“Please inform the staff that Wren and I will be dining shortly. And please take this cake to the table.”
The older woman looked at him curiously as she hefted the plate bearing the decorated cake. “My lord, did you make this for Lady Wren?”
“I did, but I’d rather it be a surprise.”
“Of course.” Her eyes twinkled as she vanished into the hall in a rustle of skirts.
As it was nearly dinner, he hadn’t the time to wash. So he went in search of his wife.
He found Wren descending the central staircase, their son cradled in her arms. She wore a simple green dress and pearl earrings he had gifted her for their wedding anniversary last month. The green complemented the warmth of her brown skin, her dark hair and darker eyes. She was lovely. A jewel. There was not one part of her he did not love with the whole of his heart.
Her gasp rang out as she caught sight of his ghastly appearance. “Boreas? What in the world—” She blinked as he climbed the stairs until he stood two steps below her, their eyes level. “Is that flour in your hair?” She touched a strand paled by the flour dust.
The baby squabbled between them, reaching for his papa. Boreas’ smile broke free as he tucked their son against his chest. “Did he sleep?”
“Well enough.” Wryness dimpled her cheek.
Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to his wife’s mouth, resting one hand against her swollen belly where their next child grew. Then, because he had every right to, he deepened the kiss until Wren was left gasping, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright.
“Where have you been?” Wren demanded. “I thought you would come back to bed.”
“Busy.”
She scowled. Boreas laughed. All was right in his world.
“Come.” With their son perched on his hip, Boreas drew Wren downstairs to the dining room. The fireplaces sat empty, but come autumn when the air began to cool, they’d light the fires. Various works of art decorated the cool stone walls, and patterned rugs livened the space. Last week, Elora had visited with her husband and daughter, and she and Wren had spent the day rearranging furniture. After the growing pains Wren had experienced with her sister, he was glad they remained close, calling on one another every few months.
“What’s this?”
Wren stood near her chair, her attention resting on the cake in the center of the table. She blinked, clearly bewildered by the sight. “I thought Silas had the day off.”
Of course she would assume Silas had baked it. “He does,” he said, and something in his tone must have revealed the truth.
Lifting her eyes to his, Wren asked, very carefully, “Did you bake me a cake?”
“I did.”
Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. Her gaze returned to the sweet. “It’s very… floral.”
His chest puffed out with pride. “It is.” The epitome of spring. His wife spent every free moment in the greenhouse, often carrying their son in a sling on her back while tending to the flower garden that expanded year after year.
“I can’t believe it. No one has ever baked me a cake before.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Wren had asked Silas to bake her a cake their second dinner together as husband and wife. She’d then proceeded to eat the entire confection herself. An appalling, if impressive, feat.
“Well,you’venever baked me a cake, is what I should have said,” she corrected.
His eyes warmed. His palm curved over Wren’s backside and began to wander. She lifted a questioning brow, glancing at the baby from the corner of her eye.
He removed his hand with some effort, pressing a kiss to Wren’s forehead. “Will you try it?”
She sat. Their son banged his chubby hands against the tabletop between them. He had his mother’s coloring but, Boreas noted with pride, his father’s eyes. In four months, their family would grow again. Boreas hoped their second child would be a girl.
“What’s the flavor?” she asked.
“Vanilla.”
Wren forked a bite into her mouth, chewing slowly.
