"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