Four weeks since the cottage. Four weeks of careful, professional distance. No secret meetings, no stolen moments. Just polite interactions when required—me teaching Isla, him occasionally observing lessons, both of us maintaining the appropriate space between tutor and employer.
But the wanting doesn't fade.
I catch myself watching him across rooms during formal dinners where I'm serving. He looks up from conversations with guests and finds me with his eyes. The air between us charges every time we're near, like lightning waiting to strike.
It's exhausting, this constant performance of indifference.
Tonight, he finds me in the library past midnight. I'm reading by lamplight, unable to sleep, when the door opens quietly.
"Mairead." He closes the door behind him, doesn't lock it. "I have more findings. About House Carraig."
I set down my book. "Show me."
He crosses to the table, spreads out documents. More evidence of Orlaith's legitimacy—marriage contracts that were never completed, correspondence proving she was being considered for royal marriage, witness statements from nobles who knew her.
And evidence of Catriona's involvement. Financial records showing payments made around the time of the purge. Letters in her handwriting to political allies, discussing "removing obstacles" to her son's future.
"This is damning." I trace a finger over one particularly incriminating letter. "If anyone saw this—"
"They won't, not yet." He's standing carefully on the opposite side of the table, maintaining physical distance like it's a rule we agreed to follow. "I'm gathering everything first. Building an irrefutable case before we decide how to use it."
"We." I look up at him. "You keep saying 'we.'"
"Because this isn't just your fight. It's ours." His eyes are steady on mine. "I meant what I said. I'm with you in this."
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest ache. I look back down at the documents, trying to focus. "What about your promise? To acknowledge the children."
He's quiet for a moment. "I've been thinking about that. Planning how to do it in a way that protects all of you from my mother's retaliation."
"How?"
"After we have enough evidence about your heritage. Once we can prove you're Orlaith's daughter, once we have documentation strong enough that my mother can't suppress it—then I acknowledge them."
He pauses.
"They become children of royal blood through you. Not just bastards I'm claiming out of sentiment, but legitimate heirs to House Carraig through their mother."
The strategy is sound. Clever, even. But something in his tone catches my attention. "You've been thinking about this a lot."
"Constantly." He admits it without hesitation. "About them. About you. About what we could be if circumstances were different."
The honesty undoes something in me. I've been holding so much back, protecting secrets, maintaining walls. But suddenly I'm tired of it. Tired of hiding, tired of lying, tired of pretending the children aren't his when he was willing to claim them even believing they were another man's.
And part of me—the part still haunted by Elspeth's warnings about darkness and hidden currents—wants to test something. Wants to see his reaction to the truth. To see if telling him changes him into something frightening, or if it proves Elspeth wrong.
"Domnall." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "There's something I need to tell you."
He looks up from the documents. "What is it?"
"The children. Tavish, Lachlan, and Fenella." I take a breath. "They're yours."
The silence that follows is absolute. He goes completely still, staring at me like I've spoken in a language he doesn't understand.
"There was no Thomas Farren." The confession spills out now, unstoppable. "No blacksmith husband who died. I made him up—Bridei helped me create the story to get the position here. The children are from Carvenmoor. From that one night seven years ago."
His face transforms. Shock first—eyes widening, lips parting slightly. Then something else breaks through. Wonder. Pure, overwhelming wonder.
"They're mine." He says it like he's testing the words. "All three. They're actually mine."
"Yes."
The joy that floods his expression is so complete, so unguarded, that it takes my breath away. His whole face lights up—the careful control he always maintains just vanishes, replaced by something raw and beautiful and entirely honest.
He's around the table in seconds, crossing the space between us with long strides. His hands frame my face and he kisses me desperately, hungrily, like I've just given him something he thought he'd lost forever.
I kiss him back, swept up in his reaction, in the pure happiness radiating from him.
Then he pulls back abruptly, hands dropping. "I'm sorry. I remember you wanted distance. I shouldn't have—" But he can't stop smiling. Can't contain the elation. "They're mine. My children. I'm a father."
"You're a father." I'm smiling too now, caught up in his joy despite myself.
"When?" The question tumbles out. "When can I see them? Properly, I mean. Not just in passing in the gardens. I want to spend real time with them. I want to…"
He stops, runs a hand through his hair, laughing slightly at his own enthusiasm. "I want to make up for seven years of not knowing."
"Soon." The word comes out before I've fully thought it through. "We can arrange something soon."
"Thank you." He reaches for my hand, brings it to his lips, kisses my knuckles. "Thank you for trusting me with this. For finally telling me."
I watch him, this man who's radiating pure joy at discovering he has children, and I can't reconcile it with Elspeth's warnings. Can't see darkness or hidden currents in someone who looks this genuinely, completely happy about becoming a father.
"Tavish." He's still smiling, testing out their names. "Lachlan, Fenella. Tell me about them. Everything. What are they like?"
So I do. I tell him about Tavish's endless questions and Lachlan's fearlessness and Fenella's quiet observations. He listens like every detail is precious, interrupting occasionally to ask for clarification or more stories.
"Lachlan has the birthmark," he says at one point. "On his left shoulder blade. Diamond-shaped."
I freeze. "How do you know that?"
"I saw it. That day in the gardens when they were playing. His shirt was loose." The lie comes smoothly, but something flickers in his expression. "It's a family trait. My father had it. I have it."
I should question this further. Should ask why he noticed such a small detail. But I'm too caught up in his mood, in his genuine delight, in the way he keeps smiling like he can't help himself.
"I can't believe they're mine." He says it again, like he needs to keep confirming it's real. "I can't believe I have children. Three of them."
"You do." I squeeze his hand. "And they're extraordinary."
"They must be. They have you as their mother." His voice softens. "You raised them alone. For six years. Everything they are—that's because of you."
The acknowledgment makes my throat tight. "I did what I had to."
"You did more than that. You gave them love and safety and a childhood. You made them believe they matter." He pulls me closer. "I'll never be able to thank you enough for that."
We stand there, hands joined, smiling at each other like fools. The documents about House Carraig forgotten on the table behind us.
For this moment, there's no Catriona plotting, no Elspeth warning, no impossible succession questions. Just two people who created three children seven years ago, finally able to acknowledge what they made together.
Whatever Elspeth suspects or fears, I can't believe it matters. Not when I see this side of Domnall—the wonder in his eyes, the joy at discovering he's a father, the genuine warmth that transforms his usually careful expression into something open and real.
This is who he really is. This is the man I fell for seven years ago and again these past months.
And I have no intention of letting that slip away.