to sexual matters, but speaking of them by day embarrassed him. Jeanne had quickly discovered this unusual personality trait and teased him unmercifully.
As for herself, circumstances had turned out better than she could possibly have imagined. Whoever would have guessed after her disastrous wedding night that she would acclimate so quickly to the pleasures of the marriage bed? For in truth, she could think of no greater joy than having the lean muscular length of her husband’s body stretched out beside her own. The touch of his lips, the feel of his strong narrow hands on her skin, the whispered urgency of his words, ignited a fire in her that could only be quenched by the age-old ritual of possession. She sighed and looked down at the babies in her arms. It had been too long already.
John interrupted her thoughts. “Are they boys or girls?”
“Both.” Jeanne indicated the bairn on her left. “This one is the boy.
John reached for the infant on her right. “A man has a lifetime with a son, but only a few short years with his daughter.” Gingerly he held the precious bundle. “Hello, sweetheart,” he crooned. “Have you a smile for your sire?”
A tiny fist butted his chin. John laughed and unbelievably, the baby opened her eyes. Small, as an infant born three weeks early inevitably is, the features of her face were already clearly defined. The lines of what would one day be brows were sweeping arcs against the fairness of her skin. Her nose was firm, her chin determined, and her cheekbones high and ridged, proclaiming her Maxwell ancestry. The hair on her head grew counterclockwise in a black whorl on the delicate skull. Her eyes were already the clear winter gray of her mother’s.
“Good Lord,” exclaimed John. “She looks exactly like you, Jeannie.”
“I know.” Jeanne frowned. “There are those who say all the Maxwells resemble one another, but that isn’t true, is it? I can see it here, in their faces. Our son has the same hair and eyes, but he looks nothing like me.”
John bent over his son. It was true. The bairn’s hair was black, and although his eyes were closed, John knew they would be the same clear gray as his sister’s. But there, all resemblance to the women in his family ended.
John felt his chest swell with pride. This was his son, a child created in the image of himself. He could see it in the squareness of the miniscule jaw, in the set of the mouth and the flare of thin, aquiline nostrils. There was the promise of strength in the tiny hand clenched around his mother’s finger. In this determined mite, born after two grueling days of childbirth, John Maxwell had a worthy heir.
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Jeannie.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “Two healthy children and you look as if you’ve done nothing more than gather heather on the hill.”
Jeanne knew she looked nothing of the sort. She was more tired than she’d ever been in her life, and her glass told her the dark circles under her eyes made her look ten years older. Thank God for John, she thought gratefully. He had never once, not even in the screaming throes of childbirth, found her anything less than perfect. “What have I done to deserve you?” she asked quietly.
Their eyes met over the heads of their children. “’Tis I who should be asking that question, lass. Whatever it is, I’m very glad of it.”
There was a soft scratching at the door. “Enter,” Jeanne called out.
Flora Maxwell peeked into the room. “There is someone at the door to see you, John,” she said in a hushed voice. “She wishes to pay her respects to Jeanne and the bairns.”
“I’m very tired,” Jeanne protested. “Please tell her tomorrow would be better.”
John leaned over the bed to kiss his wife. Handing her the blanketed infant, he walked to the door. “I’ll speak to her, love. Give the bairns to your mother and try to rest.”
With a grateful sigh, Jeanne did as she was told.
John walked down the stairs with a light heart. Two babes and Jeanne was well. Surely it was a fortuitous beginning. The birth had been hard, but the midwife assured him that with rest, Jeannie could have a dozen more children. He thought of the clear, austere beauty of his wife’s face, and a huge weight lifted from his heart. Children were important to a man, but nothing was