Page 8 of The Major’s Mistake (Intrepid Heroines #7)

The little boy waited for him to catch up.

“I don’t mind waiting.” Then his eyes dropped to the ground.

“Mama says it is unkind to comment aloud if people are challenged by an injury or infirmity because it might make them feel bad.” He kicked at a stray stone.

“I forgot—I didn’t make you feel bad, did I, Major? ”

Julian swallowed a lump in his throat. “No, lad, you needn’t worry about that.”

Justin let out a sigh of relief.

The marquess ruffled the boy’s hair. “Come, let’s find Zeus. He is carrying something that may be of interest to you.”

When they reached the big stallion, Julian untied the package and carried it over to a rock outcropping that was large enough to afford him and the boy a seat. He undid the oilskin covering and Justin’s eyes lit up at the sight of the sweets.

“Oh, shortbread is my very favorite thing!”

The marquess passed him a large wedge and was amazed at the speed with which it disappeared.

“May I have another?”

Julian couldn’t help but feel pleased with himself for hitting upon such a good idea. Really, this matter of how to deal with a little boy wasn’t half so difficult as he imagined. “Why, have as many as you like,” he replied heartily.

As the boy’s hand crept out to snag another treat, the marquess began to ask him a few tentative questions about the sorts of things that interested boys of his age. It took little urging before Justin was chattering away, stopping only long enough for frequent nibbles.

Julian leaned back on his elbows and closed his eyes, letting the music of his son’s high, clear voice wash over him, paying scant heed to the actual words.

It was at once wonderful and frightening.

The vagaries of war had tested his emotions in many ways, but they had never quite prepared him for this?—

“… Can we, Major?”

Julian forced himself out of his musings. “Er, can we what?”

“Can we ride over to see the new lambs?”

“I don’t see why not.” He reached over to take up the leftover shortbread and his brows rose slightly as the sight of the once generous pile reduced to naught but crumbs.

With a shrug, he tucked the empty oilskin in his pocket and followed Justin ‘s eager steps back to the horses.

The sight of the lad trying a futile leap or two to reach the saddle pommel brought a smile to his lips.

“Here now.” His hands came around Justin’s middle. “Up you go.” For a brief moment, he savored the feel of his son in his arms—the sweet scent of lavender and little boy, the warmth of Justin’s soft breath against his cheek—before lowering him into the saddle.

Justin waited patiently as the Marquess slowly mounted Zeus, then indicated the direction they should take.

Julian kept up a series of questions, but it seemed that the answers were becoming briefer and briefer.

In another few minutes they died out altogether.

A furrow creased the marquess’s brow as he searched for some other suitable subject to bring up.

Horses. The lad seemed enamored of all animals, so perhaps he would care to hear about?—

“Major,” came a small voice. “I don’t feel very well.”

Julian reined his stallion to a halt. “Why, what’s the matter, lad?”

“My tummy hurts.”

“Ah ….” He regarded the upturned face. It did indeed look very pale. A stab of concern knifed through him. What could have happened in such a short time? “Perhaps I should bring you home.”

Justin clutched at his saddle and nodded miserably.

Julian took hold of the cart horse’s bridle and urged his own mount into a brisk trot. It wasn’t long, however, before he was brought up short by a loud sob. He turned to see the little boy in a pitiable state, hunched way over, his head nearly buried in his horse’s mane.

His own face paled as well. With awkward haste, he dismounted and took the lad in his arms. The small arms wound tightly around his neck as another sob burbled forth.

“Mama! I want Mama,” he wailed.

“Steady, lad. I shall have you home in a trice.”

As his hand brushed against Justin’s forehead, which felt hot and clammy to the touch, the marquess grew even more alarmed.

Was it possible that the boy had been taken seriously ill?

With a silent prayer to the heavens, he remounted and threw all caution to the wind, spurring his stallion into a gallop.

The jarring pace caused his son to moan even louder. Julian gritted his teeth and tried to suppress a rising wave of panic.

Dear Lord, he thought. Don’t let the boy die now, when they had found each other.

The answer was hardly encouraging—Justin was suddenly, violently sick.

It seemed like ages before they reached the stone pillars marking the entrance to Lady Thornton’s home. The stallion thundered up the winding drive, skirted the stable and approached the main house.

Before the marquess had pulled the lathered animal to a stop by the front entrance, Miranda had already flung the door open.”

