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S omewhere around four in the morning, Cassian had decided he was focusing too much on the alluring woman who’d found her way into his arms— twice now.

She was intriguing, aye, and he liked her boldness.

But even if she did find her way into his arms again—or perhaps even his bed—she wasn’t going to be part of his future.

Not the way Gus was.

No matter what happened to Cassian, he was determined to provide his son with the future he deserved. A home, a place to belong. A place where he’d be safe, even if Cassian was dragged away.

Or executed.

No’ helpful .

After spending a few more hours definitely not thinking of midnight blue eyed lasses and their potentially clever hands, Cassian had risen, dressed, and stomped downstairs.

Fook, the waiting of the last months weighed heavy on him.

Stopping in the middle of the hall, Cassian tugged a hand through his hair.

Perhaps he was being pessimistic. Perhaps the Service was done with him, and they didn’t care about the deaths of their men—his men. Perhaps they didn’t care about him.

Was it terrible to wish that was the case?

Bad enough he had to write those gut-wrenching letters to Avers’ parents and Simonsen’s wife.

Rudinsky had been a widower, like Cassian, with no children, thank fook.

Cassian had vowed that once the cottage was built, once Augustus was safe, he would visit his men’s families and give them whatever peace he had to spare.

Let them know their loved ones died as heroes, even if Cassian couldn’t tell them the details.

Curse the Prince to hell and back!

This is no’ helping .

Damn.

Exhaling, Cassian straightened and tightened his hold on the cane. He needed it less and less these days, but since he wasn’t sure where he was going to find his son, it had made sense to come prepared for a long hike.

The breakfast room was the logical place to start at this hour.

As he approached, he heard voices and picked up his pace.

If Gus was there, he’d find some way to suggest they spend a few hours together, even if it meant joining the lad in the stables with Sir Richard’s dratted animals.

Cassian was determined to know his son better, and ensure his son knew he loved him… before the worst happened.

And he was certain that it would.

So perhaps Cassian was moving a bit too quickly when he stepped into the breakfast room as what he saw made him stumble in surprise. The voices had not been coming from Gus at all, but from Sir Richard and his wife.

While the footman—poor Fairwall again—in the corner stared resolutely at the ceiling, Zilphia sat on her husband’s lap.

Nay, to call it sitting would miss the opportunity to use the word draping or lounging .

She wore a pink silk frilly robe over what Cassian hoped to God was an actual gown…

although the bodice was skewed enough to leave no doubt what Sir Richard was doing as he nibbled up the side of her neck.

Giggling, Zilphia plucked a piece of peach from her husband’s plate and tried to feed it to him. “Dickie, sweet pea, you— oh . Oh my, yes, there.”

It wasn’t until Cassian realized one of his host’s hands was hidden up Zilphia’s skirts that he realized exactly what was happening.

His gaze snapped to the footman, whose cheeks blazed a bright red, and back to the couple.

Jesus . How to extricate himself from the situation before he was noticed?

“Oh!” Zilphia gasped, and Cassian realized he was too late. “Good morning, lad. Dickie,” she admonished, caressing her husband’s shoulder. “Dickie! Cassian has joined us. ”

Without lifting his lips from his wife’s throat, Sir Richard grunted, “Morning. Eggs? Bacon? A man needs bacon if he’s going to keep up his strength.”

Whatever he did then caused Zilphia to giggle again, then sigh, wrapping her arm around her husband…and Cassian mumbled something about not being hungry.

Deciding he didn’t need to be concerned about rudeness—the two lovebirds wouldn’t care if he beat a brass drum through the room!—he backed quickly out of the room.

Back in the hall, he breathed a sigh of confused relief and turned on his good foot, suppressing a shudder. He was happy for Sir Richard, happy the couple still found such happiness after all these years…but such abandon was difficult to comprehend.

His marriage with Artemesia had always been…

polite . Courteous. She’d often said she was proud of him, and Lord knew he was proud of having been deemed worthy of marriage to a knight’s niece.

She’d been soft and quiet and supportive and beautiful, all the things he’d dreamed of in a wife, when he’d dared to dream as a lad.

But only now, years after her death, he was realizing he never really knew her .

He knew Artemesia-the-wife, and Artemesia-the-bedmate, and the few times he’d been allowed to return home in between missions, Artemesia-the-mother.

Those had been the visits home he remembered most vividly; watching in awe as she’d parented this little human he’d helped to create but whom he barely knew.

