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...