"Hold your tongue you foolish old crone,"
Lord Strathmore said. "I am a man cursed with
nothing but four daughters."
" Tis a son ye will be having this time, milord," the
old woman said.
He dared not hope, but he tossed the old hag a coin.
After four daughters, and no male to carry on the
family name, Lord Strathmore was dated at the
prospe~ t of having an heir at last.
But something went wrong. Terrible. Irrevocable. And
grievously wrong.
The doctor wiped his hands on a bloodstained towel.
"I am sorry, but there are complications and I cannot
save both your wife and the child. You must choose
one of them."
"Choose? Good God, man! How can I choose
between my wife and my son? How could any man?"
"I cannot answer that for you, your lordship. I can
only say your wife has lost a great deal of blood. In
my opinion, the child has the better chance of
survival?
The viscount threw back his head with an agonized
cry.
A moment later, he was composed, and he spoke with
a low voice, wiped clean of all emotion.
"Save my son."
"Ms. Coffman pens a heartfelt, old-fashioned
romance that delves into the shadows of the human
soul:
~Romantic ~mes on The Bride of Black Douglas
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