Page 76 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

“It’s my arm,” Tristan hiccupped through his tears. “I cut it on the branch when I was climbing up.”

The wound was a jagged tear along his forearm, deep enough to cause concern but not life-threatening. Emma tore a strip from her petticoat to bind it temporarily, her hands remarkably steady despite her inner turmoil.

“What were you thinking?” she asked, her voice sharper than intended as relief gave way to fear.

Tristan’s shoulders hunched. “I wanted to see if I could track the fox to its den. To show I could be a good hunter like His Grace was in the army! I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Victor knelt beside them, his expression grave as he examined the makeshift bandage. “That will need proper cleaning and dressing. The wound is deep but clean. If treated promptly, it should heal well.”

Emma nodded, too emotionally drained to assign blame. “We need to get him home.”

“My carriage is closer,” Victor offered. “Allow me to tend to his wounds. I have some skill in treating such wounds from my military days.”

* * *

Victor worked methodically, cleaning Tristan’s injury with a gentle thoroughness that belied his powerful frame. The boy, exhausted by fear and the lingering effects of heightened emotion, was already drifting off, his eyelids fluttering despite his best efforts to remain awake.

“Will it leave a scar?” Tristan mumbled drowsily.

“Perhaps a small one,” Victor replied, wrapping clean linen around the now-disinfected wound. “But scars are merely reminders of lessons learned.”

“Like yours?” Tristan’s gaze fixed momentarily on the faint white line visible on Victor’s forearm, where his shirtsleeve had been rolled back.

“Precisely like mine,” Victor confirmed with a small smile, although there was a hint of sadness in his tone. “Though I hope you’ll acquire your life lessons through less painful methods in the future.”

Emma hovered anxiously beside them, her face still alarmingly pale. She had barely spoken during the carriage ride to Cuthbert Hall, her hand clamped tightly around Tristan’s uninjured one as though afraid he might vanish if she loosened her grip.

“There,” Victor announced, securing the bandage. “Keep it clean and change the dressing daily. He should avoid using his arm excessively for at least a week to prevent the wound from reopening.”

Tristan’s eyes had finally closed, his breathing deepening into the rhythm of sleep. Victor carefully adjusted the boy’s position against the pillows before stepping back.

Once Emma had ensured that the boy was fast asleep, they quietly left the room, closing the door behind them gingerly.

“Thank you,” she whispered as they stood in the corridor, the words seemingly wrenched from someplace deep within her. “If you hadn’t been there?—”

“But I was,” Victor interrupted gently. “And he is safe now.”

Emma’s composure, held together by sheer will through the crisis, suddenly fractured. “He might not have been! He could have fallen before you reached him, broken his neck, bled to death from a more serious wound?—”

The flood of words halted abruptly as she pressed trembling fingers against her lips.

“Emma—” Victor began, reaching for her.

“No,” she cut him off, stepping back. “You don’t understand. You can’t possibly understand what it’s like—to think, even for a second, that you might lose your child.”

The words hung in the air between them, sharp as shattered glass. Victor’s expression shuttered, something cold and ancient flashing in his eyes.

“No,” he replied, his voice deceptively even. “I do not. But I know exactly what losing one feels like.”

The stark declaration struck Emma like a physical blow.

Victor turned on his heel and strode down the corridor before she could respond, his footsteps echoing like distant thunder.

Emma started to follow him but then hesitated, glancing back at Tristan’s sleeping form. With a sigh that seemed to come from her very soul, she returned to her son’s bedside, collapsing into the chair positioned near his head.

She could not leave the boy yet, but her heart… It yearned to comfort the Duke of Westmere, who carried shadows in his eyes that she could not begin to fathom.

* * *

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