Page 79 of Some Like It Wild
He reached down to cup a reverent hand over her belly, marveling that the child they had made could be growing inside her slender body.
She grinned up at him through her tears. “If it’s a boy, do you think your father is going to insist that we call him Percy?”
“If he does, I’m afraid I’ll have to shoot him.”
Pamela laughed aloud as he swept her into a dizzying embrace, raining kisses down on her upturned face.
A disgusted voice interrupted their joyful reunion. “Now, there’s somethin’ I never thought I’d live to see.”
Connor reluctantly lifted his head. “And what’s that, Brodie?”
The Highlander shook his head, his braids waggling in mock disapproval. “Connor Kincaid surrenderin’ to the English without even puttin’ up a fight.”
“Oh, he put up quite a fight,” Pamela assured him, patting Connor’s chest.
“I most certainly did,” Connor said. “But even the bravest and boldest warrior knows when it’s time to lay down his arms.”
Ignoring Brodie’s snort, Connor crushed Pamela’s lips beneath his in a tender and fierce kiss, joyfully surrendering his freedom and his future to the bonny English lass who had captured his heart.
Epilogue
As Pamela carried a piping hot tray of shortbread onto the terrace, a plump yellow kitten darted between her ankles, nearly sending her sprawling. While she regained her balance, swearing softly beneath her breath, the cat retreated to lick its front paw and give her an offended look—making her feel as if she had deliberately set out to crush a kitten or two beneath her heel before the morning was done.
The kitten and its four siblings delighted in frolicking beneath their feet at every opportunity. Even the shortest stroll or jaunt down the stairs had become an exercise in survival. At least the mother cat was content to spend her days stretched out on the low stone wall surrounding the terrace, basking in the warm September sun.
Pamela might not have been so clumsy if she hadn’t felt so ungainly. But the babe inside of her seemed to be growing as fast as the kittens.
As she approached the wrought-iron table where Connor was jotting down figures in a set of leather ledgers, she held the pan out in front of her, displaying it proudly. “Look, darling. I baked you some more shortbread.”
Connor groaned. “Oh, dear Lord, not again.”
Pushing the ledgers aside, she set the pan on the table. “I do believe it’s my best effort yet.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that,” he said, tentatively poking the smoldering lump of dough with his finger. “You know—I don’t understand why you don’t just let Cookie make the shortbread. After all, the duke did send her all the way from London to be our cook.”
“And when would she have time? Ever since she and Brodie eloped, I can’t get either one of them out of bed.”
Connor slipped an arm around her waist, drawing her into his lap and nuzzling her neck. “Perhaps we should follow their example.”
Pamela wrapped her arms around his neck, shivering with delight. Connor had loved her body when it was new to him and he loved it even more now that it was ripe with his child. She knew at least one Scot who did have insatiable carnal appetites and she took great delight in satisfying them at every opportunity.
She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling as warm and content as the mama cat as she gazed out over the breathtaking vista before her.
She had finally gotten her cottage by the sea. Who knew that one of the duke’s largest holdings was on the east coast of Scotland? The stone manor house perched on the majestic cliffs overlooking the North Sea was so vast and sprawling that she and Connor still both got lost occasionally and had to find their way back to each other.
For a semi-reformed highwayman, Connor had settled quite comfortably into the role of lord of the manor. He’d spent the last few months welcoming the Scottish tenants back to the land and teaching them how to manage the sheep that had displaced them. Swayed by his influence, several of the local English landowners had begun to do the same.
“I got a letter from Sophie today,” Pamela informed him. “She’s coming for Christmas.”
“Uh-oh,” he said. “I got a letter from Crispin today. He’s coming for Christmas too.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell her. We’ll let it be a surprise,” Pamela said, already gleefully anticipating her sister’s reaction. “I’m afraid Crispin is going to be quite distraught when he discovers she’s cajoled the duke into sending her to Paris to study acting as soon as the war is officially over.”
Connor snorted. “If she takes to the stage again, Crispin won’t be the only one distraught. They might just decide to bring back the guillotine.”
Pamela began to count potential guests on her fingers. “So if Sophie and Crispin and Catriona and Simon and their brood and your clansmen and their families and the duke all come for Christmas, we’re going to have quite a houseful.”
Connor gently rested his hand on the impressive mound of her belly. “With any luck we’ll be able to add one more to the guest list before Christmas Day arrives.”
