“Once upon a time, that may have been true.” He brushed a straying lock of hair from her forehead. “But it’s been many months since that was the case. And you are a most accomplished poet. I’ve taken the liberty of showing this and some other examples of your poetry to several people, all of whom are looking forward to meeting you when we go to London.”
“Poets?”
“Some. Most notably, John Suckling and Mr. Milton.”
“They liked my work?” Phoebe stared in total disbelief now.
“Reluctantly, at least on the part of Mr. Milton. He doesn’t consider it possible for a mere female to aspire to his own realm, but he was heard to mutter that there were some interesting stanzas… some lyrical speeches, even.” Cato grinned.
“When can we go?” Phoebe demanded, turning the book around in her hands with the same air of disbelieving wonder.
“Soon, since we must be established well before the babe is due.”
“I must have Meg to midwife,” Phoebe said, her attention at last distracted from the wonderful thing she held in her hands. Reluctantly she laid it down on a table. “I cannot have anyone else.”
“Then if Meg is willing, she must come with us.”
“And cat,” Phoebe stated.
“Yes, indeed. And anyone else necessary to your comfort,” he responded with quiet conviction.
“Don’t you think I’m wonderfully round?” Phoebe said, giving him her profile. “See what a big bump. I wonder if it could be two boys. What do you think?” She raised her eyes to his face, feeling the connection between them as strong and powerful as any lodestone.
“I’ll settle for one,” Cato said, once again smoothing the tumbled hair from her forehead. “But if truth be told, my sweet, you are all and everything to me, and I would not lose you for an entire tribe of sons.”
Phoebe came into his arms. “You won’t,” she promised. “I am made to give you sons, my lord.” She leaned back against his encircling arm and smiled up at him with a mischievous glint in her eye. “As you are made to give them to me,” she murmured, touching his mouth with a fingertip. “One cannot have sons without love… or loving,” she added.
“Then I foresee a large nursery,” Cato responded, but the fierce passion in his eye belied the light words. He leaned back against the table, moving his hands to her waist as he repeated softly, “You are all and everything to me, my love.”
Phoebe leaned into him with her hard belly. The child kicked and she saw Cato’s swift recognition as he felt the movement against his own body. Her bright gaze held his and read in the dark intensity of his look the knowledge that she had sought for so long.
His life, his soul, his heart belonged to her, as hers belonged to him.