“You knew,” he said. “Beneath the level of conscious thought you knew. And talking about this house, this mansion . . .” He grinned at her.
“It is better than a mansion.” She set one hand gently against his cheek. “It is where your mam loved you and raised the little boy I adored. It is your home, your heritage, your roots. And it is where we loved, cariad.”
He realized that his eyes had filled with tears only when she wiped one away with her thumb.
“Mrs. Phillips will be sleeping in my bed tonight,” she whispered. “Take me into your home, Geraint. This home. Make love to me.”
He lowered his head and kissed her.
“And to Glynderi to call on your father tomorrow morning,” he said some time later, “to make a confession and to arrange a wedding, love.”
“Yes.” She smiled at him. “But tomorrow, Geraint. Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow,” he agreed. “Let us go home, then, cariad.”
Home. She set an arm about his waist and her head on his shoulder as he led her there. It would never again be his place of residence as it had been when he was a child. But it would always be home—the place in which he had known all the significant love of his life. First his mother, now Marged.
She kissed his cheek, sighed with contentment—and perhaps with anticipation, too—and preceded him through the doorway.
