The Highlander's Christmas Countess (The Lairds Most Likely 8)
“I’m sorry it was such a small wedding. I know girls dream of the crowded church and the elaborate dress and a hundred bridesmaids. My dashed sisters talked of little else, well before any of them decided which poor sod to marry.”
Kit gave a self-derisive snort. “I didn’t dream of getting married. I dreamed of breeding a Derby winner.”
She released a startled gasp, as he whirled her around and kissed her again. By the time he raised his head, she was breathless and dizzy.
“What was that for?” she gasped, clinging to his shoulders, so she didn’t dissolve into a puddle at his feet.
He smiled at her as if he’d never seen anything so wonderful. “That’s for you being you. I’m so happy you married me.”
She stared into his face and for the first time believed in her heart that while the threat of scandal might have compelled them to wed, he wasn’t an unwilling bridegroom.
“And I’m happy you married me.” She went on in a rush. “I don’t care that it was just you and me and Hamish and Emily and Laing at the wedding. What matters is that you promised to be mine and I promised to be yours. Because I meant those words with all my heart.”
His expression changed, and she saw that her words left him profoundly moved. “Christabel, I don’t deserve you.”
Wondering, she stared up at him. “You’ve never called me that before.”
He touched her cheek with such tenderness that she felt ready to melt. “Tonight you’re Christabel, beautiful and mysterious.”
She’d never before felt that her prosaic, busy self measured up to such a fanciful name, but as she stared into Quentin’s blazing gold eyes, for the first time rough-and-tumble Kit was also Christabel.
“You make me Christabel,” she whispered.
He smiled and touched her hair. “Although I hope Kit’s still in there
somewhere. I’d miss that ragamuffin if I never saw her again.”
His teasing leavened the intense atmosphere building between them, and she laughed. “I promise Kit will be back.”
“Excellent news. I did so enjoy kissing a stableboy.”
A stifled giggle emerged. “That would have caused a scandal indeed.”
“Now let me see what Kit was hiding under that execrable coat,” Quentin said, letting her go and moving behind her again to finish untying her laces. “The thought has kept me awake for many a night.”
Now that was nice to hear. “Has it indeed?”
“Oh, yes.”
She gulped. He kept saying these things that stole her breath. “The coat was a bit of an eyesore, wasn’t it?”
He gave a grunt of sardonic laughter. “An eyesore? It was uglier than a two-headed pig.”
“I’ll burn it.”
“Don’t you dare. It holds wonderful memories for me. Not to mention that I want to show it to our children when I tell them about their mother’s adventures.”
“Ch…children?” It seemed absurd, but until now Kit hadn’t really considered bearing Quentin’s children. Life in recent years had been a series of short-term decisions, made in a rush to solve a current crisis. She’d barely had the chance to look beyond the next week.
“Of course.”
“Of course,” she said on a breath.
His tone remained teasing. “How do you feel about half a dozen?”
Something inside her twisted with poignant emotion. He’d make a good father. She had a sudden vivid image of a little boy with Quentin’s mussed tawny hair and bright hazel eyes and arresting intelligence.
Thanks to Quentin – and Hamish and Emily and Laing, too – her long ordeal was nearly over. One more day, and she was free of Neil. In fact, in marrying Quentin, she was free now. The terms of her father’s will were that once she wed, she gained control of her inheritance.