Page 165 of Bride of Ice
They ascended together, soaring above the earth. Timeless. Weightless. When they could remain aloft no longer, they gasped in ecstasy, bursting into a thousand fragments and falling softly to the ground like flakes of snow.
Hallie lay back on the bed. Satiated. Drained. Exhausted. A warm and welcome carelessness settled over her in the afterglow of love. For those few moments, she felt no responsibility. She felt only utter bliss.
Summoning up the strength to turn her head toward Colban, it appeared he shared her carefree euphoria. A soft sparkle of delight lingered in his shining brown eyes. But the rest of him lay as limp and spent as a landed salmon.
For several long moments Hallie reveled in this haven, far from the outside world. Here there was no responsibility. No conflict. No challenges to face. No problems to solve. There was only peace and contentment.
Eventually, the elixir of love soothing her mind wore off, and her sense of honor and obligation returned. After all, she couldn’t dwell in a lofty paradise forever. But it was enough to know this place existed. And she intended to return to it as often as possible.
She smiled at her husband, who never ceased to amaze her with his gentle humor, his fierce devotion, his honest heart, his unflagging courage.
But duty called. She had a precious gift for him. One she’d managed to conceal until this moment. One she couldn’t give to anyone but him.
Before she could speak, Colban’s eyes lit up. “I have a wee gift for ye.”
She supposed hers could wait. “Is it the wee gift you keep in your braies?” she teased.
He clucked his tongue at her. “Wicked wench.”
He threw back the linens and hopped up from the bed. She rose on one elbow, savoring the sight of his sculpted shoulders, his broad chest, his narrow hips. Then he crouched down to fetch something from under the bed.
When he rose again, what he showed her took her breath away.
She scrambled upright. “Is that…”
He grinned. “Your own claymore.”
Her fingers trembled as she clasped the haft in both hands.
It was magnificent. A long blade of flawless polished steel. A hefty crossguard. A leather grip, soft and yielding. Heavy, but well-balanced.
“Do ye like it?”
“Oh, aye,” she breathed. It was the best wedding gift ever.
“I did that bit on the pommel myself,” he mumbled.
She turned the sword to look. He’d carved her name.
“You did this?”
He nodded, coloring.
“’Tis perfect,” she sighed.
Her heart melted. This man, born under the most unfortunate circumstances, had pulled himself up from his humble beginnings and become a champion. He’d shrugged off his past. He’d mastered the sword. He’d embraced chivalry. And now, never turning down a challenge, he’d learned to write her name.
She smiled through tears that came as often as spring storms lately, and she vowed she’d never tell him the Ls were backwards.
Colban was noble, inspiring, generous, kind, strong, principled, everything a woman could want in a husband…and a father.
“I have a gift for you as well,” she said, placing the claymore carefully atop the coverlet.
She took him by the hand, pulling him down to sit beside her on the bed. Then she placed his palm over her swollen belly.
“The babe growing here,” she murmured. “’Tis yours, Colban.”
He stiffened. “What?”
