The Wolfe's Return Read online

  It occurred to him, as his gaze absorbed the various walls and outbuildings, that he knew next to nothing about Canaan’s layout. Did the original plans still exist anywhere, he wondered? As a child, he had not considered such a question. Something to be remedied.

  At that moment, Ghost let out a soft whine and backed up a step. Nathaniel glanced at the dog, and then followed the creature’s line of sight, curious to discover what had caught the animal’s attention.

  At first, he noticed nothing untoward. The place appeared deserted. Indeed, the breeze whistled a soft, mournful tune as it played around the castle walls, accentuating the sense of abandonment. Perhaps the dog had seen a rabbit or some such creature.

  Then he saw it. Saw him.

  Nathaniel blinked, taken aback by the unexpected sight of a small figure seated on one of the fallen stones at the other side of the bailey. A boy? It was difficult to be sure. The child – for surely it was a child – sat stock still, head bowed, apparently unaware of Nathaniel’s presence.

  “What the devil…?”

  No sooner had Nathaniel uttered the words than Ghost let out a yap quite unworthy of a wolfhound, and bounded across the grass toward the mysterious little figure.

  “Ghost, halt!” Nathaniel commanded. Not that Ghost would harm the child, but the animal’s size alone could be intimidating. The dog paused without hesitation, but let out another undignified bark as his master approached.

  Frowning, Nathaniel called the dog to heel and headed to where the child sat. Something about the tableau seemed strange. The boy’s stillness, Nathaniel decided, thinking about his nephews. Edward and William would have been clambering over Canaan’s ruins like two monkeys, and making as much noise as twenty. Maybe the child was deaf. So far, at least, he’d shown no sign of having heard Ghost. Even as Nathaniel drew closer, the boy didn’t move. Was he frightened? Lost, perhaps?

  “Hello, young man.” Nathaniel crouched down and regarded the boy, whose head remained bowed. “What are you doing here? Are you all right?”

  Other than a blink, the child didn’t respond. He appeared sullen and withdrawn, and still gave no sign of hearing, or even seeing, Nathaniel. Judging by his appearance, this was no rural ragamuffin, either. Not any kind of urchin at all, in fact. A halo of soft, brown curls framed a scrubbed, rosy-cheeked face. A clean linen shirt was tucked into a pair of woolen pants, which were well matched with his tweed waistcoat. Leather shoes, too.

  The mystery of the boy’s presence—and strange behaviour—deepened.

  Nathaniel tried again. “What’s your name?”

  The only response came from Ghost, who whined. That brought a reaction. The boy gave the dog a quick sideways glance, his expression lit with a slight glimmer of interest.

  “His name is Ghost,” Nathaniel said. “Would you like to stroke him? He won’t hurt you.”

  The boy lowered his gaze again.

  Confound it!

  “My name is Nathaniel, and that beast there,” he nodded toward his horse, “his name is Pilot. Will you please tell me yours?”

  The boy drew a breath, pulled his knees up, and rested his chin on them. Only then did Nathaniel notice the child’s spindly right leg and twisted foot. The child’s shoes were of differing sizes, he realized, clenching his jaw. A sad abnormality, and possibly not the only one.

  He must be deaf. Or feeble-minded. Maybe both. What is he doing out here, alone?

  Nathaniel persisted. “Where do you live, boy?” he asked. “Are you lost?”

  Still nothing. Nathaniel blew out a frustrated breath, stood, and looked about, hoping to see someone who appeared to be searching for a wayward child, a crippled child at that. Irritation gnawed at his gut. What kind of parents did the boy have?

  “Irresponsible,” he murmured.

  A gap in the castle wall afforded him a decent view up the valley. But, other than sheep dotted across the hillsides, he saw no sign of life. The sudden, mocking call of a rook pulled his gaze upward. The bird, perched atop Canaan’s crumbling curtain wall, cocked its head and repeated its cry.

  Ghost, his great tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, wagged his tail and answered with a single bark, which scared the bird. Nathaniel watched as it took flight, heading for a nearby copse of oak.

  And then a little voice meandered into his ear. “Are you a knight?”

  Nathaniel blew out another breath, this one of relief.

