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“Or Scotland,” Ned said, just loudly enough to raise a scattered laugh.
“Aye, or Scotland today. I give you my wife, my countess, and the woman I love. Lady Channing.”
Three energetic cheers broke out, ringing through the cold air. It hadn’t snowed this year, but Ralph Thompson, the oldest man in the village, swore there would be a heavy fall tonight.
Snow had fallen the first time Rory had kissed her. Ever since, Bess had been sentimental about a white Christmas.
“To you, my bonnie lassie,” Rory said.
Bess blinked back tears. She was disgracefully emotional these days. The villagers’ cheers, not to mention Rory’s beautiful speech, left her wanting to bawl like a lost calf.
“Th…thank you,” she said unsteadily, meeting Rory’s bright green eyes. “And I’d like to say a special thank you to my wonderful husband. Penton Wyck couldn’t ask for a better master, and I couldn’t call a better man my lord.”
They were usually playful with each other—passion and laughter made for a stimulating life. She rarely spoke with such unalloyed sincerity. In homage, she sank into a deep curtsy, struggling a little with the straight cut of Mary’s blue robe.
Rory understood. Of course he did. His tender expression warmed her to the bone. Over the last year, their bond had deepened and stabilized, until love was the very air she breathed.
“You do me too much honor, my lady,” he said, mounting the stairs to take her hand as she rose. He turned to the crowd. “Let’s make this the best play ever. Then the merriest Christmas in the history of Northumberland.”
He escorted her to where Daisy waited in line behind the Three Wise Men. After that glowing tribute, Bess could no longer contain the news she’d intended as a gift after the midnight service in St. Martin’s.
“Rory, wait a moment,” she whispered before he lifted her into the saddle.
“What is it?” he asked in quick concern. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
She’d been sick that morning, but she felt marvelous now. She stretched up on her toes to murmur into his ear, “Mary is with child.”
Rory caught Daisy’s bridle before she could do any damage and his attention was on the disgruntled donkey. “Of course she is. With the Baby Jesus.”
Bess laughed and placed a hand over her belly. “No, although perhaps with the next Earl of Channing.”
Rory abruptly dropped the bridle and whirled on her, his face pale with shock. “What did you say?”
She glanced around. Nobody was watching. The players were all too busy taking their places for the procession. “I’m going to have a baby.”
The brilliant happiness that lit Rory’s eyes threatened to split her heart with joy. “Truly?”
“Truly. Anne Coe says in June.” Bess had visited the village midwife yesterday to confirm her suspicions.
“My dear, dear love.” He caught her up against him and despite being in public, he kissed her soundly. When he raised his head, Bess was blinking back more tears. If she made it through the day without dissolving into floods, it would be a miracle of biblical proportions.
“Well, really!” Bess’s aunt exclaimed from the steps behind them. “Such behavior.”
“What else can you expect from a pirate?” Bess’s starchy cousin Priscilla sniffed in disapproval beside her mother.
“Bess told me he wasn’t a pirate, but a captain in the navy,” Bess’s slightly nicer cousin Phoebe said from the doorway behind them.
“Now he’s turned respectable, of course that’s what she’d say,” Aunt Henrietta retorted dismissively. “I know a renegade when I see one.”
Rory caught Bess’s arm before she could confront her relatives. “It doesn’t matter.”
Bess laughed wryly. He was right. Her relations’ nastiness didn’t matter. “It seems the legend of the pirate earl of Penton Abbey is indestructible.”
He tilted that sardonic auburn eyebrow. “Come on, admit it—you like the idea of being a buccaneer’s lady.”
She traced a finger along his jaw, ignoring her aunt’s gimlet stare. “If you’re the buccaneer in question, I’m proud to call a pirate my husband.”
He kissed her again and carefully placed her in the saddle. Bess fumbled for the reins, but she was too late. Daisy took advantage of Rory’s distraction to snatch Melchior’s crown.
