Dragon Age One Shots

Regency Cullen 19

"Young man," Gwen calls, snatching at Branson's sticky fingers before his tea of fine jams are decorated across the Duke's sculptures. She sighs, dabbing at his red-stained palms while looking him in the eye.

"This is why its best to wash up both before and after eating," she admonishes, but lightly. There is little harm done beyond a few tracks along the walls.

"Yes, Ma'am," the boy mumbles before his eyes swing up to the grand staircase above them. "Cullen!" he shouts, rushing to the man with a book nearly shoved to his nose.

At the boy's cry, the Duke glances down and a smile curves his lips. He wraps a comforting hand around Branson in a half hug, the boy telling him about all the wondrous things they discovered that day -- such as what the effect of acetic acid and baking soda can have. That impressed him far greater than any discussion of how plants require sun and soil to survive.

"And then, and then," Branson tugs on his uncle's collar, dragging the man closer, "she told me a ghost story." The sticky finger points to the governess waiting patiently at the bottom of the stairs.

The smile melts and the hairs on the back of Gwen's neck begin to rise. For these past few days his Grace has been unavailable, his tone curt and steps hurried. She brushed it off as work or perhaps the stress of this wedding, but the longer his eyes linger upon her without mirth inside the greater the dread grows.

Unaware of the adults having a harried discussion without words, Branson continues, "It was really scary. I liked it a lot."

"Good good," he dismisses his nephew out of hand and begins to trail down the steps. "Why don't you go play with your wooden horses? I need to speak with your Governess."

"M'kay," the boy calls, happy to leap up the stairs two or three at a time to reach his room. She watches him instead of the unreadable man looming above her. If she closes her eyes, she feels as if its five months prior and she's the naive interloper clinging to her bag and peering in on a supposed man of iron sitting by the fire. All the warmth of before has fled and she cannot understand why.

"It wasn't really a ghost story, only an old fairytale my mother used to tell me," she tries to offer by way of explanation.

"Your mother, yes," the Duke pauses close enough they may speak privately, but far enough away no one would think they were betrothed. "I wanted to ask you about your family. A question has been raised --"

Gwen lifts her head, meeting him eye for eye as if she has nothing to hide. But her hand fall behind her back, knotting together to pinch should the worst come to pass. His Grace opens his mouth, no doubt prepared to drop the killer blow, when the front door to the manor flies open.

"Your Lordship," a man of the royal navy rushes inside, his hat askew. "I have a letter for you from Lieutenant Barris. It's urgent."

The Duke's eyes close in contemplation before he spins on his foot and greets the messenger. After snatching up the letter, he reads through the lines quickly, the vein in his forehead bulging higher and higher.

"Again! I have had enough. This shall be dealt with by me personally," he speaks to the messenger only.

"My Lord, no one is certain it is even one of their boltholes."

"I trust Delrin's intel as I would my own eyes," he finishes his cryptic assurance to the navy man and shouts, "James! Call to the shore to ready my ship."

The Steward appears as if by magic, his head cocked to the side, "Sir?"

"And pack," Cullen stuffs the letter into his pocket, burying it deep so no thief can touch it. "I'll require a week's worth of clothing and something more seaworthy than this."