“But what if you stopped desiring me because I grew too ungainly? And I want an honest answer,” she added. “What if I had to keep to my bed for months? Or I came out all in spots? Or my ankles start looking like twin mountains? Nana said that sometimes women don’t wish to have relations until the baby is born, and well after that.”

“I missed making love to you while I was gone,” he said softly. “But what I missed had little to do with our bodies joining. What made me wake, aching, in the middle of the night was my heart, not any other part of my body.”

“Are you quite sure?” she whispered.

He just shook his head at her, laughter in his eyes. “As sure I am of life itself.”

Then she pulled down her covers and put his hand on her great, hard tummy.

He almost fell back. “Lord Almighty, the babe grew in this fortnight!” Ewan said, spreading his large hands over the child.

“Father Armailhac would not like to hear you use the Lord’s name in vain,” Annabel laughed. And: “The doctor was here two days ago. I think we created this child on our very first night together, Ewan.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “In the Kettles’ cottage? ’Twas a beautiful night.”

She put her hands on top of his. “As Father would say, it’s a precious gift we’ve been given.”

His eyes were unashamedly brilliant with tears. “You are that to me.” He kissed her. “My wife. My heart. My beloved.”

He kissed her tears away. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed. “Look at your breasts, Annabel.” His hands hovered, uncertain. “I think they grew as well!”

“I won’t break,” she giggled, joy welling up inside her like a flood.

A moment later her head had fallen against the back of the couch. Her heart was beating in her ears; his hands were shaping her into fire. She opened her eyes and saw that his eyes had gone pitch-black. “Who knew that women became so beautiful during this time?” he said hoarsely. “We’re going to have to sleep in different rooms, Annabel, if you don’t want me to touch you.”

He rubbed a thumb across her nipple and she moaned, her hips involuntarily flexing. He pulled his hands away and actually stumbled as he rose. “ ’Twill be a trial,” he said, dragging his hair back from his forehead.

Annabel stretched. She hadn’t felt so good in months. Nor so—so beautiful. Nor certainly so desirable. “It will be like our first journey to Scotland together,” she suggested. “Perhaps we could play the kissing game again.”

“No,” he said. His face looked agonized. “No. No kisses.”

She rose to her feet and stretched again. He wrenched his eyes away. “Aye, a trial,” he muttered to himself.

Annabel grinned. She had never felt more provocative, more potent, more—more loved in her life. She strolled over to the bed and sat down, stretching her arms behind her so that her breasts showed to their best advantage.

“Lass, you’re going to have to help me,” her husband said earnestly. “No looking at me in such a way.”

She hid her smile and her joy, and pouted. “But I need help. And you are here to aid me.”

“Anything,” he said. “I’ll do anything you wish, Annabel.”

“In that case,” she said gently, “I’d like you to take this gown off.”

He stayed utterly still in the middle of the room.

“And then,” she said, her voice drugged with desire, “I’d like you to kiss me here.” She touched her breast. “And here.” She touched her great stomach. “And then…”

But he was there, next to her on the bed, gathering her into his arms in a movement so quick that she didn’t see it happen. “I love you, Annabel,” he said to her, his voice deep with the promise, the honesty and the truth.

“Ask me how much I love you,” she said, cupping his face in her hands. “I promise you an honest answer.”

“How much do you love me?” he whispered.

“Too much,” she whispered back. “ ’Twill go past death, there’s so much of it. And now you owe me a kiss.” A moment later, they were on the bed, nothing between them but the growing child.

And as it happened, Samuel Raphael Poley, future Earl of Ardmore, was fast asleep.