Two Passionate Proposals

by Serenity Woods

  With no time to spare, he got to his feet, discarded his clothes quickly, then climbed back onto the bed. He lowered himself on top of her, supporting himself on his elbows, trying not to touch her shoulder. Gently, he pushed into her. She was crying again, but he kissed the tears away. “No tears,” he whispered. “Babies should be made with happy thoughts.” He remembered the favorite day he’d spent with her, one of the rare summer days they’d both had town passes. They’d sneaked into Exeter and gone up into Rougemont Gardens. There, they’d found a quiet corner to lie on the grass and kiss lazily in the hot sun.

  “Remember the summer solstice?” He brushed his lips across her forehead, traced a line to her mouth. “You taught me to juggle with oranges.” He planted small kisses on her smile.

  “I remember.” She let him kiss her, her mouth opening automatically, her tongue caressing his in a deep embrace.

  He moved inside her as they kissed, stroking rhythmically, feeling both their auras begin to blend as their power grew.

  “Cameron…” Her breathing grew faster, matching his, the energy pooling between them. He caught her left hand in his right, linking their fingers.

  “Use me,” he said. “You’re a nature witch; you know what to do.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Do it!” He kissed her. “I still outrank you.”

  She stared at him, then gave a small nod, closing her eyes. He increased his rhythm, watching her tip her head back as her muscles began to pulse. As she came, he gave into the surge that had been simmering inside him for several minutes. They’d had fun with this before, he recalled in a haze, remembering how they’d tried making light bulbs pop as they both came together, or make the candles around them burn brighter. Now, they directed their energy inward, and he looked down to see a white ball of light growing between their hands.

  Imogen’s legs tightened around him, and he gasped, spilling into her. The ball of light brightened like a supernova as she directed all her passion, all her love for him into her solar plexus. He gasped aloud as white-hot heat burned against his stomach. She was holding back, he could feel it, and then she relented, and her magic swelled, washing over him like a wave. His hand, clasped with hers, felt like he had plunged it into boiling water. Pleasure and pain blended, and he cried out as she extracted every ounce of power from him, draining him, gathering his energy inside her. She shuddered, and her abdomen glowed, absorbing the power. They exclaimed loudly at the tortuous, exquisite feeling, looking in awe at the magic they’d created between them.

  Then, gradually, the ball of light faded, and Hawke felt himself return to normal. He held her tightly against him as the last of the light dimmed, and she went limp in his arms.

  “Don’t move,” she said.

  “Okay.” His hands glowed with the last of the energy. He wasn’t a natural healer, but nevertheless, he rested his palm on her shoulder, letting the last dregs of the heat soak into her wound.

  Her eyes were light, tiny sparks glittering in their depths. “Did it work?”

  He withdrew from her slowly. Pushing himself up, he touched the space between his eyebrows, activating his second sight. He examined her aura. It pulsed a deep purple and red, reflecting the passion that had passed between them. Her abdomen glimmered from the fertilisation process the energy had speeded up. And there, inside her womb, he saw a tiny, golden glow.

  Unfamiliar emotions rushed through him. His eyes met hers. He couldn’t trust himself to speak, and instead, he just nodded. He watched, his throat tight, as the embryo’s glow brightened, spilling out, encasing her aura in the telltale golden ring that marked her as a pregnant woman. The development usually took a couple of days, but their combined energy had sped up the fertilisation process. With the energy now dissipated, the rest of the gestation period would progress normally, but the damage had been done, and now the authorities couldn’t touch her.

  Imogen suddenly tensed.

  Hawke’s eyes narrowed. “Is it them?”

  She pushed herself upright, wincing at her sore shoulder, then closed her eyes and sent out a pulse of energy. Immediately, she got to her feet, looking around for her vest and shorts. “They’re here. Get dressed.”

  Hurriedly, he slid on his trousers and pulled on what remained of the black jacket, then yanked on his socks and shoes. His heart began to thunder. She was safe, but he… When they found out what he’d done, that would be it for him. Well, he wasn’t going to go without a fight.

