Sweeney obviously doesn't have the answer, but he does have a few ideas. Most of them center around a generally obvious factor. He cautiously eases his grip, enough to place his hand over the swell of her belly, while keeping her close. His eyes remain fixed and unblinking.

"I suspect there're members of both our houses that see this as a threat they hadn't planned for."

That is to say, they were obviously meant to procreate; that's the point of most arranged marriages; but the practicalities have spread outside of the intended design.

"We were forced together," he explains softly.

"But we weren't meant ta be together." Sweeney hopes he's explaining it well enough.

"If you only bore my children--if you were tucked away, only fer that duty--we'd fulfill our obligations, an' it would be easy to gossip ta that fact." He wets his lip.

"My brother--he doesn't want me at home. With you. He doesn't want me wantin' ta come home ta you." His eyes search hers.

"If I'm out an' fillin' my bed with a string of pretty faces that don't mean anythin'--or worse, keepin' a proper mistress here--it's easy ta prove that there's one more reason he's meant ta be king."

As if he doesn't have his own stable of ladies worthy of that gossip. Sweeney lifts his hand to cup her cheek.

"But, instead, I love you an' you, me. What does that say, when we stand together, instead of you bein' nothin' but an oven?" His thumb slides over her cheekbone.

"We are one, where both our People meet. It leaves us stronger, 'specially if we're earnin' the love of those People by the purity of our union, an' the fruit it bears."

And that doesn't serve either of their brothers' designs of control.