Page 77 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

“Meg,” he said, struggling to remember how to speak. “Meg, I… I can’t… please….”

He shattered, his body surrendering to a burst of intense joy. The cry startled from him was guttural and harsh. Meg made a small sound, her hands clutching at his back as she trembled beneath him, pulsing around him and sending him higher still. Heaven held him suspended in soft darkness, stars glittering then fading into the velvety black, leaving him utterly boneless.

He huffed out a breath of deep content, vaguely aware he must be crushing her, and made a half-hearted attempt to shift his body, but she held on, keeping her with him.

“Stay,” she whispered

Nat snorted with amusement, for he could barely move, but subsided.

They lay together for a long moment, the only sound their breathing as it grew steadier.

“Is… Is that… usual?” she asked cautiously.

With a supreme effort, Nat lifted himself onto one elbow and looked down at her. “Certainly not. It’s never been like that before. That was just for you, Meg. I couldn’t have that with anyone else but you.”

She smiled, and closed her eyes, content.

“You’re still dressed,” he observed ruefully.

“Don’t care. Too sleepy,” she said, not opening her eyes.

“I’ll see to it,” he told her, forcing his unwilling limbs into action. Pressing a kiss to her lips, he climbed off her and turned her this way and that, undoing the hooks of her gown and pulling it off, before dealing with her stays and finally the chemise.

She lay back again, in a state of abandon, completely at ease before him as Nat gazed upon her splendid breasts. Desire uncoiled more as heat surged beneath his skin, but he forced it down. There was time enough. They had all the time in the world. For now, he’d be a gentleman if it killed him—entirely possible—and give her a moment to recover.

Carefully, he turned down the bed on his side before lifting her over onto the mattress, and then got in on the far side, pulling the covers up over them both. As he eased closer, he heard a soft snore and frowned.

With amusement, Nat gazed down at his beautiful wife and discovered she had fallen asleep.

She sighed, a sound of such contentment that it hit him square in the chest. He had done that. He had made her happy, made her feel safe and loved. It was undoubtedly the finest and best thing he had ever done, and he never intended to stop.

Epilogue

The blue Tyrrhenian.

Cala Violina, Tuscany—eight months later.

Nat lounged on the sand, lazily enjoying the sunshine warming his face as he watched Meg. She was standing with her dress hitched to her knees, the gentle waves frothing about around her ankles. Before her stretched the endless blue of the Tyrrhenian Sea, and she had been enchanted from the moment she saw it.

Nat remembered having thought about seeing her this way, remembered wishing to bring her to such a place, so she might see and touch and experience it all for herself. At the time, he’d thought himself mad to consider it. Now he almost felt sick at the thought he might not have come to his senses in time and grabbed hold of her before some other devil realised what a treasure she was.

But he had, and she was his, and life was more than he could ever have imagined.

They had travelled throughout France and down through Italy, visiting wonderful gardens and exploring remote places searching for specimens for his garden, stopping at ancient ruins, and visiting all the places Meg had only ever read about in books. There was still so much to see, so much to discover, and each day seemed like a gift.

He turned as he heard a voice hailing him and saw Francesco, the young man who worked at the villa they had rented, hurrying towards them.

“Signore, signore, ho un pacco per la signora. Arriva direttamente dall'Inghilterra!”

“A parcel?” Nat said, recognising that word at least, and affecting nonchalance with difficulty as excitement made him want to grin. “Darling, are you expecting something?”

Meg turned to look at him, and a pang of wonder struck his heart as he saw her in profile, the sun highlighting the subtle swell of her belly where their son or daughter was growing.

“No. What is it?”

“No idea,” he lied. “Come and see.”

Meg padded back up the sand, smiling warmly at Francesco, who gazed at her like an adoring puppy. The poor young man had become quite besotted by Meg, who spoke his language as beautifully as she did her own, and apparently with a charming accent.