Excerpt of Midnight Bride by Susan Carroll

The wind rattled the cottage windowpanes, the pale sun
presiding over a day that seemed endless to the young
woman who writhed upon the bed. As the next contraction
hit in a hard wave, Carrie Trewithan clutched her fingers
across her distended belly and was unable to stifle a
sharp cry.

The midwife hovered over her, patting a cool cloth to
Carrie’s perspiring brow. “There, there, dearie. Try to
hold on. ’Twill all be over soon enough, I’ll be bound.”
Sarah gave her a broad toothless smile, but the fear in
the old woman’s eyes was unmistakable.

Something was going terribly wrong this time. Carrie had
labored hard for seventeen hours, all through last night,
the morning and into the afternoon, longer than she’d ever
done before, and still no babe. She sank back weakly
against the pillows of the rough wooden bedstead, her lank
brown hair tumbling about her. She couldn’t endure much
more of this. She could feel her strength fading with each
fresh wave of pain.

I’m going to die, she thought, closing her eyes tight to
stem the flood of tears. Not for herself but for the
helpless little ones she’d be forced to leave behind. The
new babe if it lived and her other children, Janey, Tom,
Sam, and Aggie. What would become of them with no mother
to look after them?

Lost in the haze of her own misery, Carrie was only
vaguely aware of Sarah moving away from the bed to whisper
fiercely to someone attempting to enter the room. No doubt
little Tom, crying again, wanting his mama. Lord knows,
Carrie didn’t want any of her children seeing her this
way. It took a great effort, but she turned her head to
deliver a gentle admonishment, her eyes fluttering open.
Her breath caught in her throat instead.

It wasn’t Tom. A man filled her threshold, carrying with
him the powerful scent of crisp autumn air. His broad
shoulders were draped in a caped greatcoat that fell to
his knees, casting a dark presence like the specter of
death itself.

Carrie stiffened in fear as the stranger stumped closer,
his heavy boots ringing off the floor in an uneven gait.
But before she could cry out, he stripped off his cloak
and beaver hat, passing them to Sarah. The light filtering
through the dirty windowpane fell full upon his face. No
hideous spectral features but those of a mortal man. His
wind-tossed black hair and heavy dark brows appeared too
harsh for the pale hue of his countenance, the alarming
lines of his hawklike nose at odds with the sensitive cast
of his mouth. But one glance at him was enough for anyone
to tell. This was a good man, a kind one, his strength
tempered by gentleness.

Carrie’s fear evaporated in an awed sigh of relief.

“Oh, Dr. St. Leger,” she whispered. “You—you came.”

“Aye, Carrie.” He smiled down at her. He had a quiet
smile, a mere half-quirking of the lips that marked him as
a man who did not easily give way to mirth. He scolded
gently, “Why on earth did you not send for me sooner?”

“ I should not have sent for you at all. I—I have not much
money—”

“Hush. That’s not important.”

As he drew up a chair close to her bedside, Carrie
moistened her lips, rushing to finish her explanation
before the next wave of pain robbed her of breath. “ ’Tis
only that it has gone on so long this time and—and it
hurts so bad and I’m so tired—” Her voice broke on a dry
sob. “You’re the only one who can help me, Dr. St. Leger.
The only one.”

“And so I will, Carrie. Everything is going to be all
right now.” His voice was soothing, filled with such quiet
conviction that she believed him, even though she knew
that her husband, Reeve, would be mighty angry with her
for daring to summon the local doctor.

She should have been frightened to have done so herself.
He was the youngest son of the dread lord of Castle Leger,
Anatole St. Leger, a man rumored to be descended from a
sorcerer. It was whispered that all St. Legers had a bit
of the demon in them.

But she saw no demons in Valentine St. Leger’s solemn
features. Rather he had the eyes of an angel, warm,
compassionate, full of the knowledge of human suffering,
because he knew what it was to suffer himself. She
panicked a little as the next contraction started to
build, but she felt his strong hand close over hers.

“Don’t be afraid, Carrie. Just look at me and hold on
tight,” he said.

Her breath hitched in her throat, but she struggled to do
as he asked. She gripped his hand and stared deep in his
remarkable eyes, a rich velvety shade of brown. And at the
touch of his palm against hers, something strange began to
happen. First it was a mere tingling, then a warmth that
slowly spread up her wrist like a golden liquid rushing
through her veins. The terrible pain began to ebb.

