Page 45 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
But Uncle Tristan? I know nothing about him, so I cannot say if he has a brother or a sister. I just don’t see him as being called Uncle by young children.
“And he’s very fierce,” the older child went on with relish, “when he’s being the Big Bad Wolf.”
“The…what?” Christine gasped. “It’s a game!” the little one squealed, delighted now that tears were forgotten, “he hides and then chases us, and we have to run to the safe tree before he catches us! If he does, he says he’ll gobble us up,” she giggled, “but he never does. He only growls.”
Christine felt something warm and unfamiliar unfurl in her chest. She could hardly reconcile the two images.
The grim guarded man of stone and the…the big bad wolf?
A big, bad wolf that could reduce his nieces to fits of giggles. The idea was an attractive one, and it led her to a thought that she tried to bury the moment she discerned its shape.
It was the notion that Tristan sounded like he could be a father. It made Christine acutely aware of her own femininity. To be the sire of children was as masculine a role as a man could have. And Christine loved children.
“Your uncle sounds terrifying,” she teased.
The elder girl grinned. “He pretends. But he never lets anyone frighten us for real.”
“Well then,” Christine said softly, “let’s see if we can find your wolf before he gets worried.”
They followed the winding path through the trees. Their chatter filled the quiet glades of ponies and ribbons and how Uncle Tristan had shown them how to climb the low orchard wall.
“Does your uncle live near here?” she asked.
“Not very,” the older replied, “we live in London mostly, but we come to visit Uncle Tristan when the weather is nice. Uncle Tristan says country air makes beasts of little girls.”
Christine laughed aloud at that, and the sound startled a blackbird from a nearby branch. She loved the way the girlsseemed so desperate to insert their uncle’s name into every sentence. As though they were proud of him.
When the path widened, a figure appeared ahead, tall and unmistakable. He was striding quickly, coat and collar unbuttoned, head bent as though searching the undergrowth. The two girls gave a shriek of glee.
“Uncle Tristan!”
Tristan looked up sharply, relief flashing across his face before surprise softened it.
“God above,” he muttered, closing the distance in a few long strides, “where the devil have you…” he broke off when he saw Christine, his expression flickering from irritation to something unreadable.
“I found them wandering and quite lost. They ran off chasing a squirrel,” she said, smiling at the girls’ beaming faces, “I thought you might be missing them.”
“I was,” he said dryly, “and so is their governess, who will age ten years before the hour is out.”
He crouched to their level. “Do you know what happens to little cubs who run away from their den?”
The smaller girl giggled. “They get gobbled up?”
“Worse,” he said gravely. “They get carried.”
With a theatrical growl, he scooped them both up under his arms. The girls shrieked with laughter, kicking their legs and clutching his coat as he spun once, just enough to make them squeal. Christine’s laughter joined theirs before she could stop it.
It felt impossible not to; he looked so absurdly, gloriously human. He set the girls down at last, their cheeks pink from excitement.
“Back to your governess with you, my wild things. Straight down that path and no diversions. If you stray again, I’ll huff and I’ll puff…”
“…and you’ll blow our house down!” they chorused, scampering off down the path.
Christine watched them go, her smile fading into quiet wonder. “I did not think you knew any nursery tales, let alone enacted them.”
Tristan dusted off his hands. “My friend Ernald’s children. They think me a beast, so I oblige them.”
She arched a brow. “A rather gentle beast, it seems.”
