Chapters (46)
- Front Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Epilogue
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- Back Cover
She’d always felt sorry for her mother. She’d been the last child they had been able to conceive, left feeling like it was her fault, that she’d harmed her mother in some way.
Except…she wasn’t.
Because she wasn’t a Morgan by blood.
No.
She’d been adopted.
Thirty-three
Rowles’s chest burned as he realized he’d been holding his breath. He released the pent-up air and intentionally breathed in, and out, all the while keeping his complete focus on Joan.
Watching as she gained comprehension without him even telling her. Yes, he’d been right in saying something. She was far too keen of understanding and aware of others to have this secret remain buried. It was a miracle that she’d not discovered it earlier. Morgan was stealthier than Rowles had given him credit for.
“Who knows?” she asked, turning eyes full of warring emotions upon him.
“Morgan and myself,” Rowles answered gently. “Your parents didn’t wish for you to know, and as Morgan explained it to me, I can in some part understand why.”
“Why, then?” Joan asked, but without the harsh tone that could have accompanied such a question.
“Because pedigree can be prized, and they didn’t want you to feel that pressure or have to succumb to society’s cruel gossip in such matters should the truth come to light,” he answered. “It was all in effort to protect you. It changed nothing concerning their love or devotion to you, or yours for them, so I think they felt that there was no true benefit in you knowing.”
“Except that it was withholding the truth,” Joan answered, but without heat or a bitter edge. “I understand why, but that doesn’t mean I can agree with it.” She released a silent sigh, her shoulders caving slightly as if the knowledge was a real weight upon her shoulders.
Rowles’s mind grasped for something comforting to say but came up empty. So instead he squeezed her hand within his, continuing to rub her palm with his thumb. Sometimes actions spoke louder than words.
“Is there any information about my birth?” she asked after a moment, her attention lingering on their intertwined hands.
Rowles shrugged. “Not much. Your parents had most of it destroyed, from what Morgan has told me. They didn’t want any of it traced back to you.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
“Morgan went searching for information back at your home. That’s what we were discussing earlier in the library.”
Joan’s eyes flashed up to him. “Did he find anything?”
Rowles shook his head. “No, not much at least. He wondered, first of all, if I was indeed going to tell you about it. I told him my instinct was to tell you, and from there he said he’d found a blanket. It had been left with you at the church. There’s a lamb embroidered on the corner.”