He was always so taken with her. Her beauty and her mind. The life they created together. She had changed so much over the years, and yet she had not changed at all. Her spirit was more alive than ever, and he enjoyed the challenge and banter that was an intrinsic part of their days. But she had adapted to his ways as well.

She spoke only Gaelic now, though somehow, she incorporated her outlandish remarks and phrases in his language. She raised their children just as he’d been reared, with love and compassion. And she never questioned his early training of their son. She had rolled her eyes, however, and quite emphatically, too, when he presented his son with a sword of his own. Tristan’s first birthday seemed the appropriate time to him. And why shouldn’t his son wear war paint when he learned to walk and hold the weapon he had made?

Maybe she really was daft after all.

Gwen was walking through the surf now. She wore a beautiful emerald green gown that set the color of her eyes afire. It stretched across her newly expanding belly as she now carried their third child. She held the hem on each side and also a hand of each of their children. Tristan was on her right and their daughter, Blair, was on her left. They were giggling, no doubt from something outrageously silly that his wife had told them.

His son wore taupe linen breeches rolled to the knee and a white linen shirt, and his daughter, the image of his wife, wore a white jumper embroidered with delicate roses. Her hair was fashioned just as her mother’s, swept behind her head and adorned with ribbons. She was their little angel and he had delivered her himself.

Actually, she was the devil incarnate and her early arrival should have been his first clue. ’Twas yet another night he’d not soon forget.

His mother had gone to visit Gavin and Isabelle to await the birth of their son. And with Gwen’s delivery still weeks away, his wife had insisted that she go. He had been in his study, playing on the floor with Tristan, who had been only two at the time, when he noticed Gwen standing in the open doorway. She bit her lip as she looked at him, which of course made him assume that she wished for a little play of their own.

“Greylen,” she finally said as she remained within the doorframe.

“Aye, sweet. May I be of service?” he asked wickedly.

“I was hoping so.”

“What did you have in mind, love?”

“My water broke, Greylen.”

“Then send for a servant, wife. And be quick about it. I’m ready for whatever your heart desires.”

“I didn’t spill water, husband. The water spilled from me.”