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“But we can’t!” I protested with a laugh. “Miguel...”
“All right,” he grumbled, then his eyes smoldered. “But I’m taking you back to our bedroom as fast as the car will go.”
But at my request, we returned to Rohares the long way. He took me to the spot where legend said Boabdil, the last sultan of Spain, took his very last look at Granada, after he was forced to cede it to Spanish King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.
“Oh, no. I left the guidebook at the hotel,” I said sadly, then brightened. “But I left my name in it. Hopefully they’ll find it and call.”
“A guidebook? Get another one!”
“It’s a souvenir,” I whispered, “of the happiest night of my life.”
He kissed me, then standing on the hill, we looked back at Granada. “They say Boabdil wept when he looked his last upon his city,” I said wistfully. “And his mother mocked his tears. She sneered that he was weeping like a woman for what he could not fight for as a man. Can you believe that?”
“People can say hurtful things to those they love,” Alejandro said quietly. “Especially when they’re backed into a corner and their own hearts are breaking.”
As we drove back home, I suddenly realized Alejandro was right. I thought of all my anguished years feeling lonely in London, wishing hopelessly for my grandmother, my uncle and Claudie to love me. But they could not, because they did not know how. Instead, they’d relentlessly pursued the wrong things, luxury and status and appearance. They’d never known that the only way to gain happiness was not only to follow your heart, but to give it away.
Leaning over, Alejandro took my hand. Bringing it to his lips, he fervently kissed it. My eyes blurred with tears as I smiled at him, thinking how lucky I was.
And that was the moment I forgave my family for not loving me. Sometimes, I thought, you have to make your own family.
Blushing, I said shyly, “So what do I call you now?”
He looked at me. “I’ve grown fond of Alejandro. I’ll let my son keep Miguel.” He turned away, facing the road. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “After we get back, I’m going to talk to a lawyer. I’ll see if there’s any way to renounce the title without causing risk to Maurine.” He looked at me. “But it seems so much to ask of you.”
“What?”
“Would you be heartbroken to give up the title of duchess—and know Miguel would never be a duke?”
“Are you kidding?” I gave a low laugh. “I’m happy to give it up. Do you really think I’m duchess material?”
He looked at me seriously. “Yes, mi amor. Yes.”
“I’m happy as your wife,” I whispered. “However that may be.” And he squeezed my hand in his.
When we arrived at Rohares Castle, we hugged our baby and Maurine, who immediately started telling us every small detail of their extremely uneventful night, which mostly involved patty-cake and Miguel dozing as his great-grandmother read him Washington Irving’s Tales of the Alhambra. “So Miguel felt part of the experience, too. It seemed appropriate....”
“Like his name,” I said. Smiling, I glanced back at Alejandro. “It turns out I named him after his father.”
With an intake of breath, Maurine looked between us. Then she gave a whoop of joy. “Took you long enough,” she cried, then hugged us, telling us we were silly to be so emotional as she wiped her own eyes. “So. I, too, have news. The best news of all.” Maurine looked between us, beaming. “While the two of you were on your honeymoon, I did something with your hairbrush....”
The house phone rang loudly from across the great room. Wondering if it might be the hotel calling about my guidebook, I said hurriedly, “Just a minute.” Rushing across the room, I answered breathlessly, “Hello?”
“Don’t say my name.”
Edward?! I gritted my teeth and rasped, “I’m hanging up now.”
“If you do, you’ll be sorry.”
Something about the cool confidence of his voice made me hesitate. “Why?”
“Because I know.”
“What?”
