Sweet silence filled the house upon Drew’s awakening, and he smiled to himself at the lack of coughing or wheezing or calls for Anne.

He suspected Anne would feel the same, as she had barely slept in days. She had given the twins every last ounce of strength in her possession and had proven herself to him as she did so.

He suspected she could not have cared less whether he was impressed with her, however. Even that made him like her more, in spite of the reservations he’d held toward her in the beginning.

It seemed years had passed since then, though it had been less than a fortnight since they’d met. Never would he have imagined her caring for the twins. Loving them, even.

He might have been wrong about that. He might have been imagining what he wished to imagine. He did not believe so, however, for no one would devote themselves wholeheartedly to the state of another if it was not love that made it so.

The fact that she loved them as he did served to soften his feelings for her even further.

It was not until he sat up in bed and touched bare feet to cold floor that he came fully to his senses and recalled how daft it was to think of her as anything other than who and what she was.

She was a thief. She had stolen from them, no matter why she’d done it.

Rufus would not forgive this, and neither could he. To do so would only lead to greater complication.

He got up and went about splashing water from the bedside basin on his cheeks, which further roused him and guided his thoughts on a more natural course. It was possible for two people to love the same thing and still remain two separate people. Loving the twins did not make him and Anne anything other than strangers who happened to have something in common.

He had all but set his mind to this as he shrugged into his tunic and stepped into his trews. The lass was a fine caregiver, and he was grateful for what she had done, but there was nothing more between them. There could never be.

Dawn had broken by the time he stepped from his bedchamber into the main room, where the hearth was dark and cold. He supposed there could be nothing lost by allowing Anne time to sleep a bit longer. He lit the fire, building it up with wood from the pile beside, then started a pot of porridge and filled the kettle for tea.

As he performed these small tasks, he reminded himself that it was not for her sake. He cared nothing for whether this would please her. The fact that her smiling face came to mind time and again meant nothing.

What did it matter that he wished to return the favor she’d paid him by nursing his niece and nephew? He was not a cold-hearted brute. He understood what it meant to owe a body for what they’d done, and he had never been above granting credit when and where it was due.

With the porridge simmering and the tea steeping, he decided it was time to wake her, if not the bairns. She would need food as much as she needed rest, for she had not eaten as she should have, either.

Neither had he, for that matter. He had been too concerned over the twins.

Not a sound came from the closed-off bedchamber, and he took his time of opening the door lest he wake all three inside.

At first, when he spied the empty tick at the foot of the bed, his heart leapt into his throat and threatened to escape through his mouth when it fell open. Of course, she had left during the night. She had run when all of them were at their most vulnerable and least suspicious.

She’d taken advantage of him. He might have known she would. In fact, he had known! He’d known all along, had he not? He’d managed to make himself forget. Nothing more.

What a fool she’d made out of him. He would have her hide for this.

Only then, after already imagining every terrible thing he wished to bring down upon her head, did his gaze rise to the bed. Where she slept with her arm about the twins, who were also sleeping soundly.

Only then did his heart settle into its accustomed place.

Only then did he release the breath he’d been holding.

What had taken place to lead her there? It seemed almost cruel to wake her, seeing as how she had spent part of the night sharing a bed with two kicking bairns. Perhaps they had both felt poorly and asked her to join them, that she might sing them to sleep.

As Bridget had for him.

She was not Bridget. Whatever it took, he had to remind himself and make it stick. She was not Bridget. She would never be their mam, either, no matter how fond of her they had become.

Anne’s eyes opened. Then, she blinked slowly as she woke. He couldn’t help but smile a bit as she returned to herself.

She looked at the twins, and a faint smile crossed her lips. She then raised her arm, moving slowly so as not to wake them. She had yet to take notice of him, and he remained as still as possible to keep it that way for a while.

In this state, still half in slumber and unaware of his presence, she might as well have been a bairn herself. She looked young, innocent—perhaps worn out in spite of having slept, but natural and fresh just the same.

And the look in her eye, the warmth and tenderness, and affection as she studied the sleeping twins, was best of all.

If not perhaps unsettling for the way it warmed him inside.

The kettle’s whistle startled him—and her—for she jumped a bit and instantly looked to the door. Where he stood.

“Och, forgive me,” he breathed before making a hasty escape to the hearth. He removed the kettle from the fire and cursed himself for having lingered so long in the doorway. He ought not have watched her. Either wake the lass or leave her to sleep. Nothing in-between.