“What have you done to him!” she cried, taking in the sight of Justin’s pallid face, streaked with tears and vomit. Without waiting for an answer, she snatched him from Julian’s arms before he had a catch to dismount.

“He’s ill?—”

“I can see that!” she snapped. Her mind raced over the possibilities. There were any number of poisonous plants or berries for a curious little boy to come to mischief with. Her throat was seized with fear.” Plants! Did he eat some sort of plant?”

“I … I don’t think so,” stammered Julian.

“Justin, darling. Tell Mama exactly what you ate,” she said, as she smoothed the hair off his brow.

“Shortbread,” he croaked.

“Shortbread!” She turned back to the marquess, her gaze straying to the mess on his elegant riding jacket. “Pray, how much shortbread?”

He swallowed sheepishly. “Rather a lot.”

Miranda let out her breath in visible relief. “What in heaven’s name were you thinking of, milord? Have you no more sense that to let a small child make himself sick with sweets?”

Julian colored.

“Come, love,” she whispered to her son. “Let’s put you to bed. I promise you shall be feeling better very soon.” With that, she turned on her heel without so much as another glance in his direction.

Julian raked his hand through his windblown locks. Well, he had certainly managed to appear a complete idiot in everyone’s eyes, including his own. He shook his head slowly. It was hardly an auspicious start—even his own son must think him a total ninny.

His military training suggested that perhaps the best order of the day was to retreat with what little dignity was still intact.

But despite the prospect of further humiliation, he dismounted and entered the manor house, determined to make sure Justin was indeed recovering.

She might ring another stinging peal over his head, but what did it matter?

It was abundantly clear she could hardly think any worse of him.

And yet, something seemed askew. After all, it was he who was the injured party. It was he who had the right to harbor a burning anger after all these years.

An elderly maid directed him towards the boy’s chamber.

After all the exertions of the day, it took a considerable effort to negotiate the stairs, and his step was dragging rather worse than usual as he made his way down the narrow hall.

Miranda emerged from one of the rooms, a damp cloth and empty glass in her hands.

In her haste, she nearly collided with him as she turned for the stairs.

His left leg buckled slightly.

“Oh—” She drew back as if touched by a hot iron.

He regained his balance. “I … I wanted to make sure the lad was all right.”

Her expression softened somewhat. “Yes, there’s nothing wrong with him, now that he has rid himself of the source of the discomfort.

I gave him a draught to soothe the ache and he’s fallen asleep.

” Without thinking, she brought the cloth up to dab at the soiled shoulder of his coat.

“Have Mrs. Walters rinse that out for you. Otherwise it will stain.”

He glanced down at her hand.

She pulled away abruptly, a tinge of color rising to her cheeks. The edge came back to her voice. “No doubt your valet would have a fit of apoplexy if you were to ruin one of Weston’s creations.”

“Actually, I doubt my valet would notice, much less care,” he murmured.

The set of her lips indicated her skepticism. She made as if to go by. “If you will excuse me, milord.”

Julian stepped aside, but his hand caught at her elbow. “I’m … I’m sorry,” he said haltingly. “It was careless of me. I … realize I have much to learn. I shall be more attentive in the future.”

Miranda stared at him. A spasm of surprise, and some other emotion, flickered across her face before she disengaged her arm. She looked as if to speak, then merely gave a curt nod and brushed past him.

At the bottom of the stairs, Julian was met by the same elderly maid.

“Mrs. Ransford said as you are to hand me your coat, Your Lordship, so that I can give it a good sponging.” She was already reaching out towards him so he reluctantly slipped the garment off and passed it over.

Mrs. Ransford , he thought with a prick of irritation. So that was what she called herself? Why the devil?—

“Well, Julian, it appears that you have had an interesting afternoon.”

Julian turned to fix his aunt with a baleful look. “Well, I see it’s taken little time for word to spread of what a complete cake I’ve made of myself.”

“The cake, it would seem, was rather visible.”

He managed a rueful smile. “I suppose I did present a rather laughable picture.”

She smiled. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor, my dear.

Don’t be too hard on yourself—children have a way of creating havoc, despite the best-laid plans.

” She slipped her arm through his. “Come, let me pour you a glass of sherry while Maggie finishes with your coat. You look as if you could do with something a bit stronger than tea.”