Page 6

C assian looked up from his sketch pad, only to frown at the distant scene. “Damn,” he muttered, craning his neck to the side to change his view.

Why did the bloody thing have to go and lie down right in front of the gravel path he’d been sketching?

Muttering a curse under his breath, he gripped the notepad and his pencil in his right hand, then used his left to leverage himself up out of the chair which had been placed near the back window of the salon.

The views of the back lawn were unparalleled, even in rainy weather—and Inverlochy had plenty of that—and the light was always good for sketching.

The back left corner of the garden had been designed in a layout Cassian appreciated, all symmetry and angles, and he’d decided to use it as inspiration for the garden his own home would someday have.

Except now he couldn’t see the details, thanks to the huge gray arse in the way .

Glancing at his cane, propped against the table beside him, Cassian decided to chance foregoing it. He’d need both hands free, after all.

Exhaling slowly through his nose, he took a cautious step to the left. When his prosthetic foot held— Of course it held, ye dobber! It’s strong. Ye’re the one who is full of creaking doubts!— he stepped again, then again, until he stood in front of one of the windows nearer the corner.

But from this angle, he still couldn’t see the row of birch trees half-finished in his sketchbook.

Leaning his shoulder against the window frame, Cassian lifted his sketch pad in his free hand and frowned at the enormous elephant blocking his view.

With a sigh he shook his head, flipped the page, and began almost unconsciously to sketch the sleeping animal. His pencil captured the curve of her back, the flick of her tail, the way her trunk lifted weakly and her ear twitched.

It wasn’t brilliant, but it was something to do at least.

Christ, when had he been reduced to this? He was used to doing vital work, to being relevant to his country…and now he was sketching fooking elephants like an elderly spinster? What was next, watercolors? Knitting? Giving a shite about the discontinuation of a particular embroidery thread?

To be fair, the kind of spinsters who make sketches of fooking elephants are likely no’ the kind to participate in color coordinated embroidery. They’re more likely to be cackling wildly at jokes about third—sorry, fifth legs.

His left leg ached. It always ached, but that just meant Cassian had to push himself harder.

He couldn’t regrow the blasted— heh —foot, but he would grow strong enough, certain enough, not to need the damn cane.

Each day he was growing steadier—two weeks ago he wouldn’t have risked this long of a walk without the bloody thing, and look at him now!

Still, he propped his hip against the frame as well and took some of the weight off his aching left leg.

Sketching sleeping animals and worrying about falling over. Christ, he was a toddler again.

Aye, his new life sucked donkey ballocks.

Be grateful. Simonsen, Avers, and Rudinsky would be grateful to be in yer place and face yer problems .

Cassian’s eyes lifted to the damp, quiet beauty of the garden and allowed his head to clunk against the frame as well.

Fook .

There were some days he managed to go a full hour without thinking of his men, without the crushing guilt making his shoulders sag and stomach cramp. They were dead because of him , and he deserved every bit of pain and boredom he was living now…that, and then some.

Fook .

Cassian squeezed his eyes shut and reached up to massage his now throbbing temple.

Since he forgot he was still holding the pencil, he poked himself in the ear.

With a faint growl, he tucked the thing behind his ear and pinched the bridge of his nose instead, the pressure doing nothing to relieve the internal strain.

What was he doing ?

He needed to find a way to exonerate his team. A way to ensure their families knew they died as heroes.

But how was he supposed to do that, with his hands so efficiently tied?

Fook .

It had been five months since that disastrous mission. Five months since he’d lost his team—and half his leg. Five months since he’d been told to keep his mouth shut, on pain of treason. Five months since his whole life had collapsed.

Three months since he’d been cleared to visit Inverlochy Castle—not his home, but his son’s.

And in those three months, he’d done sweet fook-all toward figuring out his future.

Aye, he was walking better, and aye, he was stronger…

And aye, he’d spent countless hours staring at the ceiling over his bed—his sick bed and the far-too-comfortable-and-in-danger-of-making-him-soft bed in the far-too-grand-and-opulent suite Sir Richard had put him in—trying to think his way out of this mess.

So far, he’d had no luck.

“Damned elephant,” Cassian muttered aloud, more to interrupt the silence than de-rail his thoughts.

