This had been one of the difficult days, when she'd only been able to rise to toddle to the necessary and back again. And she had to use the necessary so often these days. Her three sisters-in-law assured her this was normal, but Eleanor worried. She was thirty and having her first child. She knew there was danger, and Hart did too.
The duke kissed her again, adding a brush of tongue. He lifted his head, Hart's eyes deep golden in the shadows.
"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said in his low, rich voice.
Eight months of marriage hadn't dimmed Hart's passion. In fact, their marriage was awakening desires he'd kept long buried. Eleanor learned more about Hart every day she lived with him.
Eleanor smiled as she laid her hand on her belly, feeling a tiny movement within. "I am very rotund."
"Beautiful," Hart repeated firmly, a spark lighting his eyes. He liked to be commanding.
"Carrying your child," she said. "I'm very happy to."
Hart slid a little way up the bed and touched a kiss to her equally swollen breasts. They ached, but his kiss soothed.
Eleanor was naked, surrounded by blankets and pillows, and the fire in the white and gold stove was stoked full of coal. She must be the warmest person in the house.
Hart had returned from the funeral a little bit ago and come to her--cold, disgruntled, his face hard. He'd undressed near the stove, boots, coat, and cravat coming off impatiently, shirt following them to the floor. He'd stripped out of his underbreeches, leaving his kilt in place, then climbed up on the bed with her, laying Eleanor down and kissing her before he'd spoken a word.
Seeking comfort. Eleanor was happy to give it. Hart had suffered much loss in his life, had sacrificed so much, more than anyone but Eleanor understood.
Hart told her about the funeral while he lay against her, having skimmed off her nightrail. He touched her with the possessiveness of a husband, the tenderness of a lover. They'd talked, voices low, until his bleak look had gone. Hart hadn't been great friends with Mrs. McCray or her husband--far from it--but the funeral had stirred memories of his father and the rather horrible man he'd been.
"Not long now," Eleanor said, her chubby fingers tracing the movement on her abdomen. "Thank heavens. I look forward to walking about my own house again. Without the waddling."
* * * * *
Chapter Three
Laugher tinged Hart's voice. "You don't waddle."
"Mac said I looked like a mother duck. And he is right, blast the man."
"I'll speak to Mac."
"Don't bother. I shook my finger at him. But the comparison was apt. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Still, 'twill be a nice Hogmanay gift, do you not think? A little boy to dandle on your knee?"
"Or a girl."
"We've had this argument many a time. He will be a boy."
"Mackenzies do as they please. So do Ramsays." Hart ran his hand across her lower abdomen and around her navel.
"I know they do. Which is how I know he is a boy. Did you wager on a girl in Daniel's pool?"
Hart sent her a glance laced with heat. "Do you think I would wager on the outcome of my own child?"
"Danny's become quite the little bookmaker, has he not? I of course put down twenty pounds on boy."
"Only twenty? I thought you were so sure of the outcome."
"It's a frivolous wager, and one should not set a bad example. Besides, Daniel is drawing a large commission. I asked what he needed the money for, and he said he was building things. I shudder to imagine his flat in Edinburgh--loaded to the brim with mechanical parts and gears and oddities, I shouldn't wonder."
"I don't know. He lets no one in." Hart skimmed his hand down to her thigh, his fingers gentle but skilled. He moved to the foot of the bed and knelt there, kilt spreading over his large thighs. "Lie back. I'll rub your feet."
"Mmm." Eleanor wriggled her toes as Hart took her heel in his hand. "Every princess wants this in her Prince Charming. He rides up to the castle, kisses her awake, and rubs her aching feet."
Hart pressed soothing circles into the ball of Eleanor's foot, and she hummed in pleasure. Even more so when Hart leaned down and licked across her arch.
Hart had taught Eleanor pleasures she had never heard of, and she knew he'd only touched upon his vast knowledge. He feared to shock her or hurt her, but Eleanor was teaching him that she was made of stern stuff.
He'd continued to make love to Eleanor as she'd been increasing, up until the last month, when everything, including walking, had become painful. Even then, Hart had known how to make her feel good.
She'd learned this year about the erotic touch of silk or feathers on skin, how a blindfold could heighten those feelings, how the whisper of Hart's breath in intimate places could render her body open and ready for him. He'd touched every inch of her with light strokes or with the weight and pressure of his hands, until she was coming apart in pleasure.