  “So, you can speak,” he said, looking down into a pair of dark-blue eyes. “No, I’m not a knight. But I do know some knights.”

  The boy’s mouth turned down, along with his gaze. He stretched out his legs as before, and appeared to ponder his deformed foot. “A knight used to live in this castle,” he said. “A long time ago, before it got broken.”

  “Yes, I know.” Encouraged by the child’s communication, Nathaniel squatted on his heels again. “He was an ancestor of mine. An uncle.”

  The boy blinked at him. “What’s an ancestor?”

  “An ancestor is someone related to you, but who lived and died a long time ago. Like a great-great-grandparent. Will you tell me your name now?”

  “What’s an uncle?”

  The question presented an opportunity. “Does your father have any brothers?”

  The boy frowned and picked at some lichen on the rock. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, if he does, they would be your uncles.”

  “My father’s dead.”

  Oh, Christ.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that.” Nathaniel sighed. “Look, I’m not sure you should be out here by yourself. Will you please tell me your name?”

  The boy continued to pick at the lichen. “Griffin,” he whispered, as if sharing a great secret.

  “Griffin,” Nathaniel repeated. “That’s a fine name. And will you tell me where you live?”

  “Over there,” the boy replied, without any kind of gesture.

  “I see.” A smile tugged at Nathaniel’s mouth. “So, you’re not lost.”

  “No.” The boy threw another surreptitious glance at Ghost.

  “Don’t be afraid to stroke him,” Nathaniel said. “He’s very large, but very friendly.”

  The boy shook his head and shuffled to the edge of his stone perch. “I have to go home now, or Mama will worry,” he said. A brief expression of pain shadowed his little face as he pushed himself upright.

  Nathaniel felt a pang of compassion. “Do you need help?” he asked, glancing about to see if the boy had a crutch tucked away somewhere.

  “No, thank you,” he answered. “It only hurts a bit when I first stand up. I have to go now.”

  “All right. Well, it was nice meeting you, Griffin.”

  The boy gave no response and Nathaniel frowned as he watched him limp away. Pain or not, the child’s struggle was obvious, as was his courage. It felt wrong, somehow, to let him wander off alone. The mystery of his identity also remained and, for some unfathomable reason, it rankled. Nathaniel, quite simply, wanted answers.

  “Griffin, wait!” The boy turned and watched as Nathaniel approached, dog and horse in tow. “Have you ever ridden a horse?”

  The answer was a hesitant shake of the head.

  Nathaniel patted Pilot’s neck. “Would you like to ride Pilot?”

  Griffin’s eyes widened. “Me?”

  Nathaniel shrugged and glanced about. “Well, of course you. There’s no one else here. He can give you a ride home. All you have to do is sit in the saddle and hold onto his mane. I’ll lead him, and we’ll go nice and slow.”

  “Um, no, I… I don’t think I can,” Griffin replied, the refusal belying the gleam of longing in his eyes.

  “Why?” A sudden thought occurred to Nathaniel. “Would it be painful for you to sit astride?”

  Griffin shook his head. “No, it’s not that.”

  “Then what?” Nathaniel narrowed his eyes and threw out a challenge. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  That brought more
color to the boy’s cheeks and a scowl to his face. “No, I’m not afraid.”

  “So, what’s stopping you?”

  “I don’t think Mama would like it,” he said, still scowling. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

  “Ah, I see.” Nathaniel nodded. “That is actually very sound advice. But I’m not exactly a stranger anymore, am I?”

  Griffin nibbled on a fingernail. “Yes, you are,” he said, at last. “I only know your first name.”

  Nathaniel’s mouth twitched. He’d been mistaken in his previous assumption. There was nothing in the least bit feeble about this child’s brain. “Then allow me to rectify that, young man.” He filled his lungs. “My full name is Nathaniel Francis De Wolfe, but you may call me Lord Nathaniel. I live at Allonby Chase, the big house over there in the trees. Do you know of it?”

  The boy’s brows lifted, and he nodded.

  “Thought you might. The old lady who owns the place is my great aunt. Her name, in case you don’t know, is Beatrice Parsonby. I have an older brother who lives over there.” He pointed to the east. “His name is Basil and he’s a Duke. He has a wife named Lydia and two sons. Their names are Edward and William. Edward is seven, and my Godson. He likes horses and sketching. William is five and still sucks his thumb. How old are you?”

