Hazy images danced in front of her eyes: the lush green beauty of the harbor town of Gibara in Cuba, the earthquake that had temporarily blinded her, Richard Avery’s rescue of her, his kindness and love on the journey that ended in the sultan’s palace in Dolmabahce, the dark days of blindness mixed with fear and relief and despair. All that was behind her now, part of her past. Her present was here with Steve and their children. Their future together stretched before her with bright promise if she could just grasp it and hold on.

Childish laughter shattered her reverie, and for a brief panicked moment she caught and held Steve’s opaque gaze before the sound of the parlor door opening drew her eyes and riveted her attention.

Ohh… They had changed so, these exuberant children with faces still round and cherubic. Gone was the light fuzz atop infant heads, replaced with thick dark hair that held only faint hints of copper like her own tresses. Chattering and laughing, they ran to their father, arms outstretched with joy despite the murmured reprimand of their nursemaid.

And Steve—The cold mask he’d worn only a moment before had vanished, replaced by a softly tender light in his eyes and a genuine curve of his mouth into a smile that was at the same time loving and indulgent as he greeted his children.

All this Ginny saw in the space of an instant as the children heeded their nurse’s instructions and curbed their first wild joy into a more sedate greeting.

“Good morning, Papa,” Laura piped, her childish treble quavering with suppressed delight as she strove for self-discipline. “It is very good to see you.”

“And you, poppet.” An affectionate drag of his hand through her curls tousled them. Adoring eyes gazed up at her father, that love mirrored in the blue eyes so like hers.

Laura Luisa Encarnaciόn Morgan—the name was larger than the child, Ginny thought irrelevantly. Her gaze shifted to Franco, who stood beside his sister with a grave solemnity that reminded her suddenly of Steve’s grandfather, Don Francisco, the old martinet who was the regal and demanding head of the Alvarado family. But, of course, he was named after him—Francisco Alvarado Morgan—so perhaps it was only fitting that he should remind her of the old gentleman.

Already Franco was a bit taller than his sister, his dark head a shade above hers, his bearing that of a young soldier.

Ginny’s heart lurched. She didn’t know them—her own flesh and blood. These children she had carried beneath her heart for nine months, had fought so fiercely to protect…and she did not know them.