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“Someday you will make the most magnificent blacksmith,” she said.

“And someday you’ll make a mag . . . mag . . . pretty mama.” He smiled, and as quickly as he’d appeared, Gordie ran away.

Gillian sank down to the ground, the boy’s words weighing on her.

“He said he didn’t need ta find her. That she was already here.”

That sounded like the Graeme she’d learned to love. The one she’d tried to make love her back. Had all hope for them died?

Gillian sat in the garden, looking at the herbs but not seeing them, until the sun began to set.

Like it or not, she finally concluded, Graeme was in her heart just as surely as Gordie’s mother was in his. But the question now was, what should she do about it?

* * *

The sound of a baby’s cry woke Graeme from deep slumber. He’d slept so little on his mad dash to England. After his meeting with Geoffrey and Sara the evening before, after explaining that Douglas had proposed a private meeting between Clan Scott, the Kerrs, Kenshire, Clave, and the English Warden, which they set for the day before the next Day of Truce, he’d immediately retired to his chamber—and fallen asleep the moment his head hit the feather pillow.

His dream came back to him in pieces. Gillian wearing a May Day crown. Her eyes wide as she spied on him in the garden. The kiss that had set them on a new path.

He sat up, his eyes adjusting to the dim light that spilled in from the arrow slits in the wall. The sun was up, but just barely if his guess was correct. Graeme rubbed his eyes. He’d leave for home as soon as he broke his fast.

Graeme dressed and began to make his way toward the great hall. Unlike Highgate, Kenshire’s corridors remain lit at all times, candlelight flickering against the whitewashed stone walls.

Another cry.

Graeme slowed, unable to look away from an open door where the sound originated.

“Come on then,” a woman called from inside.

Gillian was apparently not the only one to favor having a fire on warm nights, for Sara’s maid was cradling the baby in her arms by the hearth. The past two days had been unusually warm, and though that warmth did not make its way completely into the castle, the rooms were much warmer at this time of year.

“I did not mean to disturb you, Mistress Faye.”

The lady’s maid squinted, looking at him from head to toe. “Good morn to you, Chief.”

He moved closer. He’d met Geoffrey and Sara’s baby just once before.

“Hayden?” he asked, hoping he got the baby’s name correct.

Faye looked down at the boy, his eyes wide and his black hair standing straight up in the air. She smiled, clearly in love with the wee bundle.

“Aye,” she said, finally looking up at him. “You’ll be havin’ one of your own soon.”

He shook his head. “I’m married only—”

“I know how long ye’ve been married,” she cut in. “The wedding would be hard to forget.”

Of course it would be. He and Gillian had been married at Kenshire, which would always make this place special to him.

Where had that come from?

“It must be difficult, that?”

Hayden looked as if he were about to cry again, but Faye tapped his nose and made a face. The baby smiled instead.

“Pardon?” he said.

“Marryin’ under those circumstances.”