Epilogue
Miranda gripped the small of her back with both hands as she paced the solar. Her shoulders thrust back, she led with her belly, which for weeks now totally obscured her view of her feet. She glanced at Lucas’s desk, the top of which was papered with drawings of the cover art for Karmic Echo’s latest album, Blood Welsh Moon. The artist—the same Italian painter who had done many of Kitty Kincaid’s lush and elegant book covers—had perfectly rendered a moonlit Welsh beach with two lovers silhouetted against the night vista. And like most of her favorite romance novels, the album’s title would be embossed in gold or silver.
Miranda looked at her husband, who sat reading on the deep, wide leather sofa. His expression was intense and serious, unreadable. Miranda’s anxiety swelled a bit and the tightness in her lower back increased.
She went to the tall, broad windows of the solar and gazed upon the sunlit waters of Conwy Bay. Almost five months ago, fireworks celebrating her marriage to Lucas had illuminated the sky over the bay. Lucas had cast all reason and practicality aside in “throwing together” their wedding. The small, intimate ceremony Miranda had hoped for had become a weekend-long affair with a reception featuring performances by Karmic Echo and other Bilious recording artists—including the talented Tess Cullor. The town of Conwy had been invited to the reception, but to Miranda, it looked as though the entire population of Wales had turned out for the occasion. The wedding had been held in Conwy’s chapel. The small chamber was only large enough to accommodate their families and closest friends, but an anteroom held a hundred or so more guests.
Never a big fan of white to begin with, Miranda wore a gown of ecru silk, an Abu Ngatanze original. Lucas, who never imagined that Miranda could ever have been more beautiful than she was on the day of Calista’s wedding, wept at the sight of his bride on his wedding day.
Miranda turned from the window to again study her husband. He looked up at her and smiled as he closed the thick manuscript balanced across his knee. “This is the first book I’ve read that fictionalizes the story of Laith al Kadin and mad Lady Emberley.”
Miranda tucked her right thumbnail between her teeth as she ambled over to him, still massaging her lower back with her left hand. “What do you think of it?”
“It’s bloody brilliant. The author tells the tale wonderfully with warmth, humor and cleverness. It’s not the typical romance novel. I’ve never read an interracial historical romance. It has the scorching sex I generally search for, but it’s also quite literary.” Lucas opened his arms and guided Miranda onto his lap.
“Bernie said he liked ‘the lyrical turn of phrase.’”
Lucas held up the manuscript and read the author’s name. “Is Victoria Ronaldinho a friend of yours?”
“She’s me.” Miranda grinned and locked her fingers around Lucas’s neck.
“I thought some of those love scenes were familiar.” Lucas ran his hand along the soft denim covering her outer thigh. “Victoria Ronaldinho,” he said grandly. “Why that name?”
“Victoria Holt was one of the first novelists I really liked when I was a kid, and Ronaldinho is my favorite Brazilian soccer player. I figured that if I was going to try to get this thing published, I should do it on the book’s merit, using a pseudonym. I don’t want your name to be considered one of its selling points.” She shifted her eyes from his. “When I left the Herald-Star, I wanted to take one of the other job offers that came my way. But I know those companies only wanted me because of you. I want to succeed on my own merits, not because of who I’m married to.”
“I understand completely.” He gently grasped her chin and turned her face back to his. “I’ll have my agent set up a meeting with one of the literary agents at his firm.”
“No, Lucas. I want to do this on my own. I know it’ll be hard to get this book published, but if it comes too easy, I won’t appreciate it.”
“That, love, is a lesson I know only too well.” He eased his fingers into the hair at the back of her head and brought her mouth to his for a kiss. Miranda slid her hand under his sweater, and smiled at the way his flat belly jumped at her touch as her fingers moved to the zipper of his jeans. The pain in Miranda’s lower back seemed to lessen as Lucas nuzzled her breasts through the soft fabric of her white maternity shirt. She was at thirty-nine weeks and she had Alfred Hitchcock’s profile, yet Lucas made her feel as though she were the sexiest, most desirable woman in the world.
Which, to him, she was.
She moaned when he began to delicately use his teeth through the fabric, deliciously tormenting the most sensitive parts of her breasts. She held his head in her hands, reveling in the sensations he sent shooting through her.
“Miranda?” He opened her shirt and set precious kisses on the rounds of her breasts.
“Yes?” she panted.
“You’ve sprung a leak.”
It took her a moment to notice the wetness on Lucas’s lap.
“I believe your water’s broken,” he told her.
Miranda felt the strain of her eyes bulging from their sockets. “This is one of the signs!” Her voice seemed to shrink in her sudden panic. “We have to do something!” She lumbered off of Lucas. “Damn, these were my favorite jeans. We’re having a baby now, right? It’s now?” Tears rushed to her eyes. “Lucas, I’m having the baby!”
“Really?” he said, feigning surprise.
Miranda began to bawl.
Lucas took her in his arms. He soothed her and began walking her out of the solar. “Your mum and your sister are in the village and Bernie is somewhere here on the grounds. I’ll call them and have them meet us at the birthing center. Dr. Larch has been on call here at Conwy for the past three days, and I’ll send for her right now. First babies are typically long deliveries, at least that’s what Feast and Izzy were told. Izzy was in labor for thirty-one hours with Archibald Leonard Lucas Feast, remember?”
“The kid’s name is as long as his delivery was,” Miranda cracked.
“Are you having contractions?” Lucas asked.
