“You’re a godmother, Jules,” Saint said. “Come, let’s go admire Byrony’s perfect child.”
“I’m a godmother?” she repeated blankly, and he knew she was striving desperately for something real to grasp.
“Yes, and I’ll wager Brent will even let you suggest names for the little fellow.”
“Yes,” Brent said, “I will, Jules.”
“I want to see my godson,” she said.
“I’m proud as hell of you,” Saint said, kissing her, and led her from the cave.
He became aware of Wilkes’s blood on the front of his shirt.
There was so much hell on earth. But then, there were also other people who made life bearable, people who made meaning of things, who gave joy and love. And he had his wife, he had his Jules. He realized something then that would be with him throughout his life: he loved someone more than his own life. God, he was lucky. The fragility of life, the preciousness of life . . .
He clutched her against his side. And that’s where she would be, always. Beside him, part of him.
Jules stared around the Hammonds’ parlor, feeling disoriented for a moment, until Michael said gently to her, “You think we can make as cute a little boy as Byrony did?”
“What about me?” Brent said, grinning down at his wife. She was still dreadfully pale, but the sparkle was back in her eyes. Their child, Damon Michael, was sleeping in a crib beside her chair.
“What about you?” Saint said, his voice sardonic. “All you did was enjoy yourself, repeatedly.”
“So true,” Byrony said, giving her husband a radiant smile. “Jules, if ever you tire of that husband of yours, I will gladly take him. A most useful man. A most caring man, and he told me the most unusual story about how saints are created.”
Saint cocked a brow at her but said nothing. He was, quite frankly, surprised that she remembered.
“I should offer the same for Brent,” Jules said. “If it weren’t for him, I should be on board a ship sailing for China.”
No, Saint wanted to tell her, there would have been no ship. There would have been naught but an ending—and Wilkes had known it. Poor bloody bastard.
“I believe we should drink to how great we all are,” Brent said. “Can Thackery have a glass of champagne, Saint?”
“Mr. John Thackery,” Saint said, giving a heartfelt smile to the grinning black man, “has my thanks and good wishes for all eternity, not to mention free medical care.”
“Excellent.” Brent shouted. “Mammy! Champagne for everyone!”
“As for you, little one,” Saint said to his wife, “I fully intend to cosset you and love you until I’m too old to move.”
“In that case,” said Jules, squeezing her husband’s hand, her eyes twinkling, “I shall just have to give you my derringer.”
“Derringer?”
“Yes, and you can stomp on it. Again.”
“Jules, if ever I—”
“Perhaps Penelope will give hers to Thomas.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Penelope? Don’t tell me that the two of you—”
Saint broke off at Brent’s shout of laughter.
“So much for cosseting,” Byrony said. “Ah, the champagne.”
“We’ll give Saint the bottle,” Brent said. “He looks like he needs it.”
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