by Jenika Snow
“No, he is hungry, and besides, I’d better feed him before he wakes Tristan.”
He watched her rise from the bed and pad over, naked, to her dressing gown. She slipped the cotton around her body and smiled over at him. He had a beautiful family, two sons that were strong and would watch over the manor and this land when they were older, and defend it as fiercely and passionately as he had. And he would spend the rest of his days with his wife by his side. He stared at the canopy above him, and then heard her come back into the room. Her gown hung off of one shoulder, and Deacon was latched onto her breast as he nursed. He loved watching her feed his sons, loved the way she hummed to them until they fell asleep, and especially loved that she would caress their tiny heads that were both covered in thick black hair.
“Come here, lass.” He moved over on the bed and curled his arm around her waist and pulled her closer when she sat on the edge. He stared at his son as he nursed, and he ran his finger over Deacon’s wee brow. There was a knock on the door several moments later, and then a servant was bringing Tristan in the room. His young son rubbed his eyes, and fat tears ran down his cheeks. As soon as he saw his mother he ran up to her.
“I’m verra sorry, milord and milady, but young Lord Tristan had a bad dream, and insisted on coming tae ye, even after I tried to ease him.”
Bronson shook his head. “‘Tis okay, Laura.”
The servant nodded and left them alone. Bronson cradled his son on his lap, had his wife and infant beside him, and sighed. He might be a hardened warrior and have killed countless people, but these three were his world. Over the last three years he had not led the life of a warrior, but that was mainly because he had not wanted to leave his family alone if he were to die like his father had. There also had not been any threats ones his land or people, and because of that he had led a pretty quiet existence. After Mattina had been taken away for treason and being an accomplice to kill Genevieve and his unborn child, Bronson had no choice but to make an example of her. He had never harmed women or children, didn’t want to either, but after he had gone to Mattina with plans to banish her, she made it clear she would not give up. She had deceived them, acting as though they could trust her. She told Bronson it was because of him her love was lost, and because of that she would try with her last breath to ruin his life, and his family’s life. That he could not have. But still he hadn’t been able to harm her, and so he sent her away on a ship, far across the sea so that she could forever live her life alone, and thinking about the harm she had caused. She would not be harmed where he had sent her, but she would never be able to harm him or his loved ones again.
He smoothed his hands over Tristan’s head, and then leaned down to kiss Genevieve and Deacon on the head. He would never let anyone hurt them, would kill for them and die for them. They were his life now. He had never known that there was something he could love more than his land or his clan, but seeing his children, and the woman that had given him those children, Bronson knew that he would fight another thousand battles just to have this moment once more.
****
Twenty-five years later
The Scottish sun shone brightly, and Bronson sat next to Genevieve. They were old now, had a house full of children, and now even a handful of grandbabes. He reached for his wife’s hand. She was older now, but looked gorgeous just the same, and to him had hardly aged in these last twenty-five years. Bronson still trained at the manor, still expected the worst and waited for someone to try to claim what was not theirs. But he was prepared, and with five grown sons to take over his legacy, and three daughters to keep his life holding meaning, Bronson knew that when his time did come where he was to leave this world, his name would not die with him.
“Seanair. Seanair. Look!” Adaira, his youngest granddaughter, called for him in Gaelic. She lifted her hand and showed him the flowers she had picked.
“They grow verra fast, Bronson,” Genevieve said, and when he looked over at her he saw her smiling.
“Aye, lass.” He squeezed her hand and looked around at his family. His two oldest sons, Tristan and Deacon were playing with their children. Tristan had two sons of his own, Bhreac and Nicol. Deacon was with his two wee lasses, Adaira and Dolina, and his son, Paden. Then there were the rest of Bronson’s children and grandbabes, and he smiled at the sight. They had the Lyon signature dark hair and blue eyes, but then there was little Adaira who had taken after Genevieve with her wild red curls and bright green eyes. He turned and faced his wife, and smiled. “Life canna get any better than this, lass.” And then he leaned forward and kissed her.
The End
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Other Books by Jenika Snow:
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Evernight Publishing
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