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Strider looked at the cherub cheeks of his boy. For the last year he’d been begging for this, ever since he first saw the boys and girls practicing archery at the field on the west end of the Willows that had been designated as the practice grounds.
To Wallace it was a glorious game—the arrows whizzing through the air—all he could think about were dragons and knights and storming castles.
Strider prayed—would move heaven and earth—so that his boy would never lose the innocence of those thoughts.
He beamed back a smile at his son. “That I can do. I will be happy to teach you. You will be the surest shot in no time. And then you will be the one to teach all your tricks to your younger brother or sister.”
Looking to explode for the smile across his face, his little fists vibrated in front of him, unable to contain his excitement. “Thank you, Papa, thank you.”
Chuckling to himself, Strider let his boy slither down the ground and he grabbed his hand. “Now let’s go collect your mother.”
They walked down the hill, Wallace’s tiny hand clasped in his.
“Oh, and Papa, it is a younger brother.” His son looked up at him. “I am sure of it.”
Strider laughed. “Why do you think so?”
“I had my hands on Mama’s belly earlier when he was kicking. I told him to kick twice if he was a girl and three times if he was a boy. And he kicked three times. Three.” He held his free hand up in the air, three of his fingers waving. “Mama says we are to be the best of friends. The best of men.”
“She is undoubtedly right.”
They reached Pen, and Wallace tugged his hand free from Strider’s grip, running off to play with the other children gathered at the edge of the pond skipping rocks. Wallace didn’t have the coordination for rock skipping quite yet, a fact that never stopped him.
There were nearly a hundred here now. A hundred children. And there would be so many more once the two new wings off the main house of the Willows were completed. He’d just finished discussions with the architect overseeing the project and he’d been promised the construction would be done before the cold of winter set in. It couldn’t be fast enough for Strider.
Lucky for them, the Willows was only an hour carriage ride away from the Leaven Manor, so they could visit often.
He stepped to Pen, kissing her brow as his left palm went flat onto her belly and his right fingertips rested along the back of her neck, tracing her spine. “You, my wife, are a genius.”
A smile as bright as the sun lit her face. “Truly? Do tell me more.”
“Turning the Willows into this.” His arm swung about him. “I never could have imagined the good that could have become of this estate.”
Pen looked around her. Scores of children played by the pond, the sounds of their laughter filling the air, a call to all angels to come out and play.
For how many of his investments he’d had to sell for propriety’s sake once the title was firmly back in place, the Willows was someplace he was never going to let go.
But it could evolve, and that it had.
The children at the Willows were all orphans, fighting for the barest existence in London’s rookeries. Fighting as hard as he and Pen once had to. But now they were here. The Willows was now their home, for as long as they needed it. And so many of the retired ladies from Strider’s old brothels had jumped at the chance to live there as caretakers—or they would travel from their cottages in Fifield to help every day. A purpose for them—so many of them had so much love in their hearts that they had never been able to shower upon anyone.
Pen slid her arm along his lower back, leaning into him and settling herself into the crook of his arm. Exactly where she belonged.
She looked up at him, her green eyes twinkling. “I may have imagined it, but you made it so, Strider. I think that makes you the genius.”
“Wemade it so.” His arm slipped to tighten along her shoulders. “It truly is the best use of the estate, as this is the one place I’m never letting go. This is where my forever with you started—truly began—and I’m never going to give it up.” He leaned down to kiss her, the cool of her lips turning heated far too quickly. Her mouth slipped open, her tongue tangling with his. Torture for his lower region. But he would never tire of these lips. Never.
It would be entirely more convenient for him at the moment if the babe wasn’t about to make an appearance any day. But for another child—boy or girl, he didn’t care—he would wait patiently, his trousers securely buttoned.
Pen wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was he.
He may not be the best of men, but he did have the best of women.
That alone made him the luckiest of men.
Valor. Honor. Courage. He was becoming reacquainted with those traits. Every deed he did, every thought he had, would honor his fortune until his dying day.