“I felt something odd a few minutes ago, right before the dam burst. I thought it was just a cramp. I’ve been having Braxton-Hicks’s since—” She grabbed the stone wall with one hand and pressed the other to her belly. “Mãe do Deus!” she cried as a pain like none she had ever known seemed to radiate from the middle of her body all the way down to her toes. Her knees buckled and Lucas caught her up in his arms.
“Did that one feel like a Braxton-Hicks?” Lucas asked as he hurried with her down the corridor.
“That one felt like the baby’s trying to pry her way out,” Miranda gasped.
“Your ultrasounds were inconclusive, yet you’re still so certain that the baby is a girl,” Lucas said.
“She’d better be a girl,” Miranda winced. “I have this baby down as a girl in the pool.”
“What pool?”
“The baby pool here at Conwy.”
“You’ve set odds on our baby?”
“So far, Morgan looks good for the win. He picked a girl to be born in early October. If the baby weighs eight pounds or more, he’ll…Meu Deus, this is starting to hurt!” She forced her mouth to relax as she began the breathing techniques she’d learned to help manage the pain. “I want to take a shower,” she pleaded. “I really hurt now, and Dr. Larch said the shower helps.”
“You can take a shower at the birthing center.” Lucas leaned against the wall to keep his balance as he navigated his way down the stairs while carrying Miranda. “A pool on our baby…honestly, Miranda. I suppose it’s too late for me to get in on it?”
Her hold on him tightened as another contraction gripped her.
“There can’t have been more than a minute between those,” he said, more to himself than for Miranda’s benefit. “Morgan!” he hollered once they had reached the Great Hall.
“Sir?” Morgan rushed into the space that still echoed with his name.
“Page Dr. Larch and tell her that Miranda’s contra
ctions are a minute apart, and get Mrs. Penney, Mr. Penney, Calista, Alec and Bernard Reilly to the birthing center,” Lucas directed.
Morgan rushed off while Lucas trotted through the Great Hall and into a much more cozy chamber. The room had all the equipment that a hospital delivery room would have as well as all the comforts of home that Miranda wanted. Lucas set her on the birthing bed and held her hand as another contraction ripped through her, making her teeth chatter.
“Will Dr. Larch be here soon?” she asked.
Lucas helped her undress and to slip on the Canarinho T-shirt she had chosen to labor in. “She’ll be here, love.” He kissed her sweaty brow and smoothed damp strands of hair from her face.
Miranda’s contractions were stacking by the time Dr. Larch, her nurses and a neonatalist arrived within minutes of Morgan’s page. By the time Aña and Calista were slipping on sterile robes, Miranda was in the throes of pushing her first child into the world. Thirty-five minutes after Lucas brought her to the birthing room, Miranda gave him an eight-pound baby girl.
The baby had her father’s lungs. Her newborn cries seemed to carry through the Great Hall and throughout the town of Conwy, which raised a collective cheer and rang the chapel bells upon the birth of Lucas and Miranda’s child. Cleaned, weighed, examined and dressed, the baby was set in Lucas’s arms. His calm joy overlapped onto her, and she quieted.
“Would you like to hold your daughter?” Lucas asked Miranda, who was being tidied by her doctor and nurse.
“You’re so much better at that than I am,” Miranda whispered, recalling the way Archie Feast had wailed his eyes out the one and only time she had held him.
“I had lots of practice recently, thanks to Officer Brian Petrie and his wife Delores.” Lucas sat on the edge of Miranda’s bed. “Little Brian Jr. wouldn’t let me get the polishing done for wanting me to hold him all the time.”
Miranda raised her arms to her child, hoping and praying that the babe would be as agreeable for her as she had been for her father. Lucas set her in Miranda’s arms.
“She’s so little.” Miranda couldn’t stop looking at her daughter. Her eyes were closed, her long dark lashes fanned upon her plump, cinnamon cheeks. Her nose was a sweet little button, and the perfect strawberry bud of her mouth suggested the shape of her father’s. Silky black curls peeked from beneath the white knit cap the nurse had placed on her head. Lucas eased closer to his wife and daughter, slipping his arm under Miranda’s shoulders.
All at once, Miranda felt all the pieces of her life click solidly into place. “We made her. Meu Deus, Lucas, we made this beautiful little person.”
Lucas nodded. He gazed at his wife and daughter with more love than Miranda thought a man capable.
“You would have made a great seahorse,” she told him.
“What?”
“Never mind,” she smiled. “What should we name her?”
“I figured we wouldn’t know what to call her until we met her, but in keeping with Penney tradition, one possibility occurred to me. Calista means ‘most beautiful’ and Miranda means ‘much admired.’ How do you feel about the name Alysia?”
Miranda brushed the baby’s hand with her smallest finger. Her daughter’s hand opened and closed around it, and Miranda kissed the tiny fingers. “What does it mean?”
“Captivating.”
“I like it.” Miranda’s words broke. Tears dotted her lower lashes, blurring her daughter’s image.
“Can I get you anything, love?” Lucas asked. “Before I call everyone in to meet our little Alysia?”
Miranda wiped her tears and grinned at her husband. “Do we have any Fenway Franks?”
About the Author
Crush is the newest contemporary romance by Missouri native, Crystal Hubbard, who lives there with her husband and their children. When she isn’t busy writing, caring for her children, maintaining her household or hiding out from door-to-door magazine salesmen, Crystal enjoys paintball, bowling, and Po-Ke-No.
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