Because he’d been unable—thanks to the Prince’s order—to explain how the mission had failed to his superiors, they had to suspect him of treason. There’d been no word from London, no word from the Service. Nothing about a discharge or pension…or trial for betraying his country .

But focusing on the future Cassian might have, the future he could build with his son if he were exonerated, had given him something to work toward. The sketches of manor houses, and modest cottages, and garden plans…it had given him something to do , something to plan for.

He winced, remembering his son’s reaction to his casual mention of building a home—either nearby or across the ocean.

Gus thought of Inverlochy as his home, and why shouldn’t he?

The Biggenpanses had raised him when Cassian couldn’t be there to care for the lad.

But surely it was time for them to build their own future together, the two of them?

If he were allowed to, that was.

Because without a way to tell the truth of what happened, his superiors in the Secret Service would think him a traitor and that would only lead to?—

“Aunt Zilphia! Did you hear about— oh !”

Cassian pushed away from the window and turned in time to see his son skidding to a stop on the fine rug in the middle of the floor. In an instant, Augustus’s expression went from excited to shuttered, and pain coursed through the older man. I’ve caused that.

“Hello, Gus,” he murmured, trying to keep his tone neutral.

The lad swallowed and glanced around, clearly looking for an excuse to back out of the room. “I…I was looking for Aunt Zilphia.”

Aunt Zilphia and Uncle Dickie . Another reminder of how much, exactly, Cassian owed to this couple; they’d taken over raising his son when he couldn’t, provided him with a fine place to grow up .

They were considered family.

“I havenae seen her.” Cassian shifted, his weight on his good leg, as he jerked his chin toward the large windows across the back of the room. “I’ve been…looking at the elephant.” This last part sounded weak to him, but he hid his wince.

Better to speak of the animal than his plans for the future…or lack thereof.

And he was surprised to be glad for it when Gus’s expression lit once more and he hurried toward the window—toward his father.

“Is she out there? Is she with the veterinarian? I heard he’d arrived but I can’t find Uncle Dickie, and they’re not in the stable.

I thought Aunt Zilphia might know where they are. Where’s Elizabeth?”

Cassian limped to his side and used the hand holding the sketchpad to point to the distant gray lump in the shade.

His son nodded at the elephant, but glanced at the sketchpad from the corner of his eye. Embarrassed, Cassian fought the urge to hide his work. Instead, he tipped the pad to the light, glad he’d hidden the sketch of the garden plan for his non-existent future manor house.

“I was bored,” he said simply, as way of explanation.

Gus glanced up, the usual anger in his blue eyes replaced by confusion and uncertainty before his gaze dropped back to the sketch. “That’s…not bad.”

Cassian snorted softly, one side of his lips curling ruefully, glad for a chance to talk of something non-incendiary. “I was trained in art—sketching, I guess. Map-making, forgery, that sort of thing. ”

Now the lad was shaking his head, a wee furrow in his brow. “But forgery isn’t art. It’s wrong.”

“Aye, it is,” Cassian sighed, unwilling to get into a debate about legality, morality, and duty, not when his son was finally talking to him. “But sometimes I’m grateful for the skills the Service taught me.”

“Like being able to draw an elephant?” Before Cassian could decide if he wanted to explain he’d been sketching something more relevant moments before, Gus pointed to the portrait.

“You see the way her stomach’s distended—there?

That’s the baby. Uncle Dickie is afraid the pregnancy is going wrong, that’s why he’s hired— oh!

” Gus leapt for the window set into the French doors. “There they are!”

Cassian had little interest in the elephant’s pregnancy woes, or this veterinarian Sir Richard had sent for from London…but he was interested in his son, and this was practically the most words Gus had strung together in his presence in the last three months.

So, gritting his teeth and ignoring the pain, he limped toward the doors. “Och, aye, I see them,” he murmured, watching Sir Richard—gesturing animatedly—lead two figures across the lawn. A man and a woman, both dressed modestly.

“Which one’s the veterinarian?”

His son glanced at him in surprise. “The man, of course. I’m going to go see what he has to say—” The lad stopped suddenly with his hand on the door handle. His chin twitched, as if he’d begun to turn back to Cassian, then changed his mind. “Do you want—I mean… ”

Was that an invitation? Cassian had no desire to see the animal up close, much less watch some pompous medical arse from London examine the thing…but this was the most interest Gus had shared with him…ever.