“Then we shall live them together.” She guided his hand to her still-flat belly and held it there. “This child will be loved, Christian—completely, unconditionally, exactly as they are. Whatever they look like, whatever trials they may face, they will never doubt that they are wanted. I promise you that.”
He looked down at their joined hands for a long moment. Then, slowly, he sank to his knees before her.
“I do not deserve you,” he whispered. “I do not deserve any of this.”
“You deserve everything.” She threaded her fingers gently through his hair, cradling his head against her stomach. “And I shall spend the rest of our lives proving it to you.”
He wept then—quietly, his shoulders trembling—and she held him until the storm passed. When at last he raised his head, his eyes were red but clear.
“I love you,” he said simply. “I love you, and I love this child, and I will be the father they deserve. I swear it.”
“I know you will.”
She bent and kissed his forehead, soft and full of promise.
Outside, the summer sun shone brightly over Thornwick. Inside, two people who had once believed themselves unworthy of love held one another close and dreamt of the future they would build.
A family. A home. A life richer than either of them had ever dared imagine.
It was, Fiona thought, the greatest adventure of all.
***
The months passed swiftly after that.
Fiona’s figure gradually rounded with child. Christian’s anxieties rose and fell in quiet cycles—sharpening whenever she showed the slightest discomfort, easing again when she assured him that all was well. He read every volume on childbirth and infant care he could procure, becoming unexpectedly knowledgeable on subjects that caused the household servants to exchange amused glances when his back was turned.
“You are going to wear a hole in the carpet,” Fiona observed one evening, watching him stride the length of their bedchamber. “The child is not expected for another month.”
“I am thinking.”
She patted the coverlet beside her. “Come. Sit down. Rest a moment.”
He obeyed, though rest clearly eluded him. As always, his hand drifted at once to her belly, seeking the faint stirrings beneath.
“What if something goes wrong?” he asked quietly. “What if—”
“Nothing will go wrong.” She laid her hand over his. “I am well. The child is well. We have an excellent physician and more assistance than we could possibly require. Everything will be as it should.”
“You cannot know that.”
“No,” she admitted gently. “But I can believe it.” She shifted, turning toward him. “I must believe it, Christian—and so must you. We cannot spend the next month—or the rest of our lives—waiting for calamity. We must trust that the future will treat us kindly.”
“The future has not always treated me kindly.”
“No,” she said softly. “But the past is finished.” She cupped his face between her hands. “Now we make the future together. And I choose to believe it will hold joy for us.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch.
“I am trying,” he murmured. “I am trying to believe it as well.”
“I know.” She kissed his forehead. “That is all I ask.”
They lay together as the dusk gathered in the room—her head resting on his shoulder, his hand upon her belly—feeling their child stir and turn beneath her skin.
It was peaceful.
It was perfect.
