Marrying The Rebellious Miss. Bronwyn Scott

baby woke him in the deadest part of night, somewhere around three and not for the first time. Beatrice had fed him a little over an hour ago. Surely the baby wasn’t hungry again? Beside him, Preston felt Beatrice stir. She mumbled something incoherent in her half-sleep. That decided it. ‘Hush, go back to sleep, I’ve got him,’ Preston whispered, although his body protested at the movement and the idea of getting up. How did she do it night after night? They both didn’t need to be awake. He would look after the baby until it became obvious he couldn’t.

      Preston swung stiffly out of bed, careful of his one side where his ribs hurt. He bent awkwardly to pick the baby up, found his way to the chair and settled in, Matthew cradled against his good side. ‘Can’t sleep, little man?’ he asked softly. ‘Me neither.’ He’d dozed off and on, sleep eluding him in part because of the waking child, but also because his bruises made certain positions uncomfortable. He turned up the lamp enough to see Matthew’s face in the dark, surprised to find the baby smiling up at him as if it were morning and not night. Suddenly, being sleepless was worth it to have these precious, quiet, smiling minutes alone. Perhaps that was how Bea did it, night after night of interrupted sleep, because these magic moments waited.

      Preston smiled, too. ‘Well, since we’re up, we might as well have a story.’

      He took a deep breath and began, choosing one of his favourite from childhood, an old French tale called Drake’s-tail, about a little duck who believed one could never have too many friends. He told the tale from memory, his mind half-concentrating on the words while his thoughts wandered down dangerous paths to tread when late-night magic was at its peak.

      The journey was coming to a close. Just a couple of days more remained. He was going to miss this; holding Matthew in the carriage, playing with him on the picnic blanket when they stopped, carrying him upstairs and kissing him goodnight in the evenings, watching him sleep.

      He finished the tale. ‘The people chose the little duck with the loudest quack to be their king and everyone lived happily ever after.’ He looked down into Matthew’s slack little face—the baby was asleep. His grandmother’s estate was an hour’s ride away, hardly an insurmountable distance, but it was apart—too far to be part of little rituals like this.

      Even now, his throat felt a bit thick at the thought of not being there three mornings from now when Matthew would wake, happy and eager for the day, that adorable little smile on his face, that gurgling laugh on his cupid lips. How had that level of attachment happened so quickly? Somehow, this little fellow had grabbed hold of his heartstrings and wouldn’t let go.