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I came back to that tavern room with honey cakes and strawberries. The bed was empty. The blanket was still warm. Her boots were gone. 🥀 I stood in that doorway for a long, long time. The barmaid said she'd never heard of a Mairead — twenty serving girls that week, they came and went 🍺. I ate the honey cakes on a stair outside the tavern in the snow. I do not remember what they tasted like. I remember thinking I would never eat them again. I haven't 💔. I waited three days at that tavern. I sent men to every village within a hundred miles for two years. I stopped announcing it. I never stopped looking. Seven years. ⏳ And tonight a woman walks into my library in widow's black, under a borrowed name, and tells me that night was nothing. I know the freckle on her collarbone. I know the sound she makes when a thumb traces the underside of her jaw. And I know the names of the three children she keeps slipping off my estate to visit on her days off. 👶👶👶❤️‍🔥 Chapter 1 POV Mairead When I tumbled into bed with a stranger in a Carvenmoor tavern seven years ago, I had no idea it would result in three small tornadoes who believe bedtime is merely a suggestion I make out of habit. "Tavish, put down the boot! Lachlan, get off your sister." My voice has gone hoarse from repetition, from saying the same words in the same order for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. Tavish drops the boot and grabs a wooden horse, swinging it in an arc that nearly takes out the candle. Lachlan launches himself across the room, colliding with the wall. The floorboards rattle. Fenella scales the back of the only chair I own, her bare feet finding purchase on wood I can't afford to replace. She grins at me with gap-toothed defiance that would be charming if I wasn't so exhausted. I deploy my most reliable weapon, the one that never fails. "If you don't settle down, there's no story tonight." Three bodies scramble toward the shared bed, elbows colliding in the rush. They settle into a tangle of limbs and expectant faces. I sink onto the floor beside them, my back against the bedframe, and begin inventing. "Once upon a time, there was a knight who loved a princess across the sea." Tavish leans forward, eyes wide. "Was he brave?" "The bravest. He crossed oceans and fought dragons just to prove his love was real." I'm pulling from scraps of stories I've read, stitching them into something that might make them believe. "Did the dragons breathe fire?" Lachlan interrupts, bouncing on the mattress hard enough to make Fenella squeak in protest. "The biggest fire you've ever seen. But the knight had a magic shield that turned the flames into roses." Fenella's small hand grabs a fistful of my skirt, holding on without speaking, and I wonder what she understands that her brothers don't. I keep going, painting a world where love conquers distance and everyone gets chosen in the end. My voice softens into the rhythm that makes eyelids heavy. Tavish's head tilts against the pillow, his breathing already slowing. Then he asks it, his voice small and uncertain. "Where's our father?" My throat closes around air that won't move properly. Lachlan sits up. "Is he a knight? Is he bringing us roses?" Fenella watches my face, reading silences better than words. I've practiced this answer until it sits smooth. "Your father is a brave man doing important things. He'll come back someday." "When?" Lachlan demands, his jaw set in that stubborn way he gets when he knows he's not being told the whole truth. The same look his father had seven years ago when I tried to leave before he woke. "When the time is right." I lean forward and kiss Tavish's forehead, then Lachlan's, then Fenella's. My lips press against their warm skin. "Now sleep. Tomorrow is important." "Why can't we come?" Tavish's question is muffled by the pillow, his voice already blurring at the edges with exhaustion. "Because I need you to be brave here. Can you do that for me?" Three nods, slow and sleepy. I pull the thin blanket over them and stand. I blow out the candle and leave the door cracked, listening to their breathing slow and settle into the rhythm of sleep. Tomorrow, everything changes. Tomorrow, I walk into a noble house under a borrowed name and pretend I belong there. The carriage arrives just after dawn. I've dressed in the best thing I own — a grey dress Bridei gave me last month, mended twice, plain but clean. The children cling to my skirts until Bridei's housekeeper peels them away. Fenella's face crumples. I don't look back. If I look back, I'll stay. Bridei sits across from me, her posture perfect even on the uneven road. She's ten years older than me, a duchess, a widow, the only reason I'm not still scrubbing floors. "Tell me your name." Her voice carries that testing tone she uses for Latin declensions. "Mairead Dunmore." "Wrong. Try again." I exhale, forcing the lie through teeth that want to hold it back. "Mairead Farren." The name sits foreign in my mouth. "Better. Who was your husband?" "Thomas Farren, a blacksmith from your estate. Good man. Died two years ago." "How?" "Fever." "Children?" "Three. Tavish, Lachlan, Fenella. Six years old." "Education?" "You educated me. I was companion to your eldest daughter from age nine to fifteen. I can read, write, handle accounts." "Why are you seeking this position?" "I need work. Three children to feed." "Good. Don't elaborate unless pressed." She leans back. "Lady Catriona received my recommendation two days ago. A duchess vouching for a gentlewoman from her own household — she won't question it immediately, but she will investigate eventually. If you slip, if you mention your real father or your real circumstances, the whole thing collapses. Not just for you — for me." "I understand." "Then repeat it. All of it." I do. I repeat it until the words stop catching in my throat. The Morvaine estate rises ahead through the carriage window — all stone and symmetry, larger than anything I've lived in, larger than anything I've entered without a mop in my hand. Bridei reaches across the space between us and touches my wrist. "You belong here. Believe it." I don't believe it, but I nod anyway, because sometimes pretending is the same as surviving, and I've been pretending for seven years. A servant greets us at the door — an older woman with iron-grey hair. "The Duchess Farren and Mrs. Farren?" "We have an appointment with Lady Catriona." "Lady Catriona is indisposed. Her son will conduct the interview on her behalf." Bridei's hand tightens on her reticule. Neither of us likes surprises, especially not the kind that change the rules after we've already committed. We follow the servant through hallways lined with portraits — generations of Morvaines staring down at us. The sitting room is at the end of a corridor that smells faintly of beeswax and old money. "Mrs. Farren and the Duchess Farren." The man stands from his chair by the fireplace. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair that falls slightly across his forehead. Blue eyes I last saw by candlelight while my dress was still on the floor of a Carvenmoor tavern. My lungs forget how to work. Bridei is saying something beside me, introducing herself with the practiced ease of someone who's done this a thousand times. But the sound is distant, drowned by the roar in my ears. My vision narrows to his face — the jawline I traced with my fingers, the mouth that said my name in ways no one had before or since. Domnall Morvaine. Father of my children. The man I've been lying about for seven years, the ghost I've carried in my chest every time Tavish asks where his father is. He freezes mid-motion, his hand still half-extended in greeting. His lips part as if to speak but no sound comes. The silence stretches too long — long enough for Bridei to glance between us, her brow furrowing. Then he says it, just one word, rough and disbelieving. "You?.." Curious what's going to happen next? Read Three Little Secrets from My King now! ❤️‍🔥

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