Now she knew he had been watching, but what difference did it make? It was not as though he made a habit of it, and the entire experience had lasted no longer than a half-minute. Perhaps less.

He hardly believed she would care how little time he’d spent watching her awaken, but he could defend himself in his own mind.

“Good morning to ye,” she murmured behind him. Water splashed in the bucket by the hearth, where she had drawn a ladle full. He glanced over his shoulder to find her drinking, some of the water running down her chin in her eagerness.

“And to ye,” he replied. “I, ah, wished to wake ye that ye might break your fast. Ye have not eaten as ye should while nursing the bairns.”

“Thank ye.” She sat at the table with a bowl of porridge and a mug of tea. “Thank ye for fixing tea, as well. I understand how much work there is to be done.”

He called up the nerve to face he. After all, she was only a lass and a thief, at that. Sitting across from her with his own tea, he asked, “What made ye share the bed with the twins last night? Were they uneasy?”

She nodded, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. “Moira had a dream of her mother, which upset her. She woke Owen with her tears, and soon they were both weeping and in need of comfort.”

He sighed. “Should that happen again, ye might wake me, instead. Ye ought not be bothered with such matters.”

She lifted her gaze to meet his. “How can ye say such a thing? Ye asked me to stay and care for them, which I have done. How could I turn away from them when they needed me?”

“I did not mean it in such a way.”

“They needed…” She looked about the room as if searching for the proper word.

“A woman,” he offered with a wry smile. “They needed a woman to comfort them. Not a man.”

“They missed their mam,” she whispered. “It might not have been the same had I not been the one with them.”

“I ken,” he nodded. He wished he did not detest the notion so strongly. Any lass but her. She was all wrong.

They would never know why, as young as they were. Bairns saw through many things, but they would not understand what she’d done.

There were moments when he questioned whether he understood.

“Have ye…” Once again, she searched for the word she had in mind.

He supposed this had more to do with weariness than anything else. She was worn down to the bone, anyone could see it. Her eyes appeared larger than ever in her pale, drawn face.

The lass needed rest, and Drew could hardly believe it mattered to him one way or another if she ever enjoyed any.

“Have I what?” he prompted when moments passed with her unspoken question still hanging between them.

“Have ye ever considered marrying?”

Unfortunately for him and the table, he had just drained his mug of the last drop of tea when she asked it. Once he heard her and understood the meaning of the words she’d strung together, his throat closed and immediately rejected what he’d just taken in.

He sputtered, tea shooting from his mouth and even from his nose. Helpless laughter bubbled up in his chest and erupted from him before he could help himself.

“Wh-what—” he gasped as he fumbled at cleaning up his mess.

“I didna think it was such a terrible question,” she grumbled.

He took note of the way she remained still, watching him clean up after himself rather than offering to assist him. She watched with a doleful eye instead, her lips a thin slash across her face.

“It was not terrible,” he chuckled, still lost in the humor of the moment. “Of all the questions ye might have asked, lass, that took me most by surprise.”

“How so? Why were ye so surprised, then?”

He shrugged. “Because I have never considered such a thing. Not ever.” He took his mug to the bucket to rinse. “And I dinna think a lass has ever once asked me if I had.”

“I cannot imagine why,” was her tart reply.

“For once, I canna argue with ye. I am not an easy man to live with, and I canna imagine I would wish to wed a lass daft enough to believe otherwise.” He looked over his shoulder. “What made ye ask such a silly question?”

“For their sake, of course,” she hissed. “I canna understand how ye are so blind. I merely wished to know if ye had considered marrying, that they might have a mam—even if she would not be their true mam.”

He stopped laughing. “I see.”

“Now I have my answer,” she muttered, finishing her meal in a great rush and standing abruptly enough to nearly knock back her chair.

“What has ye so worked up?” he asked, gaping at her as she hurried about the room.

“Nothing. Do ye not have worked to be done?”

“Aye…” Yet he remained in place, eyeing her warily. “Are ye certain I said nothing to upset ye?”

“How could ye possibly have upset me?” She blew a stray curl away from in front of her face as she set about washing up. “Go on, then, before ye begin braying like a jackass once again and wake the bairns this time.”

His mouth fell open, and he supposed he ought to have delivered a stinging retort—a jackass, now truly, yet his mind went as clear as a blanket of freshly fallen snow when he searched for something to say.

There was no recourse but to leave, as she instructed, and ask himself why she lived at such extremes.