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"She's just trying to keep all the well wishers out."
"No, she's tryin' to keep ye out. She said she's gonna take a strap to ye if ye burst in there like ye did earlier, raving like a lunatic. I don't think she likes ye much."
"What a coincidence," Slayde inserted wryly. "She made similar threats to me when Tyler was making his appearance into the world."
"Yeah, she bellowed somethin' about not likin' ye much, either," Gin confirmed. "But she said ye were a lamb compared to Merlin. She said 'e'd make a wounded bear look good, that never in all 'er years of doin' this 'as any man been as loud and domineering and downright unbalanced as Merlin…"
"That's it," Julian exploded, jerking about and storming toward the stairs. "I'm going up there and throwing the old crone out."
"Julian—don't." Courtney rushed forward, grabbing his arm and staying his progress. "I know Mrs. Peters is somewhat overbearing and more than a bit cheeky. But, trust me, she's extraordinarily competent despite her rather forward manner." Pleading tone or not, Courtney looked suspiciously as if she were biting back laughter. "She did a splendid job of helping me birth Tyler. Why, there's not a better midwife in all of England. So please, don't do something you'll regret."
Julian forced himself to comply, knowing full well that Courtney was right. Nothing mattered now but the well-being of his wife and child.
"I tell you what," Courtney went on in that soothing way she had. "I'll go up and check on Aurora. She'll want to know Mr. Scollard is here, anyway. Then I'll stay by her side until the babe is born. Would that make you feel better?"
"I'd feel better if I were with her."
"No you wouldn't," Slayde refuted. "Because not only would you swoon from the experience, but Mrs. Peters would then have to divert her attentions from Aurora and the babe to cheerfully toss your body out the bedchamber window. No, Julian, I'd say you were better off staying right here."
"Doing what?" Julian demanded as Courtney squeezed Slayde's arm and hurried off. "What the hell am I supposed to do while my wife is suffering?"
"Help Slayde watch Tyler," Courtney called over her shoulder. "My son will be delighted to introduce you to the joys of fatherhood."
Julian didn't smile. He averted his head, raking a frustrated hand through his hair. Never in all his life had he felt so helpless, so terrified. Oh, somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind he'd realized there would be pain involved with bringing a new life into the world. But never had he expected Aurora—his Rory, who'd shot a privateer dead, been held at gunpoint atop the black cliffs, persevered through the long and dangerous discovery of the black diamond as well as its triumphant return to the Crown—to agonize like this, her slight body bathed in perspiration, racked with spasms of pain. Dammit. He should be able to help her. He needed to be able to help her. She'd given him so much: his heart, his inner peace, the spirit that lighted his days, and the passion that consumed his nights.
Marriage to her had been—continued to be—the most exquisite of adventures.
Immediately following Tyler's birth, they'd sailed off on their wedding trip, visiting every place Geoffrey's journal had cited as one of the Fox and the Falcon's destinations. First they'd journeyed to China and Singapore, next to Bengal and Ceylon. From there they'd traveled down to the southern coast of Africa, then west to Barbados and Trinidad, north to Canada and Newfoundland, and finally back to Gibraltar, Malta, and the Continent before returning home to England.
Each stop had been an awakening not only for Aurora, but for Julian, his wife's exuberance and sense of discovery more valuable than all the world's treasures combined.
The only puzzling part had been the inordinate number of purchases Aurora had made at each village they visited—mementos, she'd claimed, that would rekindle pivotal memories in the years to come. More baffling still had been her insistence that the purchases be shipped ahead not to Cornwall, but to Morland Manor.
It wasn't until their arrival in England, their brief stop in Devonshire, that Julian had discovered why.
When Aurora had said she had plans for Geoffrey's estate, she'd meant it. During their absence Morland had been converted into a magnificent testimonial to their great-grandfathers, each room dedicated to a different mission of the Fox and the Falcon, redecorated in the traditional style of whatever village, town, or city that expedition had taken them to. And in the manor's entranceway, a glass casing stretched the entire length of the marble hallway—a casing that displayed the very heart of the Fox and the Falcon: Geoffrey's journal and his sketch of Morland Manor, James's falcon text, and both men's daggers, strongboxes, and keys. Atop the casing, hanging proudly on the wall, was a letter from the Prince Regent himself, dated just after the black diamond's restoration, acknowledging James and Geoffrey for who they were, commending them for their loyalty and courage, and declaring them heroes.
The mausoleum that had haunted Julian's memories was no more. In its stead was a remarkable tribute to a pair of remarkable men.
Only two rooms at Morland remained unchanged.
The library, where Aurora had first told Julian she loved him, and one bedchamber: Hugh's. That room especially, Aurora had made certain remained as it was—untouched and undisturbed—a private haven for Julian to visit and to savor his personal memories.
Thus, Morland was at peace and Merlin Manor was home.
Julian had been totally overcome by what his wife had done. But his sentiments had paled in comparison to the ones he'd experienced when he learned she was pregnant.
Weak-kneed relief over her well-being had transformed to shock, finally evolving into a bone-melting combination of awe and joy.
Aurora was carrying his child.
The months that followed had been a miracle for him; watching his wife's body change, ripen, and swell with his babe. He'd immersed himself in every glorious detail, loving Aurora to the very depths of his soul—and wanting her with an intensity that seemed to heighten with each passing day.
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Still, when her pregnancy reached the stage that precluded lovemaking, he'd learned to endure celibacy—something he'd never imagined doing with Aurora in his bed. Hell, he'd even gone so far as to acquire a measure of patience, forcing himself to await the babe's arrival with a modicum of control.
Somehow it had all been bearable.
