by Anita Mills
“Aye.”
His mouth felt nearly too dry for speech, and his whole body was taut as he approached his bed. Arabella lay back, her face drawn and her hair wet from the labor, but her eyes opened when she heard him. He dropped down on one knee to take her hand.
“Art all right, Bella? Sweet Jesu, but I worried.”
“ ’Twas easier this time.” Moving slightly, she shifted the swaddled babe from the crook of her arm to her chest. Her eyes filled with tears and her lip trembled as she looked on the small bundle. Choking from the emotion she felt, she pulled the cloth from his babe, “Thanks be to God, but she is whole—she is whole, William! There is naught about her that is not perfect!” Lifting her eyes to his, she added tremulously, “Sweet Mary, my lord, but her hair is redder than yours.”
Relief washed over him. He had a daughter. He looked across at the wee, wrinkled babe born of his flesh and hers, and despite its redness he thought it so beautiful that he could not speak for the lump in his throat. Arabella’s hand smoothed the orange down against the small head.
“Ena says ’twill darken,” she offered. “We have hopes ’twill be as yours.” She looked from her babe to him. “You truly do not mind that she is not a son?”
He squeezed her fingers. “Nay. I told ye I’d have a girl like ye.” With his free hand he gingerly touched his tiny daughter’s face, tickling it with a fingertip. “She is as soft as the petal on a rose,” he managed reverently. The slate-colored eyes blinked at him. “Aye, and ye know your sire, don’t ye, wee one?”
“Now that you have seen her hair, would you still name her Rose?” Arabella asked softly.
“And ye dinna mind it, I’d name her naught else.”
“Not Rosamund or Rohese? Just Rose?”
“Aye—she’ll be the Red Rose of the Border when she is grown.”
“God willing, the next one will be a son we can name Giles for your brother.”
“Mayhap, but if ’tis not, there are other flowers I like also.” He leaned over to brush a kiss against her lips, then he stood. “Thank you for loving me, Bella.”
“ ’Twas nae hard task, Will o’ Dunashie,” she answered, smiling. “But I’d nae hae ye leave me yet.”
“Och, but I’d hae one of us speak right, Bella,” he chided, grinning. “Ye’d nae have the bairns speak like border louts, would ye? As for leaving ye, I’d but get Jamie that he may see the wee one also. He’s prayed full half the day that ye and the babe would be all right.”
She waited until he was nearly to the door, then she repeated his words. “Thank you for loving me, William.”
He swung around and his grin broadened. “ ’Twas nae a hard task, Arabella of Byrum.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anita Mills resides on a small acreage in rural Missouri with her husband Larry, eight cats, and two dogs. A former teacher of history and English, she has turned a lifelong passion for both into a writing career.
The Fire Series
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