“Do you?”
“Come along, Clio. You’ve been acting mysterious for the past fortnight.”
He rose from his chair and came around to her side of the table, kneeling at her side. His big hands encircled her waist, turning her to face him, and he stroked her cheek.
“I can see the change in you,” he said. “You’re blushing a new shade of pink. Baby pink.”
Oh, goodness. He believed she was—
“Rafe . . .”
“Don’t be worried,” he said. “I know we said we’d try to wait a year or so, until the exhibitions were over and the brewery was on its feet. But I don’t mind that it’s happening sooner. In fact, I’m . . .” His green eyes locked with hers. “Clio, I’m so . . .”
He never finished that sentence. But he managed to get across his meaning when he claimed her mouth in a passionate kiss.
He was so happy. Deeply, truly happy.
So was she.
As their lips met, a languid sigh eased from her throat. He tasted of ale, and he smelled of that familiar blend of leather and wintergreen. She’d missed him so much, and he’d come home not a day too late—his scent had almost worn off the shirt she slept in at night. She stroked her fingers through his hair, drawing him closer still.
But much as she was enjoying her husband’s attentions, Clio started to feel a bit guilty. There was another little someone in the room who was growing more and more anxious, the longer this interlude went on.
“I knew I’d noticed a change in you,” he murmured. His tongue traced a curving path on her neck. “You even taste different. Sweeter.”
She barely managed not to giggle. “Rafe.”
He worried her earlobe with his teeth. “Mmm.”
“I have to tell you something.”
“You’re with child. I know, love. I know.”
“I . . .” She gasped with pleasure as his teeth caught her earlobe. “But I’m not. I’m not with child.”
“What?” He head jerked up, and his brow clipped her chin. “You’re not?”
“No.” She smiled. “I’m with dog.”
The look of sheer bewilderment on his face . . . Oh, it was priceless.
Taking pity on him, she rose from her chair and retrieved the basket she’d stashed beneath the bed.
When she lifted the woven lid, out tumbled a puppy.
A bulldog puppy, with a flat black nose and a coat like velvet pile.
“See?” she said. “He’s your third surprise. The little fellow is nine weeks old today. Just weaned.”
She placed the brown-and-white bundle of wrinkles in his arms.
He looked at it. “A dog.”
“Yes.”
“There’s no baby.”
“Not yet. Oh, and now you’re disappointed.” She put a hand to her temple. “I should never have tried to hide this from you.”
“I’m not disappointed. Just . . .” The pup licked and nipped his thumb. “You pulled off a true surprise.”
She smiled. “Good.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Not yet.”
He considered for a while, scratching the pup beneath the ear. “There’s Champion, I suppose. But it feels a little obvious.”
“I agree. One champion in the house is enough. The right name will come to us.”
Within an hour, the pup had fallen asleep on one of Clio’s emerald satin pillows. Rafe insisted he was going to find uses for all twenty of the dratted things, eventually.
They sat on the floor, backs propped against the wall, sipping ale and enjoying the bulldog’s tiny snores.
Clio tilted her head. “I think we should call him Devil.”
“Devil? This?” Chuckling, he rumpled the handful full of velvet wrinkles. “Why?”
“Because you’re the Devil’s Own. And it’s clear already—that pup owns you, heart and soul.”
He didn’t even try to deny it. “Envious?”
“I don’t mind sharing. You’re so wonderfully big. There’s enough of you to go around.”
He wasn’t only big in body, either—he had the largest, most loyal heart. She knew this man had enough love in him for a wife, a brother, a few sisters-in-law, friends, a puppy, too . . . and then some.
Clio squeezed his hand. “May I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“When you said you wouldn’t mind a baby so soon, were you being sincere?”
Rafe set his ale aside and rose to his feet. Then, bending down, he gathered her in his arms, lifted her straight off the floor, and carried her toward the bed. “Let me show you how sincere.”