Knight’s Hall, Wales, August 1822

Jo watched Evie lead her two younger sisters down the hill to the stream that ran through the property. Barefoot, they were going to dip their toes into the cool water to relieve the heat.

Jo’s feet were barefoot too, and she wore a gown that barely reached her calves. It was scandalous, but in the privacy of their own home or on their own estate, she didn’t much care. Bran had taught her long ago that life was too short to be uncomfortable. Especially when one was excessively large with child.

This pregnancy had been particularly challenging, but then she’d never carried during the heat of the summer before. Not that she minded. When she’d been blessed to have one child, let alone three, she could never complain.

Four children, she amended, for Evie was every bit as much her daughter as Theodosia and Francesca. And Evie absolutely doted on them. Almost as much as their father.

Jo turned back toward the house to see if Bran had come to join them yet. He’d been working in his conservatory, which had surpassed hobby and become a passion. She saw a figure striding down the slope and lifted her hand to her forehead to shield the bright sunlight.

Her lips curved up as he neared. He was also barefoot and wore breeches that hugged his familiar thighs and a loose, flowing white shirt that bared a V-shaped hint of flesh. Well, maybe more than a hint.

“It’s almost like Barbados here,” he said as he reached her. He slipped his hand around her waist and drew her close so that he could kiss her lips.

She sighed into the kiss, leaning on him.

He grasped her more tightly. “Careful. Don’t knock me over.”

She playfully smacked his arm. “It’s your fault I’m in danger of doing that.”

He laid his palm on her belly and was rewarded with a swift kick. “Our daughter is ready to join her sisters.”

“It could be a boy,” Jo said.

“I don’t care. And I’ve gotten rather good at daughters.” He gazed down the hill at the girls, who were now playing in the stream. Two-year-old Francesca was kicking her feet, splashing water on three-year-old Theodosia while Evie stood in the center of the gentle current.

He really didn’t care if he had a son or not, and neither did she. They were both just very grateful for what they had since it was far beyond what they’d ever dared dream.

Jo laid her head against his chest. “You said this was like Barbados, but Evie said it’s not quite the same. She wants to go to Cornwall again, but understands we can’t with the baby coming soon.”

“I’d love to go too. If she makes her appearance soon, we might be able to go in September. For your birthday.” He brushed his lips along her temple, and a warm breeze stirred a wisp of her hair free. She tucked it behind her ear.

They’d gone to Cornwall after marrying five years ago and had fallen in love with the seaside villages and the warm, temperate weather. Bran had purchased property and built a house for them, which they’d dubbed Knight’s Plantation even though it wasn’t a plantation at all. It was, however, modeled after his and Evie’s house on Barbados and was even decorated in the same fashion. It was everyone’s favorite place.

Suddenly, her belly tightened. She recognized that pain. But it was just a twinge. She’d wait and see if it happened again.

Bran continued to stroke her belly, seemingly oblivious to the contraction she’d just felt. “Someday, I’ll take you to Barbados. Maybe we won’t come back.”

“You have to. You’re the earl.”

He shrugged. “We can fake our deaths.”

“Only if our children are with us. I won’t have them believing we’re dead.”

He pulled back with a gasp, then chuckled. “God, no. Who would be that cruel?”

He snuggled against her once more, but she began to grow hot and stepped away. “I’m going to melt.”

He let her go. “I understand.”

She flicked a glance down toward her belly and gave him a sardonic look. “I doubt that. How are your pineapples?”

“Beautiful. We’ll have an excellent dessert tonight—trifle with pineapple slices.”

Jo groaned. “Oh, that sounds heavenly.” Her belly tightened again, and she gritted her teeth against the pain.

Bran frowned at her. “Is it the babe?”

She nodded. “I’d say we have plenty of time given how long Theodosia took, but since Francesca came much quicker, perhaps I should go inside.”

Bran called down to Evie. “Your mother needs to go in. The baby’s coming.”

“I think it’s coming.”

The sounds of laughter and clapping that came from the stream made Jo smile. But it faded as another pain gripped her. She reached for Bran. “Will you help me walk?”

“I’d pick you up if I could.”

She snorted. “You’d never walk again.”

After an interminable waddle back to the house, Jo was soon situated in their chamber. A footman went to fetch the doctor while all the preparations were made. Jo had only given birth in London and hoped things went as smoothly here.

In the dark of night, she and Bran welcomed their fourth child—a boy. His hair was dark, his face red, and his ten fingers and toes absolutely perfect.

As she nursed him, Bran sat on the bed beside her, his long fingers stroking the lad’s downy-soft hair. “What shall we call him?”

Jo still couldn’t believe it. “A miracle?”

Bran laughed. “We’re all miracles, if you think about it. Life is a miracle.”

“How about Michael? It sounds a bit like miracle.”

“Yes, it does. It’s perfect. Just like him. Just like you.” He kissed her, his lips lingering on hers. “Thank you for making my life a true miracle.”

She looked up into his eyes and saw the love shining in their depths. “All I did was love you.”

He smiled and kissed their son’s head. “And for that, I will be eternally grateful.”