The Duke's Dangerous Wager

Chapter 14

Tristan stared after Isla, the unsettled feeling in his gut twisting tighter. Whatever she was hiding, it was clearly affecting her more deeply than she let on. Yet, she had withdrawn from him again, shutting him out.

A small sigh from Francis pulled him back into the present. The boy was still kneeling in the dirt, his little hands mechanically scooping earth, his face set in a way that seemed too serious for a child his age. His brow furrowed, lips pressed together in a concentrated line, but there was something else.

Sadness.

Tristan crouched down beside him, watching for a moment before speaking. "You seem to be digging for something important," he said lightly, trying to lift the boy's spirits. "A treasure, perhaps?"

Francis glanced up, blinking at him. "You can't have it."

"I shall not dream of it," Tristan replied seriously. "That would go against the code of gentleman's honor."

"Isla says there's no treasure. So I'm just digging. I like the way it feels."

There was a pause, and then Francis added, almost as an afterthought, "Mama used to garden here all the time. She said the flowers needed help to grow. Now... they don't grow so well."

Tristan's chest tightened. The grief in Francis's small voice was palpable. It was a feeling Tristan knew all too well. The loss of his own brother, Henry, still gnawed at him, a constant ache that he hadn't quite figured out how to live with.

"You miss her," Tristan said softly.

Francis nodded, eyes focused on the dirt. "Yeah. But I don't like to talk about it. It makes Isla and Father sad."

There was a deep, quiet sadness in the boy's voice, one that Tristan recognized. He could see it in the way Francis kept his gaze lowered, trying to hold himself together. That brave face he was wearing, pretending he was fine when he clearly wasn't—it was something Tristan had been doing for years.

He searched for an idea, some way to draw the boy out of his dark thoughts, if only for a moment.

"You know, when I was your age, my brother Henry and I used to play a game. We'd pretend we were knights, defending the kingdom from fierce dragons or marauding enemies."

Francis looked up, curiosity sparking in his eyes. "Really?"

Tristan smiled. "Oh, yes. We'd take sticks from the garden and pretend they were swords. I was 'Sir Tristan,' and Henry was 'Sir Henry the Brave.' We fought many battles together."

Francis's lips twitched, a flicker of excitement pushing through the gloom. "But Isla took away my sword yesterday."

"Well," Tristan said, rising to his feet and glancing around the garden, "we'll just have to find a new one."

He picked up a sturdy-looking stick and handed it to Francis with a mock-serious bow. "I present to you, Sir Francis, your sword. Are you ready for battle?"

Francis took the stick, eyes gleaming with a genuine smile. "En garde!."

Tristan found another stick for himself and brandished it with exaggerated flair. "Then prepare yourself, Sir Francis! For we must defend this garden from a terrible dragon!"

With that, he lunged forward in mock battle, swiping his stick through the air and narrowly missing the "dragon" that was conveniently shaped like a nearby shrub. Francis laughed—a real, carefree laugh—and jumped into action, swinging his stick and shouting out battle cries as they fought side by side against the imaginary beasts that threatened the kingdom.

They circled the garden, darting around flowers and bushes, their sticks clashing in playful combat. Tristan couldn't help but laugh. Memories of his childhood with Henry washed over him. Hazy summer days practicing archery and fencing... Hiding from Mother when she was in one of her moods... Playing with their hunting hound, Patches.