“I couldn’t put it into words when Charlotte’s letter came,” he said hoarsely. “There was no language for what I felt. I sat with pen in hand more times than I can count, but nothing I wrote seemed enough. I fought. I did my duty. I led men into hell. But at the earliest possible moment, I came back to tell you this—” His eyes burned into hers. “That I love you, Jane. That even the thought of losing you made me suffer more than I thought a man could bear.”
Her lips parted in silence. She had never cared to hear the words—only the deeds that would prove them right. But now that they came, they shook her more than she’d expected.
He went on, lower now, with none of the poise she had once associated with Lord Blackmeer. “I don’t care merely for my son, Jane. If you had not lived—” He swallowed. “I wouldn’t have wanted to see the boy. Not if he had taken you from me.”
She drew in a sharp breath. Her spine stiffened. “Do not say such things, William,” she said, her voice calm, yet laced with steel. “Do not. Because if I were truly lost—if I had died—my soul would not have rested if you mistreated my boy. And I will notallow you to. You hear me?” Her gaze was unwavering. “If you hurt him in any way, I will never forgive you.”
There was a long silence. And then—quietly, almost boyishly—he asked, “But you have forgiven me… haven’t you?”
Something in her softened. Her eyes shone with a gentler light. “Well,” she said slowly, “I am willing to work through any differences we have.”
She turned toward the bassinet and reached down, lifting the small bundle with practiced ease. The baby stirred, grumbling faintly as he was roused, and she cradled him close, brushing a kiss to his fine downy head.
“So,” she said, with a look that was both teasing and ceremonial, “let me introduce you to little George. Though in this household, for the time being, he mostly goes by rabbit.”
William blinked. “Rabbit,” he repeated, incredulous. He remembered the line in Charlotte’s letter and had dismissed it as one of her ridiculous jests. “You call my son—a future duke—after a rodent?”
Jane only shrugged, untroubled. “It began as a joke. Charlotte said he resembled a rabbit Margaret once doted on. And then it stuck.”
He looked at her as if she’d grown two heads. “He is my heir. He is to inherit Westford Castle, the seat, the title, the responsibilities of a noble line. He is not,” he said with grave emphasis, “a rabbit in any form, woman.”
Jane smirked, and without waiting for his further protest, she stepped close and eased the bundle toward him.
“Careful,” she murmured. “Support his head. I’ll steady the rest.”
William obeyed, sliding his good arm beneath the child. The baby settled easily into the crook of his elbow, light and warm, his small body pressing against the breadth of his chest. One tinyhand wriggled free of the swaddling and curled tight around the fabric of his coat.
And just like that—William forgot how to breathe. The child weighed almost nothing. He was warm. Alive. Fragile. And he needed him. Not in some abstract, dynastic sense. Not in the way one thought of a legacy or a lineage. But truly, bodily, needfully. This tiny thing—this soft, strange creature—could not survive without care. Without protection. Without love.
William swallowed hard. He had led thousands into battle. He had faced death more times than he could count. But nothing had ever made him feel this helpless—or this responsible.
“He’s so… small,” he said at last. “So… light.”
Behind him, Jane gave a huff of laughter. “He seems small. You’re the size of a cavalry horse, William. Everything looks tiny to you.”
William glanced back at her, but she was grinning now, arms folded, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“That child came into the world with his fists already clenched,” she added. “He weighed over nine pounds, and I felt every ounce of it. Try pushing him out and then tell me he’s small.”
“He’s… strong,” he murmured, conceding the point.
William looked down again, into the sleeping face of the boy who bore his name, his blood, the likeness already plain. And for the first time in his life, William Strathmore, Lord Blackmeer, future Duke of Westford, felt something that shook him to his core: A need to be worthy.
Not of the title. Not of Jane. But of this. Of the child in his arms. The child who would one day look to him not as a nobleman, or a commanding officer—but as a father.
Jane stepped forward, her hand brushing lightly across William’s arm. “You see?” she murmured. “He’s not so frightening after all.”
William didn’t answer. But his hold tightened slightly, instinctively, as if to shield the boy from a world too large and too cruel.
And when he finally spoke, it was only this: “I won’t fail him, Jane.”
She touched his cheek, her thumb grazing the stubble along his jaw. “Good,” she said. “Because he’ll never forgive you either.”
Chapter 47
Jane gathered the child in her arms and started up the narrow staircase. William followed close, his step heavy on the boards. At the landing, she paused outside her chamber.
“I’ll put him down,” she whispered.
