Mairead's POV
Three weeks until the wedding. The entire estate vibrates with urgency—servants rushing between rooms, deliveries arriving daily, Lady Catriona's voice cutting through corridors issuing orders that sound like commands from a general preparing for war.
I bring Tavish, Lachlan, and Fenella for their Sunday visit because I need to see my kids, need to hold onto something real after this week of careful lies and Catriona's threats.
The children bounce through the gates like they haven't seen the gardens in months instead of weeks. Isla spots them from the terrace and runs down the steps.
"You're here! Finally! I've been waiting all morning!"
The four of them collide in a tangle of hugs and immediate chatter about what game they'll play today. I watch from a distance, chest tight, trying not to think about how natural this looks. How right.
"Mairead." Bridei's voice comes from behind me. She's walking across the lawn in pale green silk, expression serious. "We need to talk."
I glance at the children—already running toward the fountain, Isla leading the charge. "They'll be fine for a few minutes. Come."
We move to a secluded corner of the garden, hidden behind a wall of climbing roses. Bridei doesn't waste time.
"The investigators are getting closer. They've started questioning people in Carvenmoor—tavern workers, midwives, anyone who might remember a pregnant woman seven years ago."
My blood goes cold. "Have they found anything?"
"Not yet. But it's only a matter of time before someone remembers you."
Bridei's voice is brisk, practical.
"I've managed to redirect some of their inquiries, but Catriona is throwing more resources at this. She hired additional investigators last week. She wants answers, and she's not being subtle about it anymore."
"What does she know?"
"She knows Thomas Farren didn't exist, knows you lied. What she doesn't know yet is why." Bridei pauses, then adds carefully, "There's something else. Domnall has been asking questions. Careful questions about you and the children. Birth dates, circumstances, family history."
My stomach drops. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. But he's not stupid. He's counting backward, noticing patterns. Whatever he suspects, he's investigating on his own."
She meets my terrified eyes.
"Be careful. He may care about you, but that doesn't mean he won't use what he discovers."
Before I can respond, children's laughter erupts from the direction of the house—too loud, too chaotic.
We both turn. The four of them are running—not on the terrace anymore but inside, visible through the tall windows. They're playing chase, weaving between furniture, shrieking with laughter.
"They've gone inside." My voice goes tight. "They shouldn't be inside."
We hurry toward the house, but we're too far away. Through the windows, I watch it happen in fragments: Tavish running backward, not looking where he's going, Lachlan chasing him, Isla laughing and Fenella trying to catch up.
They burst through a doorway into a room I've never seen—and suddenly they're surrounded by fabric. Bolts of silk and lace spread across tables, draped over chairs, covering every surface. Ivory and cream and the softest blush pink.
Wedding preparations.
"No." The word comes out strangled. "No, no, no—"
Tavish collides with a table. An inkwell teeters. Lachlan lunges to catch it—his hand hits it instead. Black ink arcs through the air in slow motion.
It hits the silk. Spreads. A dark stain blooming across ivory fabric like blood in water.
Time stops.
The children freeze, staring at the spreading ink. Lachlan's hand is still outstretched, dripping black. Fenella's face crumples.
"What have you done?" Lady Elspeth's voice cuts through the silence like a blade.
She's standing in the doorway, Lady Catriona beside her. Both of them staring at the ruined fabric with expressions that make my chest seize.
Elspeth moves forward, her hands shaking as she touches the stained silk.
"This is Carrickmacross lace! Do you understand what that means? This was commissioned four months ago from a workshop in Ireland. These fabrics were shipped from the continent at enormous expense."
Her voice is rising with every word, sweet patience shattering into something sharp and vicious.
"The wedding is three weeks away. Three weeks! New materials will take at least twelve weeks to acquire and prepare!"
She whirls on Isla. "How could you let this happen? How could you be so careless, so thoughtless? Behaving like a common child."
"Don't speak to her like that." I step forward, moving between Elspeth and the children. "It was an accident."
"An accident?" Elspeth's laugh is brittle. "An accident that just destroyed months of work and thousands of pounds worth of irreplaceable fabric! Your children shouldn't even be here! They don't belong in this house!"
Fenella is crying now, pressed against my legs. Tavish and Lachlan stand frozen, faces white. Isla looks like she might be sick.
Lady Catriona's voice cuts through, cold and absolute. "Mrs. Farren's children are banned from this estate. Effective immediately. They will not be permitted on the grounds again."
"Lady Catriona, please," I start.
"This is not a discussion." Her gaze is ice. "Your children have proven themselves incapable of appropriate behavior in a noble household. They are no longer welcome here."
I pull Fenella closer, one hand on Tavish's shoulder. My throat is closing. "I understand. I'll take them home right now. I'm so sorry for…"
"What happened here?"
Domnall's voice comes from the doorway. Everyone turns.
He's standing there in riding clothes, hair windswept, taking in the scene with those dark blue eyes that miss nothing.
The ruined fabrics, Elspeth's fury, his mother's cold judgment. Four terrified children and me, shielding them like I can protect them from what's already been decreed.
"Your tutor's children," Catriona says with surgical precision, "have just destroyed months of wedding preparations. Fabrics that cannot be replaced in time for the ceremony."
Domnall walks into the room. His gaze travels over the stained silk, the spilled ink, then settles on the children: Tavish is trembling, Lachlan's hand is still dripping black, Fenella is crying. Isla looks like she wants to disappear into the floor.
"They're children." His voice is calm, steady. "Children make mistakes. So do adults."
"This isn't a mistake," Elspeth snaps. "This is destruction of irreplaceable—"
"Fabrics can be recommissioned." He looks at her directly. "The wedding can be postponed. Twelve weeks, you said? That's fine."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Elspeth stares at him like he's speaking a language she doesn't understand. "You want to postpone our wedding? For this?"
"I want to postpone our wedding because the materials needed for it have been damaged and require time to replace." His tone is reasonable, but there's steel underneath. "What would you have me do? Marry you in a rushed ceremony with inferior fabrics because four children were playing?"
"They shouldn't have been playing in here at all!" Her voice cracks. "They should have been supervised, they should have been—"
"They should have been children." Domnall's interruption is quiet but firm. "Which is exactly what they were. The fault lies with whoever left expensive, irreplaceable materials in an unsecured room where children might wander."
Catriona's expression has gone dangerously still. She's watching her son defend the tutor's children over his bride's distress, watching him postpone his own wedding without hesitation, watching him choose the wrong side with witnesses present.
"Domnall." Her voice could freeze water. "A word. Privately."
"In a moment, Mother." He doesn't look at her. His gaze stays on the children. "Are any of you hurt?"
Lachlan shakes his head mutely. Tavish manages a whispered "No, sir."
"Good." Domnall crouches slightly, bringing himself to their eye level. "Accidents happen. You didn't mean to cause harm, and no one was injured. That's what matters."
Fenella stops crying long enough to look at him with wide, wondering eyes.
"Mrs. Farren." He stands, addressing me formally. "Take the children to the gardens. I'll send word when the situation here is resolved."
I hesitate, looking between him and his mother. Catriona's expression promises consequences.
"Go." His voice gentles slightly. "It's all right."
I gather the children and leave before anyone can countermand the order. As we reach the doorway, I glance back once.
Catriona is staring at her son with an expression I can't fully read—fury, certainly, but something else underneath. Calculation. Assessment. The look of someone who's just witnessed a vulnerability she can exploit.
The wedding is postponed for twelve weeks.