“We were playing,” Thomas said, following his gaze. “Earlier. Before lessons.”
“I see that.” Dominic set the candelabra on the mantle and turned to survey the room. “Who was winning?”
“I was.” A trace of pride entered the boy’s voice. “Miss Weston tried to outflank me, but I saw it coming.”
“You did?” Dominic felt the unfamiliar stir of something like satisfaction. “Your father would be proud.”
The words escaped him.
Thomas’s expression shifted—something complex passing through it—but he did not retreat.
“Did you know him?” he asked. “When you were soldiers?”
“Yes.” Dominic inclined his head. “He was my friend.”
“Was he brave?”
“The bravest man I knew.”
“Was he ever frightened?”
Dominic considered. “Yes. As all men are. That is what gives courage its meaning; doing what must be done, even when one is afraid.”
Thomas absorbed this in silence. Then, very softly, “I am frightened often. Does that mean I might be brave too?”
Dominic crossed the space between them and knelt.
“You are brave already,” he said. “You have endured more than many grown men. That is no small thing.”
Thomas stared at him.
And then, suddenly, he moved—flinging himself forward.
Dominic caught him by instinct, one hand braced against the floor, the other closing around the slight body now clinging to him. Thomas buried his face against his shoulder, his small frame shaking with sobs that could no longer be contained.
Dominic stilled.
Every instinct urged retreat. Distance. Safety.
But the child held fast, and across the room Lorraine stood watching, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
And something shifted.
Dominic tightened his hold. One hand came up, awkward but certain, to rest against the boy’s head. He did not speak. Words would not suffice.
So, he did the only thing left to him.
He held on.
***
Lorraine watched them through a blur of tears she refused to shed.
For weeks, she had watched Dominic Vane struggle against himself—hovering in doorways, pausing outside closed rooms, treating every attempt at connection as though it cost him dearly. She had known, in theory, that warmth must still exist in him—the man who had once laughed with William, who had played at soldiers as a boy, who had watched kestrels wheel above the folly—but she had not truly believed it until now.
Until she saw him kneeling on the library floor, holding a weeping child as though nothing else in the world mattered.
The storm raged. The fire burned steadily. And, little by little, Thomas’s sobs softened to hiccups; his grip loosened, and he drew back, blinking up at Dominic with red-rimmed eyes.
