He hadn’t meant it, Margaret told herself. Eoin was angry. He wouldn’t try to take her son away from her . . . would he? Years ago, she would have said it was impossible. The man she’d married would not be so cruel—no matter how angry he was with her. But Eoin was no longer the man she married, and guessing what this cold, imposing stranger might do seemed a fool’s gambit. The serious young man she’d fallen in love with had become a grim, caustic stranger. But maybe that had been the problem all along. She had never really known him—not really. It had all happened too quickly. Love, marriage, passion—and not even in that order. The physical closeness they’d shared had given an illusion of more. They hadn’t had time to learn to trust one another before war had separated them. Looking back with the perspective of time and maturity, she could see that they’d never really had a chance. They’d been too young. Too passionate. Too unsure of one another. It had been all fiery emotion and attraction, with a few precious moments of something deeper.
