Joan sighed. “I’d like to see it.”

“I’m sure Morgan will show you. And I’m also sure you will have questions for him. I’m sorry he won’t have many answers for you.”

Joan bit her lip. “Odd how questions seem to multiply. I have about a million.” She hitched a shoulder and took a deep breath. “I suppose it will take time for me to fully grasp this.”

“That’s understandable. But, Joan…” Rowles lifted a hand and tipped her chin so that they were eye to eye. “I meant what I said earlier. While your parentage is most certainly a part of you, it matters not to me that you’re not a Morgan by blood, or that your parentage is somewhat unknown. You…you are who I love. Not your bloodlines.” He spoke the words like a vow, praying she understood the truth in them.

Her eyes held his for a moment. Then she smiled, softly and gently, warming his soul with her acceptance of his words. “Yet another reason I love you.”

The housekeeper bustled into the room, the sound of lightly clanking china punctuating her steps as she set the tea tray on the nearby circular table. “Ah, here we go. I waited an extra few minutes so that you’d have the warm biscuits directly from the oven.” She arranged a plate and saucer.

“Thank you, they smell divine,” Joan replied. “How would you like your tea… Wait. I remember.” She turned to the tea service.

“Cream and sugar, and at least three biscuits,” Rowles answered anyway and thought about how they would often sit and take tea with each other, the simple domestic bliss of it all seeming underrated.

Joan served him and then herself. When she bit into one of Cook’s biscuits, Rowles watched her surreptitiously, waiting for her reaction. She didn’t disappoint. Her eyes closed and her lips tipped upward as her other hand reached up to catch a crumb from the delightfully crisp confection.

“Oh my, I may marry you for the biscuits,” she teased.

Rowles chuckled. “By whatever means necessary. I’m certainly not above bribing you with biscuits.”

“I shouldn’t be so easily bought, but biscuits are indeed a weakness.” She sipped her tea.

His heart swelled with pride and love for her. She’d been given a startling truth, and yet her perspective was still joyful. She’d have questions, and likely as soon as tea was finished, she’d want to return home to talk to her brother. He’d offer to go with her, but she’d want to do it on her own.

She was quite independent, his Joan.

And he loved her for it.

Like her namesake, she was a warrior at heart.

Thirty-four