Page 41 of Duke of Iron
May glanced at Logan, who stood watching her with an expression she could not name.
“He is… smaller than I expected,” she whispered.
“I thought the same,” he replied. He leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, wholly unconcerned about his lack of shirt. May wished she could muster even a fraction of his composure.
The baby whimpered but did not resume screaming.
May risked a closer look at the face. “He looks like you,” she said, half-joking, but instantly regretted it. The last thing she wanted was to suggest anything improper.
Logan gave her an unamused look. “He does not.”
“Well. He has the same brow,” she said. “Not the eyes, though. Or the nose. Or the hair.”
“Which is to say, nothing in common at all.”
“Exactly,” she said, feeling foolish.
They lapsed into silence, interrupted only by the baby’s tiny, hiccuping noises and the slow creak of the rocker.
“Have you ever held a baby before?” Logan asked, voice softer now.
“Never,” May confessed. “All three of us were born at the same time, and I neither have young cousins nor nieces and nephews.”
He nodded, then moved to crouch beside the chair. Up close, he looked different than in daylight. Less severe. More tired. “You are doing fine,” he said.
“How do you know?” she countered. “For all I know, this is the worst possible baby handling in history.”
He almost smiled. “It cannot be. He has stopped crying.”
“Only because he is busy plotting my demise,” she whispered, peering down at the baby, who had gone from agitated to wide-eyed and suspicious.
Logan stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. “Do you think he will let us sleep tonight?”
“I doubt it. Not unless one of us keeps him in the chair all night.”
“Unacceptable,” Logan said, though he sounded more amused than annoyed.
May tried to laugh but was too tired to manage more than a thin smile. “Would you like to try again?” she offered.
He shook his head, rising to his full height. “He prefers you. Clearly.”
Then he’d be the first.“We should name him,” she blurted, mostly to distract herself from the warmth creeping into her face.
Logan seemed to consider. “Why?”
“He cannot go through life as ‘the baby.’ Even for a little while. It is undignified.”
He raised a brow. “You think he has a sense of dignity?”
“Everyone does,” she replied. “Even the very small.”
She waited for him to scoff, but instead, he leaned his hip against the hearth and looked at her with genuine curiosity. “What would you name him?”
May hesitated. “Perhaps… Brook. Or Rowan. Or—” She broke off, embarrassed. “That is silly.”
“Why silly?”
“Because they are names from poetry. I am not sure real children are allowed to have names from poetry.”