  He turned around and stopped, staring at her in shock. Scarlet energy balled between her hands.

  “What the f—”

  “Sorry. But I’m not letting you die for me. If they think I took you out, you’ll be safe.”

  She flicked her wrists. The energy flew like a cannonball into his torso, catapulting him back against the wardrobe, which splintered beneath him. The last thing he saw before he passed out was her standing above him, outlined in her golden glow.

  *

  Three months later

  Imogen took the bunch of daisies between her fingers and hummed softly as she fed energy into their white petals. Slowly, they grew several inches, and she smiled, brushing their beautiful heads before casting them away from her, where they landed on the concrete floor and glimmered as they melted into nothingness.

  It was a game she never grew tired of. Since getting pregnant, she’d tried to turn her powers toward growth and healing, hoping the positive energy would somehow rub off on the baby. She was starting to cast some roses when a knock came at her cell door.

  She frowned and got to her feet, brushing her grey trousers. “Come in.”

  The door opened, and a wide form filled the frame. Imogen didn’t recognise the man, but a quick glimpse at his lapel showed him to be a field marshal—the top rank possible in the British Army. He was in his dress uniform, used only for special occasions. She stiffened and saluted him, her heart pounding.

  He saluted back, then smiled, throwing her completely off guard. “At ease, Captain.”

  She blinked, dropped the salute, and stood with her hands behind her. Captain?

  He walked in, threw his hat onto the small table in her cell, and then turned to perch on the edge. He was not a big man, an inch or so taller than she was, although his shoulders were broad and his muscled arms filled his jacket. He had grey hair and a grey moustache, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with laughter lines. She liked him immediately.

  “Captain Williamson,” he said, “I’m Field Marshal John Richardson, in charge of the Supernatural Unit of the British Army.”

  She glanced at his badge again, now seeing the small flame insignia denoting he was a fire warlock. “Glad to meet you, sir.”

  “How are you feeling, Imogen?”

  She swallowed. “Very well, thanks, sir.”

  “Your shoulder healed?”

  “It’s well on the way, sir.”

  “And the baby?”

  She followed his gaze to where her stomach swelled slightly above her pubic bone. “Doing very well, thank you, sir.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He glanced around her cell. “Have you been treated well in here?”

  “I can’t complain, sir.”

  He smiled. “A good answer.” He studied her for a moment.

  Imogen studied him back. Her mouth had gone dry. She’d been isolated for the three months since she’d been brought back to England after being captured in New Zealand, and she had no idea what had been going on in the outside world. Her days had consisted of exercise in the high-walled yard, followed by more hours spent confined in her cell, with only a couple of visits from the army doctor to break up the monotony. She didn’t have a clue what had happened to Hawke, or how Walker had reacted when she found out Imogen was pregnant and couldn’t be terminated. The guards wouldn’t tell her anything. She was surprised she hadn’t been court-martialled yet. Why was Richardson here? What had he come to tell her?

  He gave a loud sigh. “You’ve given
us quite a bit of trouble, young lady.”

  “I am sorry if that’s the case, sir.”

  “Yes, it is the case. Exposing a major-general’s involvement with Chaos has caused me no end of a headache.”

  Imogen stared at him. “Are you talking about—?”

  “Ms. Walker, yes.”

  “She had defected?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you know?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Let us just say Major Hawke made it an objective of his to expose her. It took a few months, but ultimately, he did succeed.”

  Her legs wobbled. Richardson stood and brought over a chair for her. “Why don’t you sit down, my dear?”

  “Thank you.” She sank into the seat. “What…how…?”

  “He staged a coup,” said the field marshal, adding wryly, “Which I do not condone, but nevertheless am thankful for, in retrospect.”

  “A coup?”

