Page 67 of Wed to the Highlander
“I’m right here.”
“You know what I mean.” Her lips brushed his.
“I do, but I won’t risk you—or him. And I’ll no’ meet my son the first time halfway down the hall.”
“Duncan!” she gasped, half scandalized, half laughing.
He grinned then kissed her, slow and deep, full of promise and restraint. “Let’s get you into bed.”
She grunted. “I’m not yet ready, at least not to sleep,” she said pointedly.
“Shall I read to you, then?” he offered, holding firm.
“Yes,” she sighed. “I’d love to hear, ‘A Visit from St. Nicholas’? I know it’s a child’s poem, but it was a tradition at Sommerville. Papa read it every year. Then James. This year it would be Andrew.”
“I enjoyed it the few years I spent the holiday at Sommerville.”
Maggie twisted to look up at him. “That’s right. I’d forgotten. In fact, it’s hard for me to think of you as Andrew’s friend instead of my husband.”
Duncan settled her on the settee with a pillow for her back and one beneath her feet. He covered her in soft wool then retrieved a book from the cupboard against the wall.
She sat up straighter when she saw the cover. “Don’t say that you have it?”
“Aye. Your mother gave it tae me as a gift. To continue the tradition with our children.”
“She didn’t tell me.” Tears sprang to her eyes, and she sniffled. “That was so thoughtful of her.”
He sat down next to her; one arm went around her, long enough for his hand to curl possessively over her belly.
“’Tis a night of celebration,mo chridhe.Don’t cry,” he murmured, the words low and tender.
“You know how weepy I am these days.” She dabbed her eyes with her sleeves. “And we’ve always been friends, Duncan. But that’s not very romantic for a wife and the mother of your child. Neither is ‘brown-haired girl,’ for that matter.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mo chridhe,” she said, unable to wrap her tongue around the Gaelic. “My friend.”
His lips curved in amusement. “Mo charaid,” he said slowly, enunciating, “is my friend.”
“Are you sure?”
“Aye, I’ve been speaking Gaelic since I was a lad of two.” He chuckled. “All this time, you thought…”
Maggie wrinkled her nose at him. “Pardon me, but you’re usually saying it into my hair or my neck or growling it when you…well, you know.”
His laughter grew, warm and unguarded.
“What does it mean, then?” she asked, a little irritated.
“My heart.” He lifted her hand to his chest. “You are, have always been, and will always be my heart.”
Her lips parted. “Oh…” She felt suddenly foolish—and yet deeply moved.
His smile was tender as he leaned in and brushed her lips with his. “You can ask me anything, lass. When it comes to your atrocious Gaelic, you really should.”
“I’m learning,” she said, tilting her chin. “I knowmo leannanis my sweetheart. From the beginning, that one has been mine.”
The rest of the night passed in quiet contentment. Duncan read the poem twice, Maggie’s head on his shoulder, the fire painting soft shadows over the room.
