Gazing down at his dark head, his rosebud mouth sucking vigorously on her nipple, she thought fiercely of how much she loved this child. He was a month old now, and Christy still hadn’t sent word of his birth to Sinjun. The first months of a child’s life were so precarious that she had wanted to make sure her bairn remained healthy before notifying Sinjun. Babies were known to die for no apparent reason the first weeks after birth. The tiny scrap of humanity in her arms reminded her strongly of his father. She wondered if Sinjun was enjoying London and if he had resumed his old way of fife. Did he ever think of her? Though Sinjun had seemed reluctant to leave, she’d be a fool to believe he preferred simple living to London’s pleasures. The baby’s lips fell away from her nipple; he was sated and sleeping soundly. She wished Sinjun had been here to name his son. Strange, they had never spoken of names, and Christy had only names for a lass picked out. For want of direction from Sinjun, Christy had named the boy Niall, after her father.
