable. A nightmare of a new sort..
"Oh," she moaned, squeezing her waist. "The baby is coming! It is too soon. Too soon."
Gray pressed his fingers against his throbbing temple. Let it not be so. She could not possibly give birth to a baby in front of him. It was too cruel a joke for God to play.
She reached out, as if trying to grab hold of something. Gray obliged her by stepping forward, and bloodless fingers wrapped around his arm like a vise.
"Please get help. The baby. I can feel the baby." Her voice trailed into a wail and her knees buckled.
Silently cursing, he helped her to the threadbare rug on the floor. The dust tramped into its nap by countless boots had wafted into his nostrils. Who was this woman? He considered running out the door. If he ran far enough perhaps the nightmare would cease, or perhaps he could find help. Some woman. Any woman.
She rolled to her side, grabbing her knees and rocking. The skirt of her dress was wet. That meant something, but Gray was uncertain what - except that there was no time to seek help.
Gray wheeled around wildly, considering what to do. At the same time he tried to mentally compute the months. Where had he been nine months ago?
After Vitoria, after that damned night with Rosa, he’d accompanied Lansing to Gloucestershire. Lansing had traded his commission in the 13th for a militia post, and Gray had thought to have one last lark with his friend. That was before Lansing’s antics turned sour on Gray’s tongue, however. Gray shook the memory out of his still throbbing head and opened the cabinet where the maid-of-all-work stored blankets, towels, and linens. He grabbed them all.
The woman’s breath was coming in rapid bursts. Her eyes were wide and bulging. He’d seen a foaling mare with that same expression.
Terror.
It inexplicably registered with him that this woman had the appearance and speech of a well brought up young lady. He would not have dallied with a respectable miss, would he?
Could he have repeated the dishonorable behavior that still plagued his conscience? Truth was, he and Lansing had remained quite permanently drunk in Gloucestershire, and Gray could not recall everything he had done there. Could he have met this lady? Even so, would she have frequented the kinds of places where he and Lansing sought entertainment?
He dropped the linens at her feet.
"Will my baby die?" she managed between breaths.
He gaped at her. Now she’d given him another even worse anxiety. His conscience could bear only so much. She clutched her abdomen, grimacing in pain.
Gray’s heart pounded so hard he could not speak. But this was not Rosa. Too tall. Too English. Skin too pale, like French porcelain.
"Do not fret." He attempted a reassuring smile, but felt none of it himself. "I know precisely what to do. I grew up on a farm and have witnessed calving and lambing and . . . what might you call it? . . . kittening?"
"Get me a proper midwife!" She rose up off the floor, grabbing the cloth of his shirt in her fists. Daggers shot from her blue eyes. She was like one of the Furies. Tisiphone, the avenger of murder.
That was fitting.
Good God! Citing the Classics. He was turning damned bookish.
No time to dwell on that. He had bigger problems to ponder. Like a baby about to be born on his floor.
Gray eased the Fury back to the floor and fell to his knees. The woman convulsed in pain. Trembling himself, Gray pushed the blankets underneath her, pulled off her shoes and stockings, and pushed her skirt above her waist. Hesitating only a moment, he worked at removing her undergarments, fumbling like a lad taking his first tumble. He needn’t have worried. Her eyes no longer focused, the liquid blue hardening like glass. She stared past him, concentration inward.