Page 2 of The Laird's Secret Bairn

Elsie would have been proud to see what her daughter had become.

“Is it? Folks already whisper that ye killed yer first betrothed. What’s a bit of implied indulgence going to do that hasnae already been done? Best to let people do what they always do. Cannae stop the rumors. Ye ken that better than anyone, Dougal.”

Dougal stared at him. “Ye truly believe that.”

“I believe ye’ve spent seven years letting other men write yer story for ye. Perhaps it’s time ye wrote a bit of it yerself.”

“And how would ye suggest I do that?”

“Attend cèilidhs. Show yer face. Show them ye’ve got nothing to hide.”

“So they can stare and whisper and decide for themselves how the story ends?” Dougal scoffed. “Ye truly have gone mad, have ye nae?”

“It’d still be better than letting a pamphlet decide it for them,” Stephen pointed out. “But it’s yer choice, me Laird. Just be sure ye make the right one.”

The words hit Dougal harder than Stephen likely intended.

Small feet came pounding down the corridor before he could answer. Lily barreled into him, and he caught her without thinking, scooping her up. The tension in his shoulders eased immediately.

“Da! Did ye win all yer fights?”

“Every single one, little one.”

She studied his face the way she always did, too perceptive for a seven-year-old. “Ye look cross.”

Dougal chuckled, a rare smile flittering across his scarred face. His smiles were saved for two people: his mother and Lily. But if he was being honest, Lily earned them the most.

“Do I now?”

He looked over her head at Stephen, who only raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Do I?” he repeated, and the words carried more weight this time.

Stephen cleared his throat. “I think it’s about time I go check on me horse.”

Lily wrinkled her nose. “Ye want to check on yer horsenow?”

“Stephen really should do that. Now,” Dougal stated plainly.

Stephen sighed. “Think about what I said, will ye?” he demanded, his voice low.

“Will ye let it rest?” Dougal almost growled, but Lily was looking at the two of them, curiosity shining bright in her green eyes.

She was growing up fast—faster than he liked.

“I’ll let it rest if ye consider it,” Stephen insisted.

Damn it all, but Dougalwasstarting to consider it, almost wondering if Stephen might have a point.

“Yer horse cannae wait anymore. And I’ve had about enough of ye. Go.”

Stephen chuckled, shooting him one last knowing look before vanishing down the hall.

Dougal dressed without ceremony, pulling on his trews first, the heavy tartan trimmed with buckskin along the inner leg and worn smooth from years on horseback.

His sporran hung heavy at his hip, his sword belt cinched tight over it. He fastened his plaid at the shoulder with the silver brooch bearing his clan’s badge, the same one his father had worn before him.

Long socks went on next, then his boots, laced to the knee. Last of all came the mask, settled carefully over the scarred half of his face, fixed in place before he allowed himself to look in the mirror.