Chapter 8 #2
Nicholas’s eyes shone with a sudden, bright hunger for praise.
“I will keep trying, Your Grace. One day, I shall be just like you! Strong and manly and able to hunt easily!” He smiled to himself, and, after a moment, he added, “and I will make my mama proud. She is ever so upset lately, and I fear I have caused it.”
The words were so innocent, so full of a raw, unvarnished hope that Malcolm felt something stir deep in the hollows of his chest. He had never been a father. He had never imagined himself as a man with anybody to guide. But for a fleeting second, the thought didn’t feel like a burden.
Then, the reality of Lady Romwich’s guarded face returned to him.
She is ever so upset lately.
“You’re getting there,” Malcolm said with a curt nod, his tone turning crisp once more, trying not to think of the debacle of how he kept meeting Lady Romwich or Nicholas. “Now, come on. You have strayed far enough. Let us get you back before your mother has my head for losing you.”
Nicholas let out a small groan of protest, his feet dragging in the dirt. “But I have not even caught anything yet! Please, Your Grace? Just one more try?”
“No more chasing,” Malcolm said. His voice was firm, leaving no room for the boy to argue, yet he didn’t make it unkind. “Do not worry, though. You will have plenty of years to hunt but today, you are with me and must do as I say. Follow my lead.”
Nicholas nodded begrudgingly, but as they began to navigate the thickets, his steps were light, almost bouncing with renewed energy. They walked in a shared silence for several minutes, the distant sounds of the hunt, shouts and the crack of branches, drifting through the canopy.
Then Malcolm held up a hand. The signal was sharp. Nicholas froze instantly, his eyes wide.
“What is it?” Nicholas whispered, the sound barely a ghost of a breath.
Malcolm didn’t answer.
He lowered his center of gravity, inching through the underbrush. He signaled for the boy to crouch beside him. Malcolm pointed toward a dense cluster of laurel bushes. A flash of iridescent brown appeared—a pheasant—tucked into the foliage.
Nicholas’s mouth fell open. He quickly clamped his hand over his face to stifle a gasp. Malcolm felt a flicker of genuine pride; the boy was learning restraint.
“Stay very still,” Malcolm whispered, the words vibrating in the small space between them. “Not a sound. Watch the barrel.”
Nicholas nodded vigorously, his breath hitching in a throat tight with anticipation. Malcolm raised his rifle. The motion was slow, a well-practiced habit that felt as natural as breathing. He adjusted his aim, the world narrowing down to the sight on his gun and the bird.
The pheasant ruffled its feathers, unaware of the two shadows in the brush. Malcolm’s finger rested lightly on the trigger. He inhaled deeply, and took one second.
Two seconds—
Malcolm fired.
The shot rang out with a sharp crack that tore through the stillness of the woods. The pheasant dropped with a soft thud, its life extinguished in a heartbeat. Malcolm stood up slowly, the smell of burnt powder sharp in his nostrils.
He turned to Nicholas, who was staring at the fallen bird as if he had seen a miracle.
Nicholas’s face split into a massive, delighted grin. “You really did it! That was amazing!” He bounced on the balls of his feet, his hands shaking with excitement. “Can I do that one day? When I am grown up like you?”
Malcolm’s lips quirked into a small, real smile. His eyes softened. “With enough practice, yes.”
As they made their way back to the main party, Malcolm kept his gaze fixed on the boy’s bobbing head. Nicholas was sharp, eager, and far too easy to like.
“Do you think Hector would be able to do something like that?” Nicholas asked.
He looked up at Malcolm, his small chin tilted back as he navigated the uneven roots of the forest floor. His voice was filled with a high, eager enthusiasm that cut through the heavy silence of the woods.
Malcolm glanced down at him, his eyebrow lifting as he adjusted the heavy leather strap of his rifle. “Hector?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
“Yes!” Nicholas exclaimed. His hands moved in animated, wide arcs as he spoke, nearly catching on a passing briar.
“Hector is really smart. He’s been learning all sorts of things already.
I’ve been teaching him how to sit and stay, but I want to teach him more.
Like how to fetch things and maybe even roll over!
But you probably know that already if you have taught him.
But I want to teach him to jump even higher than I did last time! Do you think he can do it?”
Malcolm felt a strange, unexpected warmth spread through his chest, a sensation he tried to stifle with a sharp breath of damp air.
There was a fire in Nicholas, a desperate spark of a need to be capable that reminded Malcolm a little too much of his own childhood. Before the navy, before the scars. He adjusted his pace, his long legs slowing so the boy didn’t have to run to keep up.
“Well, Hector has already got the basics down,” Malcolm said. He kept his voice steady, though he gave a singular, sharp nod of approval. “He’s smart, but like all dogs, he needs consistency. You can’t teach him too much too fast, or he’ll get confused and stop listening entirely.”
He paused, glancing down at Nicholas.
The boy was walking faster now, his small chest puffed out, the excitement practically radiating off him in the cool shade. Malcolm added, “but you have a good start. Keep it up, and Hector will surprise you.”
Nicholas’s eyes widened, the pupils black and deep with wonder. “Really? You think so?”
Malcolm gave another nod, the muscles in his jaw relaxing.
He shifted the rifle, the metal clinking softly. “Just be careful, though, do not let him get too spoiled. A dog needs boundaries, Nicholas. Just like people do.”
Nicholas furrowed his brow, his lips pursing in intense, boyish concentration as he navigated a patch of tall ferns.
“I promise I will not let him get spoiled,” he said earnestly. He looked up at Malcolm, his expression turning solemn. “I want him to be the best dog ever. And when he’s trained, we can make the best team! Like you and your rifle.”
Malcolm let out a dry chuckle, the comparison catching him off guard.
“I think you might be aiming a little higher than you should, Nicholas,” he said, his mouth twitching into a wry smirk.
“But you are right about one thing: you make a good team. You and Hector, that is. Just be patient. It takes time to build that kind of trust.”
Nicholas nodded with the gravity of a seasoned soldier taking orders. “I promise to make him the best. I shall teach him every trick I can think of!”
Malcolm watched the boy, noting the way his small boots beat a rhythmic beat against the earth.
There was something endearing about the way he spoke of Hector, as if Malcolm’s dog was the key to his entire future. Malcolm felt the weight of the boy’s trust, a heavy and unfamiliar responsibility that sat alongside his rifle.
He was teaching Nicholas more than how to handle a setter; he was teaching him how to lead.
The pair walked on in silence for a few moments, and Malcolm found himself satisfied by the quiet. Nicholas’ presence no longer feeling like an intrusion as it had on his own grounds of his estate.
Malcolm felt the weight of the moment sink in.
The boy was no longer just a neighboring child or a trespasser.
Somehow, his life had become entangled with Nicholas’, a responsibility he hadn’t asked for but was already carrying.
Still, he had been stern with his insistence that neither Lady Romwich nor Nicholas was welcome at Brigrock Hall, no matter the circumstance.
But Benedict’s advice occurred to him, about a direct invitation.
Yet… he was getting to know Nicholas alone, but had yet to know Lady Romwich alone, and part of him started to really, truly consider such a situation.
He had to be careful not to go entirely back on his word, but figure out where he wanted to go from that moment. Would he allow Nicholas back to play with Hector? And what would the repercussions by from his mother?
His questioning was broken as they reached the group and handed the pheasant to a waiting groom, his eyes shifting back to Nicholas one last time.
He was still staring at the bird, his face lit with a sense of wonder. Malcolm turned back to the hunt, but the silence of the woods felt different now.