“Perhaps … the Baron Amandine is some relation to ye?” The notion seemed the stuff of romances, and likely the sheerest moonshine. But at the same time, Jamie was at a loss to think of some sensible reason for a French nobleman to be hunting a brothel-born bastard across two continents. Fergus nodded, but didn’t reply at once. He was wearing his hook today, rather than the bran-stuffed glove he wore for formal occasions, and delicately scratched his nose with the tip before answering. “For a long time,” he said at last, “when I was small, I pretended to myself that I was the bastard of some
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