The Bride Of Spring. Catherine Archer

      The boy peered up at her, and Benedict could hear the relief that he tried to hide beneath a manly pose as he said, “I do not care what they might think. I was worried for you.” Then he added, his relieved tone giving away his youth and anxiety, “We are going home to Abbernathy?”

      She ran a hand over his hair. “Aye.”

      Benedict could not but be moved by this exchange. The love and care between them was more than obvious. He went toward them, speaking evenly. “You must be young William.”

      The boy squared his slight shoulders, his gaze assessing. “And you are the man everyone is saying—”

      Benedict interrupted wryly. “Yes, I suspect I am.”

      William frowned, glancing at Raine. “Is it true what they are saying? That you and…this man—”

      Again Benedict interrupted him. “Benedict Ainsworth.”

      The boy nodded stiffly. “My lord Ainsworth.” His gaze met and held Benedict’s directly. “I hope you have not…the stories they are telling…Raine is my sister.”

      Benedict could not fault him for his protectiveness toward Raine, but he had no wish to become involved in a conflict with the lad when he had committed no fault in this. He spoke evenly. “You must address me as Benedict.”

      The young man frowned in frustration. His troubled gaze went back to Raine’s face. “Well, is it true what they are saying about you and Lord—you and Benedict?”

      Meeting his gaze directly, she shook her head. “Nay, it is not, William. He did not touch me. Though I—”

      For reasons that he could not explain, Benedict forestalled her. “Raine and I have done nothing untoward here. I simply had too much wine and fell asleep.” He was not certain why he felt the need to say that, to protect her. He’d simply had the feeling that she was about to reveal the whole of her crimes to her younger brother, and unaccountably, Benedict felt the need to spare her that. He told himself that there was no reason for the boy to know all. It could gain him nothing.

      Glancing at Raine, he saw that she was watching him with surprise and, he thought, gratitude. When she noted his interest in herself she quickly turned to her brother. “You see, William, there is nothing to be concerned about. It has all been a misunderstanding.”

      The relief on his young face could not have been more obvious. And Benedict was gladdened that he had acted upon the impulse to spare the boy. When Benedict’s parents had died on the return journey from visiting his aunt in Scotland, the raising of his own brothers had fallen to him. He had been eighteen, and the youngest of the three of them had been around the same age as the lad before him.

      Benedict looked at Raine, who seemed determined to change the subject now as she asked, “Have you eaten, William?”

      William flushed, glancing at Benedict and away. “Please do not fuss over me, Raine.” He shrugged, his gaze meeting the man’s then as if their maleness forged a bond between them. “She’s always wanting to know if I’ve eaten, thinks I’m too small.” He finished with a trace of defiance.

      Benedict could see what this admission had cost him. He murmured, “One of my own brothers was quite small when he was your age. He’s nearly of a height with me now.”

      William looked up at him in amazement. “Truly?”

      Benedict nodded. “But it is also true that he has ever shown a hearty appetite. He would no more miss breaking his fast than a day of hunting, which I may tell you is no small matter in his mind.”

      He could see that this information was being taken into account most seriously. William looked down at his own spare frame. “As you see, my lord, I am somewhat lacking in size, but you give me hope that it will not always be so.”

      Benedict asked, “Was your father a small man?”

      A shadow passed over the lad’s face at this mention of his father, but he answered evenly. “Nay, my lord, he was a tall man, though not so large in form as you.”