Page 60 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

Lachlan didn’t reply at once. He poured himself a measure of ale from the decanter near the hearth and sipped it, then sank into the chair opposite the fire. “Well. That’s unfortunate.”

“It’s unacceptable, “Armstrong hissed, voice soft.

Lachlan gave a shrug. “What now?”

The laird finally turned from the window. “Now we finish it before me child is born.”

Lachlan stilled.

“How long daes she have left? Yer wife?”

“She’s nearly full term,” Armstrong said, beginning to pace now. Each step was deliberate. Measured. “The midwife thinks nae more than a handful o’ days.”

“Then we’re short on time.”

“We’re out o’ time.” Armstrong’s voice sharpened like a blade leaving its sheath. “If the child is a boy, I must act. I cannae allow me bastard son tae live.”

Lachlan studied him. “He daesnae ken he is yer son, right?”

“It daesnae matter,” Armstrong snapped. “He daesnae need tae ken. If the truth ever surfaces—if even a whisper o’ it escapes this keep—then everything I’ve built will be fer naething. Every alliance. Every title. All o’ it tainted by a bastard’s blood.”

“Ye speak as if bloodlines matter tae the men who would choose tae follow him.”

“They dae,” Armstrong said coldly. “They matter when the people are hungry and angry and looking fer someone tae blame. They matter when an orphan turned soldier carries himself with more honor than half the men born intae this name. If it is kent that he has me blood, then someone—some fool—will rise and say he has a claim. And others will listen.”

“And the girl?” Lachlan asked. “Kerr’s daughter? If she’s with him…”

“She complicates things,” Armstrong admitted. “But only a little.”

The fire snapped again. Outside, the wind picked up, howling low through the arrow slits in the tower walls. Lachlan rose and crossed to the hearth, gaze distant now.

“And what if the child is a girl?”

Armstrong said nothing.

Lachlan turned. “Ye’ve staked this on a birth ye cannae control.”

“I can control the rest.”

There was no tremor in his voice. No doubt.

“I will nae risk me legacy fer sentiment,” Armstrong said. “I let him live longer than I should have. That was me mistake.”

“And now?”

“Now I make sure he dies before he learns who he is.”

Lachlan ran a hand over his beard. “And if someone already kens?”

“Nay one daes,” Armstrong said, his voice like the flat of a blade. “The woman who bore him is dead. The only other who ever suspected died five winters past.”

“And me?”

Armstrong met his gaze. “Ye will die old and comfortable, as promised. Unless ye stop being loyal.”

Lachlan held his stare a beat too long, then smiled faintly and returned to his drink. “I’m always loyal.”

Armstrong returned to the window. Somewhere out there, the only living threat to his rule breathed when he should not have been alive. He would correct that. Armstrong hated uncertainty. And Tav Graham’s survival had become precisely that.

“There will be nay more failures,” Armstrong said quietly.

Lachlan gave a noncommittal hum.

The laird’s fingers curled against the cold stone windowsill.

Before his true heir drew breath into the world, Tav would bleed his last. And the silence that followed would not be mourning.

It would be peace.