  The boy lifted his chin. “I’m four and three-quarters.”

  “An excellent age to be.” Nathaniel managed to hide his shock. He’d have given the little fellow no more than four years at the most. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  Griffin shook his head.

  “How about a middle name? Do you have one?”

  “James.”

  “James,” Nathaniel repeated. “Splendid. And what about your last name? You are Griffin James who?”

  “Sedgewick.”

  “Griffin James Sedgewick.” Nathaniel let out a soft whistle. “A most admirable name. You’ve met Ghost and Pilot already. Ghost is an Irish wolfhound. He’s only a year old, and hasn’t finished growing yet. Wolfhounds are usually gray. White ones, like Ghost, are far less common. Pilot, here, is a five-year-old thoroughbred gelding. Now, are we still strangers?”

  Griffin opened his mouth as if to speak, but merely shook his head.

  “So, would you like Pilot to give you a ride home?”

  “Yes, please,” Griffin replied, his voice now little more than a whisper. “I would like that very much.”

  “That way, right?” Nathaniel gestured to the track beyond the castle wall. “Toward the big house?”

  Griffin nodded.

  “Right then, my young buck, up you go.” The boy felt like a feather in Nathaniel’s hands. He needs some meat on his bones, he thought, as he hoisted the lad into the saddle. “You can hold onto the pommel, or Pilot’s mane, if you prefer. There. How do you feel? Are you comfortable?”

  Griffin nodded again, the expression on his face rapturous as he grabbed a handful of wiry horse hair. Nathaniel’s gut tightened at the sight of tears glinting in the child’s eyes. They were happy tears, undoubtedly, but Nathaniel had never been good at dealing with displays of emotion.

  Bloody hell.

  He cleared his throat and turned to look ahead. “Tell me which way to go, Griffin,” he said, “and let me know if you want to get down. In the meantime, hold on tight.”

  Pilot hadn’t taken two steps before Griffin released a gurgle of laughter. It was a sound of pure joy, and Nathaniel couldn’t help but grin. Something about this crippled child had wormed its way into his heart and lightened it. Indeed, he hadn’t felt this good about himself in a long time. He resolved to have a quiet word with the child’s mother, however, about letting the little fellow wander off alone.

  “Nice and slow, Pilot,” he murmured, as they followed the track away from Castle Canaan. “Nice and slow.”

  They continued in silence for a short while. Then, “Lord Nathaniel?”

  Nathaniel looked up at his young charge. “Yes, Griffin?”

  “What’s a gelding?”

  * * *

  Hannah settled her shawl about her shoulders and tugged the front door open. “I’m going to find Griffin, Florrie,” she called, over her shoulder. “I won’t be long.”

  “Right ye are, Miss Hannah,” came the maid’s cheery reply from somewhere in the depths of the cottage. “Dinna worry, milady. I’m sure the wee laddie is fine. The angels watch over him constantly, I’ve nae doubt.”

  Hannah’s faith in Guardian Angels was not quite as strong as Florrie’s.

  “I should have gone with him,” she murmured, breathing in the sweet smell of tea roses as she stepped outside. Her beloved garden was busy weaving its summer tapestry of color, the flowerbeds newly weeded and tilled.

  Earlier that morning, the sweet scent of her flowers had been somewhat soured by the knowledge that she’d refused, albeit gently, to visit Castle Canaan with Griffin. “I really have to do this today, darling,” she’d said, surveying the weed-choked garden with a disapproving eye. “If the weather’s good, we’ll visit the castle tomorrow. All right?”

  To her great surprise, Griffin had then asked to go by himself. Hannah’s initial steadfast refusal was met by plea after plea.

  “No, Griffin, you’re too little,” she insisted. “And it’s too far.”

  He’d folded his little arms and looked at her with accusing eyes. “It’s not far at all, Mama. If I wasn’t crippled, you’d let me go. I not allowed to do anything because of my stupid leg.”

  Hannah had opened her mouth to deny it, but paused. Griffin’s deformity was no different to a ball and chain, one that kept him from running and playing as an able-bodied child might.

