Ariella felt her chest tighten until it nearly hurt.
He looked right holding a child.
The thought hit her like a blow.
She imagined it without permission.
A baby with his eyes. Dark and steady. A little boy with his stubborn jaw and fearless stride. A little girl with his resolve, perhaps sharper than his, who would rule him with one small hand.
A family.
With him.
The longing surged up so fast she nearly staggered.
She had wanted him. She had desired him. She had been grateful for him. But this was different.
This was wanting a life.
A future filled with tiny laughter and big memories.
Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned.
She loved him.
She loved her husband with a depth that frightened her.
Ariella’s breath caught, and she realized she must be looking at him like a fool, because when Maxwell’s gaze lifted from the baby to her face, something flickered in his eyes, sharp and alarmed.
For a heartbeat, they held each other’s gaze across the small room.
Then Maxwell looked away quickly, as if he had seen too much.
He cleared his throat, the sound rough. “She’s… quiet.”
Ariella’s voice came out soft, almost broken. “She likes ye.”
Moira made a triumphant sound. “Oh, she does.”
Mairi laughed weakly. “Of course she does. Everyone likes the laird until he starts scowling again.”
Maxwell stared at the baby a moment longer, jaw tight as if he were fighting something inside himself.
Then he handed the baby back to Ariella with careful precision, as if the act required discipline.
“There,” he said. “Safe.”
Ariella cradled the baby again, but her hands trembled slightly now, not from fear, but from the realization that had settled in her bones.
She was completely and utterly in love with him.
And Maxwell, standing there with empty arms, looked as though he would rather face a battlefield than whatever he had nearly let show.
Ariella smiled anyway, gentle and quiet, because she did not know what else to do with love like this except carry it carefully.
Just as she carried the child.
21
