“You could have used the sense God gave you,” Cato snapped. “At this moment I don’t know whether I’m closer to making love to you or wringing your neck. Both options have a distinct appeal.”

“Could I choose?” Phoebe slipped her arms around his neck. She smiled at him. It was a tremulous smile and yet beneath lurked the suddenly acquired power of a woman who finally knew her self. And knew that she was loved.

Cato read that knowledge in the narrowed, seductive gaze as surely as if it had been written on vellum. “Dear God,” he muttered. “What have I unleashed?”

“Anything you wish, sir,” Phoebe responded. “I can be anything… and everything… you wish.”

He pushed his hands through her hair, smoothing it back, outlining her skull, leaving her face clear and open.

“Believe me, my ragged robin, you are.”

Phoebe was not fooled by the resignation in his voice. How could she be when his eyes glowed with such a powerful marriage of love and lust?

When finally all was right with the world.

“I love you,” she whispered and felt his love flow into her with his soft breath as he brought his mouth to hers.

Epilogue

Woodstock, Oxford, November, 1646


“See how fat I am, Olivia!”

There was no lamentation in Phoebe’s voice, rather a note of smug satisfaction, as she stood sideways to the mirror, cupping her round belly in both hands.

Olivia looked up from the letter she was reading. “You’re not fat. If anything, your face is thinner than before.”

“Do you think so?” Phoebe pinched the skin beneath her chin, examining her countenance closely. “Yes, I think you’re right. I can see my cheekbones. I look quite elegant, don’t you think?” She chuckled at this absurdity and walked to the window.

“Portia says they might be able to c-come for Christmas… at least she and the children. Rufus has to be in London again.” Olivia refolded the letter.

“Oh, how splendid,” Phoebe said with satisfaction. “Then they can all take part in my pageant on Twelfth Night.” She wandered over to the window where a bare branch scratched the pane under a brisk early November wind.

“Actually, now I’m quite glad we couldn’t put it on in midsummer. There was so much excitement with the Scots giving the king to Parliament, and then Cato couldn’t be here. People couldn’t concentrate properly. But it’ll be much better as part of the Christmas festivities, don’t you think?”

“Very,” Olivia agreed. “Everyone will be much more inclined for revelry. When should we start rehearsals? And we should be thinking about-”

“Oh, here’s Cato!” Phoebe interrupted her without ceremony. A party of horsemen had just ridden up the drive, Lord Granville at their head. Phoebe gathered up her skirts and hurried to the door, saying delightedly, “I didn’t think he’d be back for days.”

She hastened from the parlor and ran down the stairs to the door that Bisset had already opened. She ran past the butler and down the shallow steps to the gravel sweep where Cato had just dismounted.

“You’re almost a week before you said to expect you!” Phoebe’s eyes glowed as she came towards him.

“Well, my business was conducted sooner than I’d expected,” Cato said. He took her hands and drew her against him, heedless of their audience. “And in truth, sweet, I was impatient to get back to you. Are you well?” He clasped the back of her neck, running his fingers into the loose coil of hair on her nape.

“Oh, wonderfully well,” Phoebe assured him, standing on tiptoe to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt better.”

Cato laughed softly. If pregnancy ever suited any woman, it suited Phoebe. Everything about her radiated a lush, sensual richness that was accentuated by her own delight in her condition. She carried herself with a pride and intrinsic elegance of spirit that transcended the haphazard pinning and buttoning and hemming of her various garments. Even with dirt on her hands and smudges on her face, she was radiant.

“Will you be home long this time?” She tucked her hand into his as they went into the house.

“No… but when I leave, we will all leave.”

“Oh.” Phoebe frowned. “Do we go far?”

“To Hampton Court, where the king is in residence during negotiations with Parliament. I’ll be negotiating with his advisors throughout Christmas, so we may as well make a family party of it.”

“Oh, then I’ll have to put on my pageant in the palace.” Phoebe frowned as she stopped in the doorway to his study.

“I’m going to stage it for Twelfth Night. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Cato had a rather conspiratorial smile on his face. “An excellent idea, but you can hardly play Gloriana with a swollen belly.”

“No, but Portia is coming to visit and she can play it. I’m sure they’ll be welcome at Hampton Court too.”

“Decatur has already been asked by Parliament to mediate. He’ll be at Hampton Court,” Cato informed her. “But who then do you have in mind to play Dudley to Portia’s queen?” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Not I, I trust?”

“No, of course not,” Phoebe said vigorously. “I wrote the part for you, but only for you to play it opposite me. Maybe Rufus would take it… but he’s so… so plain and uncompromising, not at all like Robert Dudley.”

Cato’s secretive smile seemed to deepen. “I have a present for you. And in the circumstances, it seems a remarkably appropriate one.”

“Oh?” Phoebe’s eyes widened in anticipation. “What could it be?”

“Well, if you’d step inside instead of blocking the doorway, I might be able to show you.” He propelled her forward into his study as he spoke.

Phoebe gazed at him raptly as he reached inside his black velvet doublet and drew out a slim package wrapped in oiled parchment.

He handed it to her, still smiling.

“Whatever is it?” Phoebe exclaimed, turning it around in her hands.

“There’s a simple way to find out.”

Phoebe tore at the wrappings and then stared, her mouth open. She held a leather-bound book, gold lettering on the spine and cover. It was her name. She opened the book and with an expression of awe turned the delicate vellum pages.

“It’s my pageant,” she said in wonderment, slowly raising her eyes to Cato’s face. “All printed up. How did it get into a book?”

“A printer in London,” he replied.

“But… but how could he have had it? Where did it come from?”

“My sweet, I gave it to him,” Cato explained patiently, amused and delighted by her reaction.

“But how could you have? It’s in the parlor abovestairs.”

She looked at him in bemusement.

“I confess to some help,” he said. “Olivia secretly made a copy of it. Fortunately she’s able to read your writing… I doubt the printer could have made it out,” he added with a chuckle.

“All this time you’ve been planning this and you never said a word!” Phoebe cried. “You never said anything about my work. I assumed you weren’t interested in it.”

“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.