“Oh Christ, not even an hour old and he’s got a bleeding title,” she joked through more tears. “Missus, can ye send Tom in?”
The housekeeper nodded, then opened the door and dipped her head toward the bed before stepping out. I heard Tom clamber to his feet before he stumbled in, rumpled and terrified. Precisely the way a new father should look.
His jaw dropped as he took in the sight. An exhausted Sorcha, furiously swiping at the tears that refused to stop falling. My own dropping unrestrained on the soft blanket wrapping little Ewan, who was the only one to cease crying and instead released an angry snuffle every few breaths.
“Meet yer son,” Sorcha repeated, steadier for the rehearsal.
“A boy?”
“Yes. Ewan Thomas Hasket.”
Tom melted in understanding, his hand covering his heart. He approached my side, but didn’t reach for the babe. Instead, he found her hand. “Are you well, Sorcha?”
Her laugh was sharp and ironic. “No, but I will be. Little lad couldnae ask for better pas.”
“Do you want to hold him?” I asked.
He looked absolutely petrified, brows high and lips parted. There was nothing but sincerity in his nod. When he accepted the bundle, a shocked laugh escaped. “How is it possible that every single one of you shares the brow?”
“Dinnae ken. But I’m glad we do.”
I pressed a kiss to her temple while we watched Tom fall in love. It was so plain, so obvious on his face and in his countenance that I wondered how I had missed it all those years. Tom Grayson loved fast, hard, and forever.
When his eyes began to water, we all shared a laugh.
“Fusspots, the lot of us,” Sorcha murmured.
“Here,” Tom murmured, handing the babe back to Sorcha.
“Oh,” she breathed, eyes only for her son.
“Do you want to rest? The two of you? Or we can take him. Whichever you’re more comfortable with,” Tom said.
“He can stay,” she whispered.
Tom and I stepped out and shut the door behind us. He led us back to our bedroom, where he pushed me onto the bed and stripped my boots and his own before he turned me to lay back with the rest of my clothes still on. He curled up alongside me in much the same state.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Overwhelmed. Exhausted. Terrified. In love. Pick one.”
“Hmmm.”
“You?”
“Much the same.”
He nuzzled into my neck and drew a soothing breath. “It will be well, though. After all, the boy just has a little extra love in his life. No one was ever hurt by that.”
“No, certainly not,” I agreed, leaning down to steal a kiss.
“Just so you know, I am so glad you decided to leave London. We never could have had this in London.”
“Not cross with me for leaving you any longer?”
“No. Not when it brought us this—a home. And a life together.”
After another sleepy kiss, we settled to fall asleep in our bed that we selected, in the room we made our own, in the house we repaired, in the country we chose. My Scottish scheme had been a brilliant notion indeed.
