Ewan tensed his jaw. “Deliberately and thoroughly.”
He could still see the devastation now, though he saw it with his child’s eyes and through the blur of tears. That day had been one of the few times Ewan had cried as a child. He’d stared at the scattered remains of his soldiers, all of them so painstakingly carved and a sound like that of a wounded bird had broken from his lips. He knew it was silly, but he felt as though his friends had been murdered. Charles and George and Stephen and Timothy—their small faces and the expressions he’d given them—smashed into bits of wood. He’d tried to gather them, as a mother hen does her chicks, but there was no saving them. Every single one of his precious soldiers was destroyed. Not even one had survived the massacre.
And then he’d heard a low chuckling and turned to see Francis standing behind a tree, a croquet mallet in his hand. And Ewan knew. Francis had done this.
Without thinking, he’d attacked, easily wrestling Francis to the ground and taking the mallet from his hands. Ewan had then begun to pound Francis, just as his cousin had pounded his little figures into wood pulp.
It wasn’t long before Ewan’s older brothers pulled him off and one of the groundskeepers intervened and all the boys were dragged before the Earl of Pembroke, who stared down at them with undisguised disgust. “What is the meaning of this?” he’d boomed, his gaze coming to rest on Ewan.
Ewan wanted to answer, but the words lodged in his throat.
“He attacked me, Uncle,” Francis said. “I had done nothing! I swear.”
The earl looked at his heir, and William had nodded agreement. “It’s true, my lord. The attack did seem unprovoked.”
“It was n-n-not!” Ewan had bellowed, unable to hold his tongue. He’d held out the remains of his little men, now little more than bits of wood covered with dirt and grass. “L-l-l-ook what he did.” He pointed to Francis. “He d-d-destroyed my soldiers!”
“Did not!” Francis said. “I was with William and Michael after lunch!”
The earl looked at his sons. “Is that true?”
William looked at Francis, then down again. “Yes, sir. But he was not with us the entire time.”
The earl looked at Francis. “So there was opportunity. Very well, Francis; did you destroy Ewan’s soldiers?”
“No, sir.”
“He lies!”
“None of that!” the earl said to Ewan. “He says he did not destroy them. Do you have proof that he did?”
Ewan had stared at his father, then his brothers. Everyone knew Francis did it. Why would no one take his side? “N-n-n—”
“Say it already!” his father demanded.
Ewan closed his eyes. “He was laughing and he had the croquet mallet—”
“Then it’s your word against his, and I’ll have you know, Ewan, we don’t accuse men of crimes without some sort of proof. That’s slander.”
“He did it.” Ewan had felt his lip tremble and known he was very close to tears. “I know he d-d-d—”
“That’s enough,” the earl had said. “Go to your room and dry your tears. Don’t come out until you can behave more like a man. You’re too old to play with toys anyway.”
Ewan had stared, dumbfounded. He was being punished? His creations had been destroyed, and yet he was the one whose liberty was being taken away?
He’d turned on his heel and marched to the door, but when he’d stepped outside, he’d paused and looked back. Inside, the earl knelt, hand on his nephew’s shoulder, and spoke quietly to Francis. In the scene was all the warmth and fatherly affection Ewan had never known.
But he knew one thing—his father did not love him like he loved Francis.
Lady Lorraine stood and put her hand over his, bringing him back to the present. “I’m sorry.”
He waited for her to offer excuses for his cousin’s behavior—he was jealous or boys will be boys—but she said nothing more. She squeezed his hand.
Then she moved closer and put her arms around him, her warm body pressing against his in a gesture of comfort.
“And you say there are ninety-eight more stories like this?” she murmured against his shoulder.
He nodded.
Her fingers fluttered over his back. “I’m so, so sorry.”
She stood, holding him for a long time—or so it seemed to him. Finally, he brought his arms up and held her back. Strange that such a small thing should ease some of the bitterness the memory had churned in him, but then he’d had precious few embraces in his life and fewer still designed to give comfort.
When she finally pulled away, he couldn’t quite allow her to go. She might have meant only to comfort him, but after several minutes of the feel of her in his arms, other thoughts had come to mind.
She looked up at him, her breath hitching in her throat in a way that made her breasts rise deliciously over the lace at the bodice of her night rail.
“Will you kiss me now?” she whispered.
He swallowed because kissing her was the most innocent of actions he could imagine at the moment. He allowed his hand to slide up her back and then around to cup her face. He raised her chin until her eyes—such lovely green eyes—met his. All of her feelings—her desire, her eagerness, her uncertainty—were written plainly on her features. “You like when I kiss you,” he said.
“You know I do.”
“I like it too.” He looked down at her lips, and she closed her eyes.
And then opened them again when he didn’t move to put his mouth on her.
“We are in your father’s house and in his library. I won’t kiss you here. I won’t kiss you at all. That’s not why we’re here.”
“It could be.”
He gave her a long look. “What would Francis say?”
She opened her mouth, but she didn’t speak. Confusion flickered in her eyes, and that spoke more than any words she might utter. She still cared for his cousin and yet she had her doubts about him as well. Her affection was torn, which had not been the reason he’d told her the story, but which served his purposes at any rate.
“You are correct.” She stepped away, out of his grasp. “We should read the documents you brought. We still do not have a solution to your father’s predicament.”
He nodded and went to the chair across the desk. She sat too, and he was certain she read, but he didn’t hear a word of it.
Fourteen