Fleur tuckedup her bodice and handed her bundled lass to the older lady, who clucked and patted and dropped kisses on the forehead of the gurgling baby before setting her to her shoulder.
“She’ll spit up on you, madame,” Gareth said, pulling Fleur out of her chair.
The Veuve sent them both a crinkly smile. “Enjoy the moonlight, while I sing this little one to sleep.” She set off for the house, already crooning off-key.
“Walk with me,” he said. “Under the harvest moon.”
She glanced up at the clear night sky and pulled her shawl tighter. Just one year ago, on a night like this, he’d asked her to marry him, and she’d run away.
When she shivered, he tugged her against him, putting his arms around her. The scents of starch and the musk of hard work and virile manhood filled her as the warmth of him seeped into her. She rubbed her cheek against his linen shirt and turned her lips up for a quick kiss that tasted like sweet champagne.
“This moment.” He sighed. “Ah heaven. A good harvest. Good champagne. A magical full moon.”
She smiled up at him. “A Champagne moon.”
“Yes.” He leaned in and she lifted her chin expecting another kiss.
But he stopped, and his rumbling murmur made her quiver. “Who would have thought it? You, my beautiful woman, and me, under the Champagne moon.”
With a laugh, she pulled him down for a kiss that went on, and on, and on.
THE END
