He shoved a shirt over his head as he strode to the door, shaking away the last of his appropriate annoyance and inconvenient arousal.
His son stood outside, with red eyes and pouting lips. Guilt welled over Benedict for his brief irritation. He bent down and scooped the boy up into his arms.
“What’s wrong, little sprig?”
The boy’s scrawny legs wrapped around his waist, arms clinging to his neck. With Rafe’s face buried in his shoulder, it took a moment for Benedict to parse his son’s mumbled words.
“You’re mad at your sister?”
He received a head nod in response.
Eliza reached his side, rubbing a hand along Rafe’s back.
“Whyever for?”
The mumbling became higher in pitch and less intelligible as tears dampened the fabric of Benedict’s shirt.
“Try again, darling,” Eliza said softly, running her hand through his brown mop of hair.
“Posy cheated!”
Dark eyes met his over their son’s head. Benedict tipped his head toward the door while Eliza mouthed, “I’ll see to her.”
He nodded and moved to set Rafe on the end of the bed. Crouched before his son, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the salty tracks from Rafe’s cheeks.
Eliza dropped a kiss on their son’s head before stepping out to find their daughter.
“Deep breaths.” Benedict demonstrated for his son.
After a few moments, Rafe was able to set aside his tears.
Benedict stood, holding a hand out for his son. “Come for a walk. All of life’s woes are made slightly better with fresh air.”
“Promise?” Rafe sniffed.
“No. But we’re still going to try it.”
The boy huffed but grabbed his father’s hand, allowing himself to be led out to the yard.
The exterior of Blackwood never failed to leave Benedict breathless and elated. Far from the ruins he had inherited, both the house and grounds had been transformed by Eliza into a floral wonder. His wife could not be constrained to a mere greenhouse—though she used hers to great effect—and had claimed the world for her garden. Through some sort of witchcraft, she had coaxed every conceivable wildflower to call their plot of land home. From the first kiss of spring, all the way to the very last whisper of fall, blooms of all sizes and shapes sprouted from the earth in a riot of color.
“Shall we pick a bouquet for your mama?” Benedict asked.
“Alright,” Rafe said, then plopped onto his bottom in between the rows of blossoms.
“Maybe one for your sister too?”
“No, she’s a cheater!” the boy insisted.
Even now, years later, the wordcheaterin such a tone raised Benedict’s hackles. Hearing the echo of his father in his son’s voice—no matter how innocent—was unsettling.
Benedict sighed and sat beside Rafe on the lush lawn. “Do you want to tell me why you think that?”
“We were playing draughts, and she captured three of my men in one turn!”
He was forced to bite his lip—it was as he suspected. Benedict had watched his children play draughts not three nights ago, and he’d noticed Posy’s improvement even then.
“What about that makes it cheating? Did she move backward before she became king?”
