The sight of all that suffering and torment was tearing him apart.
Their loving family had been shattered beyond repair by grief and scandal and despair. Despite what the old woman had said, he could see no way back to the light.
He shivered and glanced up. Two figures strolling across a moor caught his eye. Even from this distance he could see the shiny blue-black cap of hair on the boy, and the wind-tossed curls of the nursemaid.
If he were to leave now, he could avoid running into them. That was his first thought. He had steadfastly ignored Olivia St. John since the night he had kissed her. But something made him stay where he was. Perhaps it was curiosity over the wild gesturing of the boy, as he pointed to something in the long grass. Or perhaps it was the way the young woman knelt down and guided the boy’s hand to whatever had taken cover. Quenton remained very still, watching and listening.
Their voices carried on the breeze. The boy’s soft, musical; hers low, cultured, with a gentle laugh that touched a chord deep inside him.
“It is a baby bird. See, his mother hovers nearby, scolding us. She was probably giving him a flying lesson when he fell to the ground.”
“May I keep him?”
“Oh no, Liat. That wouldn’t be right. He needs his mother. She’s the only one who can properly feed him and teach him the things he needs to learn to survive on his own.”
“May I hold him?”
“No, dear. His poor mother is nearly mad with worry. Listen to her heartbreaking cries.”
The boy glanced up at the bird that was circling their heads.
“Let’s leave him now, so his mother can sit beside him and satisfy herself that he’s unharmed. Come. I’ll race you to that rock.” Olivia caught up the hem of her skirt and started running.
Liat followed suit.
Olivia slowed her pace to give her young charge a chance to pass her. He touched a hand to the stone and turned to her in triumph. “I beat you.”
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