“Lean forward, Amelie.”
He’d taken to calling her Amelie. And, only for him, she was her.
Carefully, he placed the tiara on her head—it was quite heavy with all those gemstones—and after a few adjustments, sat back, assessing. “Queen of the glen.”
She giggled again. She couldn’t help herself. This joy provoked such frivolity. “What shall I do with you, marquess?”
“Allow me to give you another gift?”
“Another? This one is already too much. I don’t need anything. You spoil me.”
From behind his back, his hand emerged with the other gift, a folded cloth. She saw at a glance it was a powder-blue silk brocade with a delicate floral pattern. Something about it made the breath catch in her chest. She took it in hand and rubbed her thumb across the fabric. Sumptuous and soft. “Is it a shawl?”
He nodded.
She held it up to the sunlight to better take in its quality. Lovely. Not a speck of sunlight peeked through its fine weave. “Where did you procure this?”
“France.” A beat. “It was quite difficult to locate.”
A feeling formed in her chest, in the vicinity of her heart. It told her this wasn’t just any fine silk brocade she held. “This was made from Papa and Maman’s hands.” She spoke with no small amount of certainty and awe. They’d specialized in such superior work. It was how they’d caught the eye of the French nobility.
“Aye.”
The full range of emotions—from grief to joy—flooded her, but unlike in years past, she wasn’t afraid to feel them as tears fell from her eyes and a smile spread across her face. “This is the most special gift I’ve ever received.”
And now she would give him her gift. She’d been waiting for the perfect moment, and no moment had ever been more perfect. She swiped at her cheek—truly, she’d become quite a leaky bucket—and said, “It will make a nice blanket.”
A slight frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “It’s rather small for a blanket.”
“Not for a baby.”
His eyes went wide, and a little wild, as they fell on her stomach. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged. She’d rendered him speechless. She took his hand and pressed it against her, which only in the last week had begun showing signs of roundness.
“You clever woman,” he murmured as he leaned in, took her hips in his hands, and pressed his mouth to her belly.
Her laugh was pure, unrestrained joy. “It took no cleverness on either of our parts.” But a considerable amount of lust and… “Only love.”
“I never knew true love or happiness until I met you.”
His lips met hers, tender, insistent. She’d moved closer to explore the possibilities of the urgency inspiring a wild recklessness inside her when up the glen, a shout sounded, followed by a round of barking. A few hundred yards away, Rafe and Sir Bacon were hurtling toward them with the happy momentum of a boy and his dog.
On a resigned laugh, she and Jamie pulled apart. “I’ll give you your third birthday present later,” he promised.
Again, she laughed. Never had laughter been so free.
“It’s quite a family we’re creating for ourselves,” he said, pulling her into the crook of his arm so they could take in the view, together.
Not so long ago, she wouldn’t have tempted fate with such a belief. But that was then, and this was now.
This was happiness. This was life.
Her happiness.
Her life.
The past would always be a part of her, but never again would it be a burden that kept her from finding joy.
Here was love.
Here was the future.
It was enough.
It was everything.
The End.
