The Highlander's Christmas Countess (The Lairds Most Likely 8)

Kit smiled, as she recalled Connor’s glee at having a whole week at Glen Lyon with his cousins and the other children. There were at least twenty bairns sleeping upstairs in the nurseries right now – although she had her doubts if much actual sleeping was taking place.

Apart from Connor, there were Fergus and Marina’s three, Hamish and Emily’s two, Brody and Elspeth’s four, and Diarmid and Fiona’s five. Not to mention assorted extras. Christmas tomorrow promised to be joyous chaos. She could hardly wait.

“In that case, there’s no time to lose.” Quentin smiled down at her with the unabashed admiration that never ceased to make her want to melt into a puddle of warm syrup. “May I have this dance, Christabel?”

“I’d love that,” she said, accepting his hand. “Although I can’t promise that I’ll be too light on my feet.”

“You’re always the soul of grace to me, my darling.”

His gentle teasing made her giggle. Connor had been a large baby, and she’d felt like a whale by the time her tawny-headed son had emerged squalling into the world. “Just keep thinking that.”

“You’ll be beautiful to me as long as I live, sweetheart.” Quentin’s arm curled around her waist, and he swept her out into the whirling dancers. “I love you, my favorite stableboy.”

Her eternally susceptible heart did one of its now familiar flips. She never tired of hearing him declare his love. Which was a good thing, because he did it with delightful frequency.

“And I love you with all my being, my wonderful husband.” She trailed her hand up his shoulder to tangle her fingers in the silky hair at his nape. It was a silent promise of many more caresses to come. “You were the best Christmas present ever.”

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