“She is the child’s mother.”
Caitlin’s brows lifted slightly. “I had gathered that, and ye assure me that ye arenae married?” she asked again.
“I am nae, mother.”
“And yet ye intend to keep them here?”
“Aye.”
“For how long?”
“As long as necessary.”
Caitlin studied him carefully. “Necessary for what?”
“For safety.”
She sighed softly.
“Me son,” she said, stepping closer, “safety isnae a long-term plan. Stability is.”
He felt the weight of that truth settle in his chest.
“When will ye marry her?” she asked quietly.
The question did not carry accusation.
It carried inevitability.
Frederick looked away briefly, toward the narrow window where late afternoon light filtered in.
Marriage had always been his duty.
An alliance. A reinforcement of clan strength. A union meant to secure lineage and land.
Now there was a child already bearing his mark. Already walking his halls.
The urgency sharpened.
“Ifshe agrees,” he said at last.
Caitlin nodded once. “Ye have to ask her first.”
He did not answer.
Because the truth was simpler and colder than his mother likely understood.
This was no longer merely about alliance or expectation.
It was about legitimacy.
And if marriage were the structure required to secure all three, then it would be done.
Duty had always dictated his path.
Now it pointed directly at Iona Pearson.
8