I stared down at the lump, in shock.

This could not be true.

Gently, I prodded the tiny bump on my lower abdomen and gasped when it did not give way. I could not believe it had taken me this long to notice this. I tried to think back to the last time I had been through my cycle. It had been almost two months, when the leaves were first green.

Tears welled in my eyes and I started to hyperventilate. Quickly, I dressed in my loosest dress, a red one without buttons, and dashed from my room.

My husband's door was closed, not that that mattered. I knew he was in the fields with his men today, struggling to bring the harvest in before the first frost set in. The only reason I was here was because of the headache and nausea that was refusing to depart.

I must have looked like a mad woman, running through the castle with my hair still unbound from the restless night's sleep, without even a cloak to keep me warm in the autumn air, my eyes wide in panic.

It couldn't be true. It couldn't!

My heart pounded as I sprinted across the courtyard - not even noticing the open gates – to the kitchen where I hoped I would find them.

"M'lady!" a voice called behind me in ancient Italian. Marcello's, my husband's and lord of Castello Forelli's, voice was probably the only thing that could have brought my panicked search to a halt at that moment.

"Marcello," I turned to him, one hand clutched my throat as tears dripped down my cheeks and the other wrapped around the tiny bump on my stomach.

Marcello frowned with worry. "Gabriella… what is the matter?" He moved to me swiftly, removing his heavy wool cloak to place on my shoulders.

"Please, I have to find my mother!" my panic was frightening in mine own ears. How did it sound in his? "Please," I begged as a fresh wave of tears flowed from my eyes.

"Gabi?" my sister's inquisitive voice called me from the kitchens' doorway.

"Lia!" I replied, anxious again. I switched to English, despite how it aggravated my husband when I did that. "Where's mom?"

"I'm right here," my mother's cool voice answered. She stepped out from behind Evangelia and frowned at me. "What's the matter?"

"Mom," I shook off Marcello's worried hand and stumbled toward my mom. "Mom, I- I think I might be pregnant." My fear was so evident that Marcello was by my side again in seconds.

My mom's eyes moved from my tear-streaked face to my stomach although she could not see the microscopic bump. "How long?"

I shook my head, "I don't know. But, mom, I'm too young! And in this time period-!" I could not bring myself to finish that thought.

I shuddered and began to hyperventilate. I could not be having a baby - I was only nineteen, for crying out loud!

"Let's go into the library," my mom replied in Italian so Marcello could understand. She wrapped an arm around my waist and began to pull me along.

Marcello did not ask again what was wrong, choosing to wait until we were in the library.

I understood instantly why my mother had chosen the library instead of my private rooms. My father was already there, sitting calmly next to the roaring fire, completely unaware of the peril that hung over me and my unborn…child.

My heart leapt at the phrase. My child. Marcello's child. The product of our love.

I gasped, suddenly worried. How many woman and children survived child-birth in the thirteenth century? I racked my brain for that information and concluded that I should not think about it.

"Gabi!" my father cried in alarm when he saw my ashen face.

He jumped to his feet and my mom pushed me into his now vacant chair. "Sit," she ordered unnecessarily. She crouched down in front of me, switching to English unconsciously. "Gabi, when did you realize this, or start to suspect?"

"Realize what?" my father asked worried. He and Marcello hovered anxiously over me, completely out of the loop. "What the heck is going on, Gabes?"

Mom and I ignored him completely.

"This morning, I figured it out, and… panicked. I had to find you. Mom, I'm too young! I can't become a mother!"

Marcello had finally had enough. He knelt in front of me, next to Mom, and took my hands. "Gabriella," his eyes caressed my face, something he would not do with his hands in front of my parents. "What is the matter?" he murmured. "What has you so scared?"

"I'm-!" My voice faltered as I tried to calm down enough to tell him. "I'm with child, Marcello."

His face shifted so quickly between expressions: delight, happiness, wonder, amazement, then confusion, concern, worry, and a hint of anger. He was confused and angry that I was not ecstatic at this new revelation.

"I'm- I'm not ready," I told him, explaining before he could speak his questions aloud. "I don't think I can do this!" my voice broke and I took my hands out of his to place around the tiny lump on my stomach, barely even a bump.

I probably wouldn't have noticed it for much longer if I hadn't been concerned about my period being so late.

"If- if he is carried the way I was – " I said "he" since I couldn't see the child being anything else " – if he is carried the way I was - " I couldn't continue.

I had been breached when my mother had gone into labor. She had had to have a C-section in order for me to born.

My mother explained my worries to Marcello quickly – replacing "C-section" for "cut from the womb" – and he looked concerned.

"She and the babe would be safe – healthy – in Normandy?" he frowned up at me, still crouching next to my mother and me.

"Yes…" my mother answered slowly, looking up at me. "But we do not know if she would be able to bear the babe through the tunnel…"

There was no answer. There was no way for me to do this. I could not go through the tunnel, it might kill my child. I could not bear this baby. But I didn't have a choice.

I sobbed suddenly. What had I done? I had condemned this child to be born in a world of war!

"I'm not strong enough," I sobbed, staring down at my hands pressed against the bump. "I won't be strong enough! Mom, you were bedridden at seven months with me! I – I won't be strong enough to give life to this child!"

Marcello cupped his hand under my chin and tilted my head so I was forced to look at him. "Yes, you are, Gabriella," he murmured, stroking my cheek with his thumb. His confidence in me was astonishing. "You are stronger than any woman in this world, She-wolf. You are just scared at the prospect of becoming a mother," he smiled slightly. "Cook tells me my mother reacted much the same way when she bore my brother. Don't worry," his hands moved to cover mine. To cover our child. Our creation. "We will make it through this. Together."

I could almost bet my screams could be heard all the way to the ruins of Castello Paratore.

My hand clenched tighter around Marcello's and he winced. Normally, I would have thought he was in pain, but I knew I could never inflict physical pain on him. No, he winced out of pain that he could do nothing to ease mine. My bloated belly convulsed as a fierce contraction hit, trying to force the baby out of my body into my mother's and Cook's waiting arms.

Mom was there, wiping the sweat off my brow as Cook ordered me again, "Push, m'lady! Push! This child can't be born unless you push!"

With a cry of anguish, I heaved with all my might and watched with fascination as my child entered, screaming, into this world.

Marcello stood swiftly and sat on the bed next me, propping my upwards so that I may hold our child with more ease.

I was panting, my body covered in sweat and my curly hair knotted in a poor bun at the base of my neck, but I sobbed with joy and relief as my arms took the baby boy from my mother's.

He was perfect, covered in muck and all. Already, his eyes were open, showing them to be brown like his father's, and his hair was curly and brown like Marcello's too.

"You did it, Gabi," my mother spoke in English and grinned at me, wiping sweat from her own brow. "You did it," she repeated in Italian.

"No," I disagreed, tired though I was. I took Marcello's hand and squeezed it, gazing up at him with as much wonder as he gazed down at me and our son with. "We did it."

Marcello bent his head then and kissed me softly on the lips. He pulled back and grinned, "And we can do it again."

Our son gave a wail again as if in protest of having me go through that again.

My mother and husband laughed.

"I believe you might have competition, Marcello," my mother murmured with humor in her eyes, "for my daughter's greatest protector."

"That is alright," Marcello's hand stroked our son's head, "we can protect the She-wolf together.