Jocelynn woke slowly out of a doze so deep and heavy that it felt like climbing out of a featherbed. The fire had burned low in the hearth, and someone had tucked a wool blanket around her shoulders while she slept. The late afternoon sun poured in through the windows, carrying the scent of cut grass, wet cedar, and the faint, sweet perfume of the honeysuckle that climbed the garden wall.
She shifted in the big cushioned chair by the hearth, and her belly shifted with her.
Or rather, the baby did. A small, determined heel pressed up beneath her ribs, as if to remind her that someone else had opinions about how she ought to be sitting.
"Yes, yes," Jocelynn murmured, smoothing a hand over the great round curve of her belly. "I'm awake. You can stop kicking your mother now."
The baby kicked again anyway.