The first time she’d placed wee Gus in his arms—three months after the lad’s birth, because he’d been deep undercover in Egypt and hadn’t been able to abort the mission—Cassian had found himself holding his breath.

“He will not break,” Artemesia had whispered proudly. “He is a strong lad who will make us both proud.”

Unable to drag his befuddled gaze away from the sleeping angel in his arms, Cassian had groped blindly for his wife’s hands and whispered hoarsely, “Thank you. Thank you for raising him.”

Because he’d known, even then, that he wouldn’t be there for Gus. Hadn’t been there for Gus, not even when the lad had needed him the most.

But no matter what the future held, his son would know how much he was loved. How proud he’d made his parents. How little Cassian wanted to leave him.

Ye’re doing it again.

Fook.

His hosts’ transparent happiness in their marriage was unusual, aye, but should not make him maudlin.

Setting his jaw, Cassian strode toward the foyer.

Or rather, he tried to stride, remembered he was missing a fooking foot, came down too hard on his cane, cursed himself, and set off again at a slower pace.

His doctor agreed that he was healing at a remarkable rate, but needed to be patient.

Cassian, on the other hand, believed that the old bastard had no personal experience with the loss of a limb, and therefore could take a long walk off a short pier.

He was glowering so intently that he missed the approach of the other man until Doctor Butcombe called cheerfully, “ Good morning, Cassian! Heading out for a morning stroll?”

Och, aye. The veterinarian. Hunter . Was he the only one who could see the irony?

The man had insisted they’d be fast friends and thus should call one another by their Christian names…the same way the man’s sister had done, come to think of it.

Nay, ye’re no’ thinking of her any longer, remember?

Thoughts of the way Gabby Butcombe felt in his arms had kept him up most of the night, as it was. Or rather, his cock’s opinions about how she’d felt in his arms had kept him up. Literally .

Stop thinking of fooking the man’s sister while ye’re greeting him, eh?

Cassian forced a wan smile. “Good morning. I am looking for Gus. Is he in the stables?”

Hunter blinked, and even went so far as to glance over his shoulder. “The stables? I dinnae ken, I havenae been out there yet this morning. The laddie does seem tae make himself at home among the animal stalls, so it’s a good guess.”

The veterinarian hadn’t been out to check on his charges yet that morning? Cassian mentally shrugged. Perhaps morning check-ups weren’t necessary with animals. Or perhaps Hunter just wasn’t a very good veterinarian.

With a nod he began to move past him, but Hunter still seemed inclined to chat. “I’m on my way to breakfast, I hope there’s bacon. Nothing prepares a man for the day ahead like bacon, am I right? ”

Since this was said with an attempted nudging, Cassian couldn’t help but remember Sir Richard’s claim but moments before. Thinking to save the other man from a fate he had been unable to avoid, he warned, “Our hosts are breaking their fast?—”

That was as far as he got before Hunter paled. The blood drained from his face and he stumbled slightly and reached for a credenza that was home to one of Zilphia’s magnificent floral arrangements.

“Sir Dickie—he’s in the breakfast room?” Hunter rasped.

Cassian’s lips twitched into a frown as he studied the other man. What a strange reaction to one’s patron. “Aye. I imagine he’d want to speak to ye about his elephant.”

“His elephant,” the other man repeated weakly, his knuckles white against the dark wood of the table. “Aye. The elephant is doing…well.”

What in the hell? Cassian kept his expression clear of the suspicion he was feeling. “Och, well, I only thought to warn ye because Sir Richard and his wife are in there…canoodling.”

Hunter’s brows shot up. “Canoodling?”

“Completely kayaking,” Cassian deadpanned. “One might go so far as to say they’re punting a barge or rowing a boat up the River Lochy. It put me off my food.”

To his surprise, Hunter breathed a sigh of relief, then burst into laughter. Straightening, he slapped Cassian on the shoulder. “Well, ye cannae blame a man for his urges, eh? I suppose I could do without bacon this morning. ”

Nodding solemnly, Cassian began to back away. “That was my thinking.”

Damn, the other man was following him still, that too-friendly smile on his face.

“Ye have to admire such dedication, although it is a little alarming to watch.” He fell into step beside Cassian as they made their way toward the front alcove, chatting as if they were old friends.

“Our aunt and uncle are like that, ye ken. Cannae keep their hands off one another, even after all these years.”

Really? There were two married couples like that in Scotland? Cassian tamped down on his shudder.