  “He found out she was about to help Chaos launch an invasion. It would have been catastrophic for us if she’d succeeded. He mounted an attack on the major-general and her accomplices. There was quite a spectacular battle, during which, I must say, Major Hawke acted more than a little irrationally and more than a little spectacularly, bringing down Walker himself after an hour-long, hand-to-hand battle.”

  “Is he okay?”

  Richardson regarded her solemnly. “He is fit and well, Captain Williamson, thanks to you.” He scratched his chin. “He was about to batter the door down to see you. I had to have him restrained.”

  Imogen flushed, and unbidden tears flooded her eyes. “Sorry,” she said when he smiled at her. “It’s the pregnancy. I’m not normally this emotional.”

  He fixed her with a steady gaze. “What you two did is directly against army regulations. Having a relationship in the forces is forbidden; you know that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Seducing an officer to get yourself pregnant is not strictly ethical either.”

  “Um, no, sir.”

  His lips twitched. “I understand Major Hawke did not object overmuch.”

  Imogen restrained a smile. “No, sir. He was very…obliging.”

  Richardson nodded, then sighed. “Young lady, I’m sorry you’ve been through such a difficult time. I’m also sorry you’ve been held in here for so long, but there is a formal process to things, and we had to carry it through.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Normally, you would have to go through a lengthy court martial before you were cleared to leave. However, Major Hawke has spoken for you already—at length, I might add—and, as such, you’ve been cleared of all blame and are reinstated in your rank of captain, and are free to go.”

  She stared at him. “I can go?”

  “Yes, young lady.” He stood, went to the door, and opened it. A soldier stood outside, holding her dress uniform on a hanger in one hand, her boots in the other. Richardson took both, and held them out to her. “May I suggest you get dressed before you leave?”

  “Yes, I will, thank you, sir.” She stood up and took the hanger and boots, her hand shaking.

  “Knock on the door when you’re ready.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He gave her a smile and a salute, then spun on his heels and left before she had a chance to respond.

  Imogen stood in the middle of the room, clutching the hanger and boots, too stunned to move. One thought jumped into her mind, spurring her into action. Hawke. I have to see Hawke. She quickly began to undress. Tears prickled her eyelids, but she forced them back, pulling on her white shirt and smart, black trousers. Someone had put elastic on the button, enabling the band to stretch over her slightly swollen stomach. Why did she need her dress uniform?

  She slipped on the black jacket and buttoned it up. Her fingers brushed the three pips on her shoulder, and the oak leaf above them marking her as a nature witch. She was immensely proud of her rank, and she bit her lip as the thought swept over her that she was once again a captain.

  She pulled on her boots and quickly ran a brush through her hair, catching it back with a clip. Her heart pounded. The field marshal had said Hawke was trying to batter the door down to see her. Would he be waiting outside?

  She donned her black cap, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. It opened and she stepped outside into the corridor.

  A lone sergeant stood sentry, and he saluted smartly as she came out. “Field Marshal Richardson said to go straight to the exit, Captain Williamson,” he said, standing back.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” She walked along the short corridor. The building housed a small cellblock, lightly guarded due to the extensive magical seals placed around it to keep in any aberrant witches. It wasn’t far to the door, and she paused with her hand on it for a moment before opening it.

  She stepped outside, breathing in the smell of freshly mown grass. The tarmac between the fields glittered from the recent April shower, but the clouds had vanished and the sun caressed her face with warm fingers. She paused, blinking in the bright sunlight, then stared, shocked. Every member of her company lined the parade ground, everyone standing to attention.

  As she stepped out, her fellow soldiers cheered. Imogen froze as they all clapped and shouted. Ahead of her stood Field Marshal Richardson, talking to someone in the middle of the parade ground. She stopped, heart hammering, as Hawke glanced over at her. He stared at her for a moment, then looked back at Richardson. The Field Marshal nodded, and Hawke turned and started walking toward her.

  Imogen felt her mouth go dry. He looked amazing in his No. 1 dress uniform, complete with peaked cap, and her heart swelled as he approached. He stopped about three feet away from her and saluted.

