Then a familiar voice, breathless and breaking, called out, “Ellie!”
Isabella burst into the doorway, her cloak askew, her bonnet slipping from her head, cheeks flushed with panic while he flushed with a set of emotions—relief, admiration, and a certain tightening he refused to name—simply at her presence.
“Your Grace,” she gasped, stepping forward, voice tight and protective, “what are you—” her eyes fell on her sister, drawing the color from her face.
Cassian turned his head sharply. “She is hurt,” he said plainly.
At that, Isabella faltered, her eyes darting to Eleanor, who immediately reached toward her with a broken sob.
Isabella dropped to her knees beside them, gathering Ellie into her arms as she murmured soothingly, “Oh, Ellie, sweetheart. I am here. It is all right. I am here.”
Cassian watched quietly, his expression unreadable, though his hands still hovered near the child as if ensuring she remained safe between them.
“What happened?” Isabella inquired, eyes darting from the Duke to her little sister.
“I heard her scream,” Cassian replied. “She must have wandered into the greenhouse, and a beam fell. She’s not gravely injured. It’s just some scratches and a sprained ankle.”
“I didn’t mean to break anything.” Ellie clung to her, sniffing. “I just wanted to explore.”
Cassian’s brows lifted slightly. “Break anything?”
Ellie pointed at the rotted wood. “Your house. I broke it.”
“It was already broken,” Cassian said softly. “And very old.”
Ellie winced, and Cassian shifted immediately, crouching closer once more.
“We should clean that scratch,” he murmured. “And wrap her ankle. Come.”
He nodded to her ankle, where a few tiny stripes of blood were beginning to show through her stockings.
Without waiting for argument, he slid one arm beneath Ellie’s knees and the other behind her back. He lifted her in one fluid motion, careful and far steadier than he felt.
The little girl’s arms circled his neck instinctively, seeking comfort, and he held her more tightly.
Isabella stood quickly and followed, skirts brushing the overgrown grass as he carried her sister back toward the house with surprising ease. Not once did the little girl protest, and not once did he feel Isabella stop watching him.
When they reached the side entrance that led into the kitchens, Cassian pushed the door open with his shoulder and strode in. The warm scent of bread, broth, and herbs enveloped them instantly.
Every servant froze.
Cassian, with a child in his arms, was not something they saw often, perhaps ever, so he understood their shock.
“Supplies,” he instructed firmly. “Clean, hot water. Cloth. Salve. A bandage.” He spurted out the list without hesitation.
The staff snapped into action at once as he carried Ellie to the wide kitchen table and set her gently on the edge. Isabella remained at his side, gaze flicking between her sister and him with an emotion he could not entirely decipher.
When the maid returned with the requested items, Cassian took them without hesitation.
“You need not—” Isabella began, but he cut her off with a quiet, steady look.
“She is frightened. Let her focus on you.”
Isabella fell silent, and Cassian knelt again and rinsed Ellie’s small scratch with clean water after gently coaxing down her stocking. The child whimpered softly, burying her face in Isabella’s sleeve, a move that warmed his heart as he paused.
“I know,” he murmured gently to Ellie. “It stings for only a moment.”
The little girl peeked at him through damp lashes.
