Rutledge said, “Let’s examine another possibility. That the child is precisely what you say he is—an ordinary child with an ordinary father, threatening no one. That his mother is dead. What if—mind you, this is pure speculation, but hear me out—what if someone thinks the boy matters? And removing you from his guardianship is necessary to prevent him from ever being identified. What if someone has been searching for some time for a missing child about Ian’s age? And that someone believes, without a shadow of doubt, that he’s been found here in Duncarrick.”

“You have a wonderful imagination,” she said, smiling in spite of herself. “Or have you convinced yourself that the mother of Eleanor Gray is trying to prevent Ian from ruining her family’s reputation?”

“Imagination has often been the best and quickest way through a thicket of lies.” He made a swift decision and shifted direction. “Whose wedding ring do you wear on a chain around your neck?”

Her face flamed. “Who told you such a thing?”

“Dorothea MacIntyre. She didn’t mean to betray you. In the course of describing how well you’d cared for her when she was ill, she spoke of it. She believed it was truly yours.”

“It was my grandmother’s ring. If I was a married woman, I ought to have a ring. But it was loose, it didn’t fit my finger. So I wore it around my neck, telling my aunt that I was afraid it might fall off and be lost. You’ll find it at the inn. Unless someone has taken that as well! I put it away when I could no longer call myself Mrs. MacLeod.” She looked away. The memory hurt her.

Earnestly, he said, “Won’t you tell me which one of my guesses is closest to the truth? Because once I know, I can protect you, I can protect that child.”

“But you can’t give him back to me when it’s over!” It was a cry of anguish. “You’ve already told me that no matter how this ends, I shall never have him back again.”

He looked at her, trying to read her face. “Is that the bargain you’re making with me? If I can guarantee that you shall have your child again, you will finally tell me the truth?”

She bit her lip, torn between duty and love and hope.

He had finally found the key to Fiona MacDonald’s silence. Something she wanted more than life—even her own life. That child.

Then, to his utter astonishment, she replied, “Will you kill someone for me? Because if you can’t, promises will be useless.”

She read his answer in his face.

“No. I didn’t think you could.” There was infinite sorrow in her voice.

He waited, but she said nothing more. No explanation, no self-defense for even asking such a thing of him.