In the Laird's Bed. Joanne Rock

you were free from your duties.” Yet instead of dispensing a few herbs to a sick wee one and departing, Cristiana had held the child for hours.

      The sight—captured in the moments he peered into the door the maid had not fully shut—had roused a protective instinct within that he had never before experienced. Seeing the maternal side of Cristiana had reminded him of all that she’d robbed him of.

      Not just lands, wealth and the increased prestige of ruling Domhnaill. He’d lost a woman who would make a strong yet tender mother.

      He swore under his breath. He did not owe her any sympathy. If he was right about the little girl she hid, then Cristiana had deceived him as thoroughly as he tricked her with his pretense for entering her keep.

      “What is it?” Her voice was a thin wisp of sound in the drafty tower staircase.

      “You are her mother.” The realization hit him like a rockslide.

      They stared at one another, locked in wordless indictment. A myriad of emotions passed over her features. Did she think to deny it? Her long delay as good as confirmed his suspicions.

      “Do not think about lying to me,” he warned.

      “It is true. She is mine.” She gave a tight nod, her lips pressed in a flat line.

      Yet, she appeared relieved at the same time. As if there were a great weight off her shoulders now that she’d shared the truth.

      Anger welled up in him as though a jealous fist squeezed his insides.

      “She is not yet five summers, but she is close. What knave dared to touch you while you yet belonged to me?” He closed the distance between them, gaze locked upon her. He should not care if she’d taken a lover back then. Until that day that he’d kissed her by the wishing well, he’d paid her little enough attention, agreeing to the betrothal out of a sense of duty.

      He’d had a lover of his own, after all. But that was not the same and she knew it. He would hunt down the man who’d touched her.

      “No one, I swear it.” She shook her head, as if the idea were repugnant. “I would die before forswearing myself.”

      The vehemence in her words was so powerful, so passionate. Could they be true?