She saw the doctor’s mouth tighten as though all her
suffering was being drained from her into him. It was what
everyone in the village whispered he could do, work this
inexplicable magic, but Carrie had never fully believed it
until now.

She knew she was in the throes of another terrible
contraction, but she felt nothing, her eyelids growing
heavy, deliciously drowsy. She lost all track of the
minutes that she had counted with such agonizing precision
before. From some great distance, she thought she heard
Dr. St. Leger’s strained voice rapping out orders to
Sarah, commanding Carrie herself to push. She felt a rush
of warmth between her legs followed moments later by a
tiny cry.

“God be praised,” Sarah seemed to sing out from a hundred
miles away.

Carrie merely smiled like one floating in the mists of a
dream. When she finally felt able to open her eyes again,
something nestled in the crook of her arm, something soft
and wriggling. Still half-dazed, Carrie peeled back the
blanket to see that it was a babe, a little girl.

Like a sleepwalker jerked awake, reality sank in. She had
just been delivered of a daughter. She was worn to a
thread; she already had four other children she scarce had
the strength to care for. Ah, but this new little girl of
hers was such a miracle, so healthy, so perfect, and
Carrie was still here to cradle the babe in her arms.
Tears of joy trickled down her cheeks.

She turned to thank the angel who had seen her through
this ordeal. But like the mysterious St. Leger that he
was, the good doctor had already disappeared.

The road leading to Castle Leger wound uphill, a narrow
track half lost in the purple haze of twilight. But the
roan gelding moved with a sure step, a fortunate thing for
his master was scarce alert enough to guide him.

Barely able to remain upright in the saddle, Val St. Leger
hunched over, his bleary eyes struggling to focus on the
road ahead. Exhaustion melted into the very marrow of his
bones. He felt as drained as if . . . as if he’d just
endured three hours of agonizing labor to bring forth a
child?

Val’s mouth crooked in a tired smile. He’d wager there
were few other men who could lay claim to such a feat. He
would never make his mark in the world as a soldier, a
brilliant artist, or a great statesman. But his strange
St. Leger gift offered him at least one distinction. He
knew firsthand how much pain had to be endured to give
birth and he could only marvel at the strength of women to
continue populating the world. Especially Carrie Trewithan.

The poor woman had been constantly with child these past
seven years if one counted her miscarriages. Val had
warned her oaf of a husband that Carrie’s frail body
needed time to recover. It had been a miracle that she had
survived this last pregnancy, and while she had fought to
bring their child into the world, Reeve Trewithan had been
off drinking at the Dragon’s Fire Inn, boasting about his
potency. The man was notorious for neglecting his family,
staggering home only when he felt the itch to drag his
wife into bed.

Val would have to have another word with Trewithan
tomorrow. A word! Val felt his hands tighten on the reins.
He wanted to thrash Reeve Trewithan senseless. It was what
his brother Lance would have done. But such behavior was
not to be expected from the village doctor and a crippled
one to boot.

An old injury had left Val with a permanent limp and his
bad knee was flaring worse than usual tonight. Already
tired from battling his own pain, it had not been the
wisest thing, taking on Mrs. Trewithan’s suffering as
well. But what else could he have done? Val thought,
remembering Carrie’s hollow eyes, the desperation in her
voice.

“You’re the only one who can help me, Dr. St. Leger. The
only one.”

How often had he heard that plaintive refrain from too
many suffering souls? The memory of pleading eyes,
beseeching cries haunted him even in his sleep, pursued
him in his waking hours. Unconsciously he attempted to
spur Vulcan onward as though he would outride the
persistent voices. He paid at once for the inadvertent
movement. A stabbing pain shot through his knee.

Val gasped, drawing in several sharp breaths until the
pain subsided to a dull ache. And it had made no
difference to Vulcan. The horse continued to plod along at
his own steady pace. There had been a time in his youth
when Val had been able to spend a hard day in the saddle
and then battle at swords with his brother half the night.
A time when he had been able to handle the most spirited
hunters in his father’s stable.

But remembering could only stir up bitter thoughts and
regrets. Grieving over all that he had lost was something
Val never allowed himself to do. He kept such dark
emotions tamped deep down in the secret corner of his soul
where they belonged.

As Vulcan rounded the next bend, Val was heartened, some
of his weariness dissolving at the sight of his
destination. A thick line of oaks obscured the newer
port...