The words struck too close to the truth of her methods and too far from the truth of her purpose.
She had lied. She had hidden. She had crept through his halls in another woman’s gown with Jane’s blue cloth tucked among linen she did not own. If that made her a thief, then so be it. But she had not come for silver. She had come for a child whose mother had died asking for him.
“I will do worse than steal if that is what keeps him safe,” she declared.
Laird Moore studied her for a long moment. The look was not soft, but it was less dismissive than before, and somehow that made it harder to bear.
“Ye need time to cool down,” he said.
Violet stared at him. “Ineedme freedom.”
“Ye need sense first.”
“And ye think locking me away will give me that?”
“It will give ye time.”
He turned toward the door. At that moment, a wave of panic rose fast enough to shame her. If he left, he left with her still unnamed. She had made Jane a promise. She would not let this man strip her down to a charge written in his head.
She decided to speak up when he slid the key into the lock.
“Violet.”
He stopped.
The cell seemed to hold its breath around the sound, though it was only her name and her own pulse in her ears.
He turned back. “What?”
Her throat worked once, and she lifted her chin and held his gaze.
“Me name,” she said. “‘Tis Violet.”
He looked at her for a long second, his dark gaze unreadable.
“Violet,” he repeated.
The sound of it on his lips was low and controlled, and she hated that it landed differently fromlass, as if she had forced one small piece of herself through the bars and made him take hold of it.
Eventually, he stepped out, pulled the cell door shut behind him, and locked it again.
Great. Just great.
Connor turned the same paper over for the third time and found he had not read a word of it.
His study had regained its order after the broken treaty, and the contract with MacAdair had been removed from the desk.
Fresh reports sat in neat stacks near his left hand while a list of winter stores waited beside an account of grazing disputes near the southern border.
Everything had its place, and every problem had an obvious line of solution he could follow. Everything except Violet and the baby.
He set the paper down and looked at the candle as it burned lower on his desk. Two hours had passed. He had not gone down to the dungeons to frighten a confession out of her. He needed facts, and he had gotten enough.
A nameless child who probably belonged to his brother had been left at his gate after being taken from his English mother—hisdeadEnglish mother.
Almost a year had passed since Connor had sent Lachlan away for being a rake. For all he knew, this was probably just a result of one of his brother’s numerous dalliances.
Would Lachlan even remember her?