  She saluted back. Her eyes went to the crown and pip on his shoulder. “Lieutenant Colonel?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Got myself a promotion.”

  “Congratulations, sir.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” His eyes were very warm, although concerned. “How are you?”

  “Well enough, sir. Better now.”

  “Both of you?”

  She smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  He nodded. “Well enough to cope with a small shock?”

  “Um… I suppose so.”

  He produced a small box from behind his back and opened it. It contained a rank slide with a small crown underneath the oak leaf. She stared at him, wide-eyed, as he unbuttoned the strap on her shoulder, took off the old slide and slipped on the new one.

  “Congratulations, Major.” He held out a hand and grinned as the company watching them clapped.

  She shook his hand, shocked. “Thank you, sir.”

  “It looks good on you. Although I’m not sure you deserve it; I believe blasting a superior officer with a nature bomb counts as treason.”

  “Yes, sir.” She smiled. “Hopefully that superior officer realises I did it to save his life.”

  “He does, and he is very grateful, in spite of the fact that you hit him remarkably close to the crown jewels.”

  Her lips twitched. He smiled back, then glanced back over his shoulder again at the waiting army. She frowned. He cleared his throat and seemed—although she couldn’t believe it—nervous. His eyes were dark under the shade of his hat brim. “Now, I understand Field Marshal Richardson had a private word with you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I believe he reminded you having a relationship with another officer is strictly forbidden in the British Army.”

  “He did, sir.”

  “And it’s against the rules for a lower-ranking officer to come to a higher-ranking officer’s room late at night.”

  “That was about the gist of it, sir.”

  He cleared his throat again. “In that case, the field marshal thought it might be better if he were to offer us married quarters.”

  Imogen’s mind went blank. She stared at him. Her play at formality went out the window as she stuttered: “M-married quarters?”

  “Yes, Major.
”

  “But…you have to be married to get married quarters.”

  “Yes, Major.”

  “I…I don’t understand.”

  “Oh for the love of…” He sighed and, taking her completely by surprise, went down on one knee.

  Behind him, the company cheered, and Field Marshal Richardson grinned. Cameron ignored them all and extracted another small box from his jacket pocket.

  “I know this isn’t as exciting as the other one,” he said, opening it. She stared. This one didn’t have a badge, but the diamond twinkled gently in the sunlight.

  “Imogen?” He placed a gentle hand on her rounded abdomen. “Will you marry me and make our baby the happiest witch-slash-warlock in the world?”

  She glanced across at the regiment, laughing as she saw the members of her platoon cheering.

  She looked back at Hawke, thinking of everything he’d done to save her. “Are you trying to get in my knickers again?”

  “Well, obviously. And don’t get cheeky; I still outrank you. Just answer the damn question.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, bending to kiss him, the happiness in his eyes warming her like the bright April sun.

  ~The End~

  Surrender Your Heart

  Lady Eleanor de Woodford watched the drawbridge descend. She patted her horse’s neck as it whinnied, attempting to calm herself as much as the horse, which had clearly picked up on her nervousness. Having quieted the mare, she sat upright and lifted her chin, hoping to portray an air of nobility and composure, although inwardly, her heart pounded and her mouth was dry as sand.

  For the first time since she’d heard of his death, Eleanor wished her husband rode by her side. Not because she missed him, but because she would have been glad to let him be the one to ride out and meet the invading army. She hadn’t loved him, and had disliked her weekly marital duty in the bedchamber, but surrendering the castle was proving twice as difficult as it had been to surrender her body to him. Lying with Geoffrey had not been an arduous duty—it had merely involved being present while he took his pleasure. Apart from the occasional discomfort, she’d passed the time as he heaved himself on top of her by planning how many chickens they’d need for the weekend feast, or by studying the tapestries on the wall next to the bed and admiring the embroidery. Handing over Woodford Castle to her enemy, however, was proving a much harder task and, truth be told, tugged on her heartstrings much more than the thought of her husband’s death.