  She told herself that a little freedom, granted in faith, would surely be good for the boy’s self-esteem. Besides, the weather was fine, and the castle ruins were not far. They only lay about a half-mile away, along a raised open track that followed the path of the beck. No gates or stiles for Griffin to navigate.

  “Very well,” she’d said at last, her maternal instincts already feeling the anguish of separation. “Rest if you get tired, but otherwise go straight there, spend a little bit of time, and then come straight home. No climbing on the walls. No climbing on anything, in fact. And I don’t want you going anywhere near the beck, Griffin, so be sure not to stray off the path. Promise me. Oh, and no talking to strangers, either.” This latter was an afterthought. The area, generally, did not lend itself to such urban risks. The rugged landscape and the unpredictable weather, in this remote part of England, carried the biggest threat to its inhabitants.

  Her small son had crossed his heart and promised to obey her rules. Hannah had watched him go, noting the pride in the stiffness of his back and the determination in his impaired stride. Eventually, his little figure had disappeared over the hill, and Hannah had wept, her tears a combination of pride, guilt and anxiety.

  That same combination had caused the weeds to be removed and the earth to be tilled with a little more urgency than normal.

  Now, as the garden gate rattled shut behind her, Hannah paused and cocked her head toward the road, listening. The sound of a man’s voice, his words unintelligible, drifted over the boundary wall. At the same time, Ghost appeared at the main gate, his tail wagging when he noticed Hannah.

  The dog’s arrival could only mean one thing.

  Hannah’s heart skipped as Nathaniel de Wolfe, leading his horse, pushed open the main gate. Damnation. Yesterday had been a lesson in embarrassment. Why did the man have such an ridiculous effect on her? It wasn’t as though he’d ever consider her romantically. Especially when he found out about—

  “Griffin?” Hannah gasped at the sight of her son, face alight with pleasure, seated high up on Nathaniel de Wolfe’s horse. “What on earth…?”

  Disbelief rooted her to the spot, and she could only watch as they approached. vaguely aware of the puzzled expression on Lord Nathaniel’s face. Griffin greeted her with a wave and a wide smile.

>   “I rode Pilot all the way home, Mama,” he announced, patting the horse’s neck.

  “You did? Oh, my goodness.” She reached for him and he slid into her arms. “But you’re not… I mean, you didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

  “No,” he replied, finding his feet. “But Lord Nathaniel said I’d prob’ly have a sore backside later.”

  Hannah turned bewildered eyes to the new heir of Allonby Chase.

  De Wolfe, who still looked somewhat bewildered himself, spoke. “You live here, Miss Hannah?”

  Hannah inclined her head. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Griffin is your son?”

  Hannah placed a hand on her son’s head. “Yes, he is,” she replied, lifting her chin a smidgen. God help her, she could hardly hear her own voice over the rush of blood in her ears.

  “Then you’re…” De Wolfe’s feet shifted, but his dark gaze did not. It remained locked with Hannah’s. He frowned and took a breath. “You’re a widow?”

  Griffin looked up at her. “What’s a widow, Mama?”

  She gave him a smile and caressed his soft curls. “A widow is a married lady whose husband has died.”

  Griffin blinked as his young, innocent mind obviously mulled over Hannah’s explanation. “So, are you one of those?”

  Hannah’s stomach clenched in anticipation of Lord Nathaniel’s reaction to the truth. His expression, currently one of benign curiosity, would undoubtedly harden with disgust. His eyes would grow cold and judgmental. And any respect he might have cultivated for her thus far would be extinguished faster than a candleflame in the wind. He might even turn from her, although Hannah prayed he would at least have the decency to curtail his disdain, for Griffin’s sake.

  This harsh moment of truth had been inevitable, of course. Still, Hannah bit down against a sudden sense of impending loss, as if something of value was about to be snatched away.

  “No, sweetheart,” she said, and locked eyes once again with Nathaniel de Wolfe. “I’m not a widow because I was not married to your father.”

  Perhaps his jaw tightened a little, but otherwise, De Wolfe simply arched a brow. “I see,” he said, shifting his gaze to Griffin. “Well, young man, are you going to ask your mother’s permission or not?”