Because of Cassidy. His wife—new, miraculous thought that was—who awaited his return, whom he had never stopped thinking about during these long weeks apart. Cassidy’s scent was still too distant, but he found himself leaning into the window, stretching his senses for the first hint other unique essence borne on the wind.
He missed her now as he had every day of his absence. Acceptance of that need had been difficult. Always before he’d traveled alone, with only Telford as companion. He had denied any loneliness or desire for companionship, proud of his self-sufficiency.
Pride. How thoroughly his pride had suffered at Cassidy’s hands. And yet he remembered her in that place the blindness couldn’t touch—joyful, welcoming, loyal in her devotion—and his heart filled and overflowed with answering exaltation.
During his journey to Russia and all that followed, he had begun to feel his doubts and fears turn insubstantial as shadows. If his separation from Cassidy had been a test, it had given him the beginnings of an answer.
His emotions could be trusted, not rejected. He would make it work. He would forget the past. He would remain true to the Cause and to Cassidy, whatever else he must sacrifice. Cassidy would become a part of the Cause, his partner, inseparable from it in his heart.
With an effort he settled back in the seat and turned his attention to the other occupants of the carriage. He knew the boy was watching him. He’d felt those eyes—Milena’s eyes—gazing with steady concentration ever since they’d left Russia, and every mile by train, ship, and carriage from the continent to England. On this last stretch of the journey between Ulfington station and Greyburn, Braden was fully aware of what he had done.
And of Milena’s son, come at last to Greyburn.
The agreement with the Russians had been reached easily enough. Braden had allowed Stefan and Fedor to return to Russia unharmed in exchange for a hostage from their house—Milena’s only son, Mikhail. He hadn’t been foolish enough to let the brothers believe that he wanted the child for any other purpose than as insurance for their good conduct. By the time they realized that no amount of such behavior would win him back, the boy would be established at Greyburn.
Braden had expected to find an infant hellion at the Boroskov estates, a creature he might have cause to regret bringing back to England. Instead, Tasya Boroskova had timidly introduced him to a three-year-old boy who barely spoke and maintained an oddly mature dignity in his wiry little body. Braden knew then that he would not be leaving alone.
More, he wanted the boy. Cassidy’s instincts had been right. Healing lay in this act of reconciliation, for both orphaned child and remorseful guardian.
But Mikhail Boroskov’s self-possession was almost frightening. He hadn’t wept when he’d said good-bye to the woman who’d raised him. He had come without resistance, obeyed Braden and the nurse hired in London, and been in every respect ideally behaved. In every way the opposite of his mother.
He would be Cassidy’s son.
And Braden’s.
He felt an unexpected protectiveness, a wolf’s need to shield the young and helpless. But there was more to it than that, and more than guilt and repentance. It was as if Mikhail were flesh of his flesh.
That could not be so, but he could refuse to let it make a difference. He had done his best to treat Mikhail kindly, though he felt awkward in his attempts. Perhaps the boy felt just as confused, and that was the reason for his shyness and steady gaze. He was, after all, half loup-garou.
He had been raised with Tasya’s love, but he had also spent his first three years as part of a family steeped in viciousness and cruelty. There was about him something closed off, sleeping, waiting—waiting for the one soul that could reach out to his.
Cassidy, who had broken down Braden’s walls with headstrong persistence and quiet faith.
Cassidy, his wife. His…
The word stayed locked in his mind.
The carriage clattered through the wide gates that opened into Greyburn’s park. Mikhail’s nurse, a middle-aged woman named Betsy, gave a low gasp of appreciation. Braden knew he’d have to see to the woman’s initiation himself; she seemed respectful and submissive enough, so he could leave that matter undone for a day or two—until the boy adjusted, and he knew all would be well.