“Papa George! What’s dis one?”

Arm in arm, Gabriel and Maggie watched their children cavort with Grandpa George. At five-and-a-half and eleven months, respectively, Victoria and Scott Thomas were sweet little cherubs, every parents’ dream. While Scott Thomas sat atop his Papa’s lap, trying to wrest a white rose from his grasp, precocious little Victoria listened to his tales, much as Maggie had once done, even after Gabe was gone.

“This one…” He studied it a moment. “It is Rosa Alba,” he declared. “Made famous by the War of Roses.”

“What?” shrieked Victoria. “Roses can go to war?” I don’t believe it!” she said with a sing-song voice, a trilling laugh, and an exaggerated flutter of her hand.

“No, dear. It was the sigil of the House of York. And see that red rose over there—see it? That was the sigil of the House of Lancaster. Eventually, both families lost to a Tudor, and this is why we now have Queen Victoria.” He pointed an old finger at her. “Your namesake.”

She grinned widely. “Me?” And she pranced about the garden, lifting up her skirt, sashaying across the lawn, her red-gold curls bouncing as she flounced. “I am queen!” she crooned, laughing. “I am queen!”

“Yes!” Papa George was saying to Victoria. “You are a queen!” And he nodded enthusiastically as their child paraded by lush, blooming roses of every color.

“Papa!” Scott Thomas squealed again, snatching at the white rose that swept too close, and clutching the captured petals in an iron grip, then pulling out a handful, fascinated as a few escaped and fluttered to the ground. Even before the last one fell to the lawn, he was shoving his hard-won handful into his mouth. The nanny rushed over to help, brushing the fine-scented detritus from their son’s mouth.

They had been married now for more than six years. Gabriel could hardly believe his good fortune. He’d never seen his father so content as he was with two tots at his heels. It certainly made it easier to slip away. Tugging his Maggie by the hand, he lured her away from the arbor, craving a little solitude. “Da,” he said. “You good with the wee ones?”

The old man raised a hand, barely listening. “Where’s your crown?” he asked Victoria. She slapped at her head, and shrieked with laughter. “Make me another one,” she demanded, and Maggie laughed as she turned away.

“She reminds me of you,” said Gabriel with a lopsided grin.

Maggie gave him an exaggerated, wide-eyed glance. “Me?” She pressed a hand to her breast, precisely as their four-year old daughter had done.

Gabriel laughed.

It was a fine, fine summer day, with the scent of fresh blooms wafting on the air. The gardens had never appeared lovelier, despite that George was no longer tending them. He oversaw their care, but managed a number of attendants, each with particular skills. At the end of the day, he could look on his accomplishments with glee—not the least of which was his matchmaking attempts. Anyone who doubted for one instant that there was genuine affection, between the lord and lady of Blackwood, would be hard pressed to defend their position, especially when Maggie’s belly was once again as round as a ball. Five months into her pregnancy, she was nevertheless as fresh and beautiful as she’d been the day he first spied her. And if she was sassy as well, it wasn’t a slip of her mood.

“You are incorrigible!” she said, giving him a sidelong glance. “And greedy.”

“Why? Because I love my wife and covet her for myself.” Despite the exaggeration, she laughed, and he guided her around the house, pressing her up against the ivy-covered brick around the corner from the rose garden. At the moment, not even her rounded belly could dissuade him.

“If you do not cease and desist, at once, we will never again have time to ourselves.”

“Alas, I am greedy,” he lamented. “Guilty as charged. But I assure you I feel no remorse.”

Once again, Maggie laughed. Six sweet years they’d been wed, six years of laughter, six years of joy and few regrets. She would bear him a hundred children if he so pleased, with nary a complaint, and no matter that she claimed he was the greedy one, she was greedy as well.

Maggie drew him by his lapels, boldly lifting her face for a kiss… puckering her lips… remembering the first kiss they ever shared, in a bumpy carriage en route from Gretna Green. She’d asked him then for but one, and if he ever denied her now, she’d weep on her knees. “Happy anniversary, my love,” she said.

“Happy anniversary, brat.”

Even after all these years, Margaret reveled in the endearment. “Brat?” she said, reaching down to caress the front of his trousers. “I will show you a brat, my dear.” And her lips turned mischievously at the corners, her eyes alight with the tint of a bright blue flame. “Kiss me,” she demanded, and he fell to his knees.

“Gabriel!”

He ducked his head beneath her skirt, ensconcing himself beneath—not something any gentleman would ever do—and certainly no true lady would ever allow it.

“Gabriel! Someone will see us!”

In answer, Gabriel lifted his tongue into the cleft between her thighs, kissing her in his very favorite place—hers as well, she was mortified to say. With a contented sigh, Maggie sank against the ivy-covered wall, allowing her husband to explore. And, perhaps, indeed, kisses weren’t contracts, but they were certainly promises, and she knew he would always keep them.

“Shall I stop?” she heard him ask.

Margaret shuddered as his tongue played, and she shook her head with absolute delight. “Nay, my love… I’ll gladly enjoy… just… one more... kiss…”