There was something about being married to your very own James Bond that was almost sinfully exciting.
Once, a year or so ago, she'd asked him if he missed his old life. Did he have any regrets?
Conor had smiled, taken her in his arms and told her with words and with his body that this life, the one they'd made together, was the only one he wanted.
It was how she felt, too.
For the first time ever, she was part of a family. There was her husband, and her baby; there was Jean-Phillipe, living in California and happily out of the closet, directing films instead of acting in them and being, as Susannah insisted, the very bestest uncle in the whole wide world. There was Conor's father, who was doing his best to learn how to give love unconditionally. There was the unborn child in her womb, who would make the magic circle complete.
But always, always, the center of her soul, the very heart of her, would be her husband.
Miranda moved more closely into the curve of his arm, and laid her head on his strong shoulder.
"Conor?" she said softly.
Conor looked at his wife. Her head was tilted back and she was smiling and his heart kicked the way it always did, the way it always would, at the knowledge that she was his.
He smiled back, shifted into the corner of the glider, and drew her onto his lap.
"What, baby?" he murmured.
Miranda lifted her hand to his cheek. There was so much she wanted to tell him but she didn't have to. He knew what was in her heart.
"Nothing," She took his hand and brought it to her lips. "I just like to say your name."
Conor's arms tightened around her. "Do you have any idea how much I love you?"
The answer to his question was in her kiss.
Low on the horizon, a creamy white moon slipped from behind a screen of lacy clouds and caught in the branches of an old apple tree. Conor rose to his feet with his wife still in his arms.
"Let's go to bed," he said, and as he carried her into the old house and up the steps, the cricket chorus swelled and swelled until the night was alive with song.
The End