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Relief weakened Emma’s knees, and she sagged against his solid strength.

“Thank God,” she whispered, the enormity of what might have transpired had he not arrived crashing over her in a wave of delayed terror. “Sidney… he would have?—”

“But he did not,” Victor interrupted firmly. “And he never shall. I swear it.”

A sound in the gardens beyond the summerhouse drew their attention—a feminine voice calling for Tristan with increasing desperation. Emma recognized Martha’s distinctive tone immediately.

“Here,” she called back, her voice still raw from Sidney’s assault. “We’re here, Martha.”

Victor supported her as they emerged from the summerhouse into the moonlit garden, Argus padding silently at their heels. Martha hurried toward them, her face pale with fear that morphed into relief as she recognized Victor’s tall figure beside her mistress.

“Your Grace,” she gasped, bobbing a hasty curtsy before turning anxious eyes to Emma. “My Lady, forgive me, I have yet to find him?—”

“He is safe,” Victor assured her, his steady voice calming her. “I sent him to find my friend, the Marquess of Knightley. They should be approaching from the direction of the stables.”

As if summoned by his words, Tristan’s voice carried across the gardens, accompanied by the deeper timbre of Nathaniel Godric.

They materialized moments later, the boy rushing forward to throw himself into his mother’s arms with a force that nearly unbalanced her.

“Mama!” he cried, his small arms encircling her waist with desperate strength. “I found the Marquess, just as His Grace instructed. And—” He halted, suddenly registering Victor’s presence with an expression of wonder that pierced Emma’s heart. “You stayed,” he said earnestly. “You didn’t leave again.”

Victor lowered himself until he was level with Tristan’s anxious gaze. “No, Tristan,” he replied, his customary reserve softening into something achingly tender. “I did not leave. Nor shall I, if you and your mother will permit me to stay.”

The boy’s response was a swift, fierce embrace that caught him off guard. Emma could see the shock in his expression as her son hugged him so tightly, though he recovered quickly, one hand coming to rest protectively on Tristan’s curls.

From beyond this intimate tableau, the Marquess of Knightley cleared his throat with delicate emphasis.

“While this reunion warms the cockles of my bleeding heart,” he observed, though his tone belied the flippancy of his words, “I suggest we remove ourselves from here with haste. I passed several guests as I arrived. It seems the absence of our host has been noted, and speculation is already rampant.”

Emma felt a fresh surge of dismay at the prospect of facing the guests with her gown torn and her throat bearing the evidence of Sidney’s attack.

Victor placed a steadying hand on the small of her back. “We shall leave through the garden path,” he decided, already guiding her toward the less frequented route that would lead directly to the carriages without necessitating a detour through the ballroom. “Nathaniel, perhaps you would be so good as to convey Lady Cuthbert’s regrets to any who inquire?”

The Marquess inclined his head with grave understanding. “Consider it done. Though I suspect the host’s hasty departure will overshadow any questions regarding her own.”

As they made their way toward the waiting carriages, Emma found herself surrounded by an improvised family unit—Tristan pressed against her side, Victor’s hand still resting protectively on the small of her back, Martha hovering solicitously nearby, and Argus ranging ahead and behind in a clear pattern of watchfulness.

The Marquess took his leave at the edge of the gardens, promising to call on them the following day once the inevitable gossip had settled into more manageable proportions.

* * *

Upon their arrival at Cuthbert Hall, the staff greeted them with barely concealed relief, the housekeeper taking charge of Tristan with efficiency while the butler discreetly summoned the physician to attend to Emma’s injuries.

“I am perfectly well,” she protested, though the hoarseness of her voice belied her assertion. “Merely tired.”

Victor’s expression suggested that he found this assessment woefully inadequate, but he refrained from contradicting her as they ascended the stairs toward Tristan’s chambers.

The boy had rallied somewhat during the journey home, but his eyelids drooped with the combined effects of fear, worry, and exhaustion as Martha helped him prepare for bed.

“Will you stay?” he asked Victor as Emma tucked the coverlet around his small form. “Until I fall asleep?”

Something in the plaintive request caused Victor’s expression to soften further.

“Of course,” he agreed, settling into the chair beside Tristan’s bed with a naturalness that suggested he had occupied it a hundred times before, even though this happened to be only the second time.

“And tomorrow too?” Tristan persisted, his voice already slurring with encroaching slumber. “You won’t go away again?”

Victor glanced at Emma, a question in his eyes that transcended mere permission to remain for the night. A question about permanence, about belonging, about futures intertwined beyond the exigencies of the present crisis.