***
Quincy woke when the sky was still dark, only the faintest lighting of the pitch black outside the window to the deepest indigo proving that dawn would soon be here.
The dawn of his and Clara’s future together.
She shifted in her sleep, her lithe body, warm and naked, settling more fully against his own. Joy filled him as he tightened his arm about her and kissed the mussed crown of her sable curls. His heart felt freer than it had ever been. There was no uncertainty, no fear, no anger. Only a deep, abiding conviction that he was where he was supposed to be.
He could feel the moment she woke; her body, which had been relaxed, stirred, her legs rubbing against his, her unbound hair rasping against his shoulder. She raised her head and smiled at him.
He pulled her down for a tender kiss. “Good morning,” he murmured.
“Is it morning then?” she asked, her fingers stroking his hair back from his forehead.
“Not quite.” He gathered her back into his arms.
She sighed, snuggling further into his embrace. “I wish I could stay here forever.”
He felt the exact same. He would never grow tired of this, waking with the woman he loved. The idea of her leaving his bed to return to her room, all for propriety’s sake, made him hold her all the tighter. He rather thought that a quick visit to London after Phoebe’s wedding might not be remiss; a special license sounded like a wise course of action. He smiled into her hair, reveling in the way the delicate strands tickled his lips. And from the way she was rubbing her leg against his and trailing her fingers over his stomach, he had a feeling she would not argue.
He was looking out the window at a sky just beginning to show the faintest blush of sunrise, contemplating if he had time to make love to her once more before she left, when she raised her head again to look at him. Her eyes were sober in the predawn light. “Are you well?”
He knew what she was asking: was he still all right after the revelations of the night before, after learning the truth of his parentage. And he hadn’t thought he could love her more. He smiled. “More than well, my love.”
Relief blossomed in her gaze. “You’re an amazing man.”
He chuckled. “Just as well, as I’m marrying an amazing woman,” he murmured, pulling her down for another kiss.
Some minutes later—happy, deliciously distracted minutes—she pulled back. “I’d best return to my room,” she murmured.
He groaned, his arms tightening about her. “No.”
“Yes,” she said with a small laugh. “Besides, Phoebe’s wedding is in just a few days. Once it’s done I’ve a mind to start planning our own. After all, the quicker we marry the quicker we can head off to those places you’ve dreamed of sailing to.”
He stilled, his stomach dropping. “But I thought you understood. Swallowhill will remain ours; we cannot sell it, doubly so now that I know what it was to my mother. I have enough funds to save the dukedom, but not enough to travel.”
He expected sadness. What he did not expect, however, was laughter. She grinned, her eyes dancing, and laid a hand on his cheek.
“Do you think I come to you without a dowry?”
“Dowry,” he repeated blankly.
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, dowry. My father was a generous man and made sure to provide for both my sister and me.” The smile she gave him was full of love. “And so, do you think you could be content traveling the world with me by your side?”
His heart nearly burst with love for her. And yet he knew this was just the beginning; his love would grow each day, stretching to the horizon and beyond into forever.
“With you, my love, I’ll go anywhere,” he murmured before taking her lips in a kiss.
Epilogue
Quincy raised his head from the map he had spread out on his father’s desk and looked out the window to the sea beyond. He took in the vast blue sky and the undulating waves with a happy sigh, contentment curling in his belly. They had been back for a month, but he was more than willing to stay just where he was for a good long while. There would be time to set sail again. After.
Just then a commotion could be heard from below. He smiled at the familiar, beloved sound, his gaze unerringly searching for and finding Clara. She was making her way back to the house through the lovingly restored gardens of Swallowhill, no doubt from an excursion to the greenhouse. She spent much of her time there, tending the plants they had brought back from their travels. It had been nearly a decade since they’d first set sail after their hasty wedding, and in that time she had accrued quite a collection. Most notably, the two imps at her side.
His gaze softened as he looked down on his children. Young Frederick, named for Clara’s father, was tall for eight, nearly reaching his mother’s shoulder. He walked at Lenora’s side, his gaze steady on her as she related something or other to him. In his arms was a small gray bundle, a young rabbit he had found and was mending back to health, the latest in his growing menagerie. And then there was Willa.
At six she fairly ruled them all, with her black hair and mischievous smile. Clara was known to moan that she was so like Quincy she feared for her sanity once the girl reached adulthood, accompanied by a fond look for them both. Right now, Willa was dancing among the flowers, singing and bending to pick up a rock, a leaf, and whatever else might strike her fancy.
Clara looked up and spied him. She grinned and spoke to the children, and soon they were all waving their arms, their bright smiles in the early-afternoon sunlight making his heart expand in his chest. He remembered that long-ago day when he and Clara had stood poised at the beginning of their life together—how it felt as if he could not hold a bit more love in him.