She retrieved a handkerchief and dabbed at her eye.
“Are you ill, Mrs. Montrose?”
“No, dear. Just...”What was she?“...weary.”
Remembering his discussion with the duke in the nursery, she let him touch her forehead. Then she attempted to assuage his distress with a bright smile.
“Thank you for your solicitude.” When his frown deepened, she added, “Solicitude means concern and care.”
“Solicitude...” he repeated thoughtfully before adding a solemn, “You’re welcome.”
He resumed his stance at the window—one knee on the backwards facing bench, one hand on the strap—as he earnestly scanned the home wood for any possible threat.
Her protector—of all things!
She’d have to ask the duke to explain the varied meanings of the phrase to the boy. Although how she was going to put such a request into words without mortification, she did not know.
She imagined—and discarded—several possibilities.
Leaning back, she cast her gaze out the window.
Hurtheven was not in view, as the carriage was passing beneath a stone archway. She glanced up at the sharp, pointy edges of an ancient portcullis and had the ominous sense she had tumbled back in time.
They then traveled over a large, grassy inner bailey surrounded by fully intact ramparts that disappeared only when they entered a second archway. Soon, a great commotion descended on the now-stopped conveyance.
Liveried men procured stairs and opened the door. Delmare exited first, and then dutifully offered his hand, making good on his chivalrous promise.
She accepted his assistance descending the stairs. Avoiding the amused Hurtheven, who stood to the side, Fee already in his arms, she raised her face, taking in the breathtaking, upward expanse of what she presumed to be the family and state apartments towering inside the inner courtyard.
Of course, Hevenhyll was not just any seat, but a proper medieval castle.
Narrow slits formed apertures of the first floor while wider, though equally tall windows peered down from the upper floors. From her vantage, she could barely make out the statues atop the parapets, although from the shields and swords she gathered they were warriors.
The whole affect—much like the castle’s owner—was one of intimidation.
She turned back toward the man in question.
“Don’t worry,” he said with a half-smile. “My father had the dungeons sealed well before I was born.”
“Mrs. Montrose does not ever need to worry,” Delmare replied. “We’ve settled it between us.I’mgoing to be Mrs. Montrose’s protector.”
Hurtheven raised his brows.
“Mybrother,” Hera corrected. “Delmare has offered to be mybrother, and we havenotsettled the matter, although I do appreciate the sentiment.”
“’Tis settled!” Delmare insisted. “She hasn’t got a brother, you see. You’re forever telling me I must protect Fee. I figure Mrs. Montrose could use protecting, too.”
“Do you?” Hurtheven asked with a suppressed mirth as he set Fee on her feet.
Hera exchanged an exasperated glance with the duke.
“I don’t need protection!” Fee exclaimed.
“Do so,” Delmare retorted.
“Don’t!”
Fee raced ahead—Delmare hot on her heels—and, like magic, the heavy wooden doors opened.
