She glanced at the rifle again. “Are you telling him tales of your time in the military, too, my lord?”
“Oh, you know me. They go hand in hand.”
Mrs. Andrews’ lips curved, and she gave a small nod. She stayed where she was while George and Tristan faced the clearing again.
“Hold the rifle steady, George,” Tristan said, adjusting the boy’s grip with a firm hand.
When he glanced back over his shoulder, Mrs. Andrews was still there.
“Is there something I can help you with, Mrs. Andrews?”
“A letter came for you this afternoon, my lord. I came to inform you as soon as the courier left.”
“Who is it from?”
As she opened her mouth to respond, Tristan raised a hand.
“Do not tell me. I have a good feeling about who it is. I suppose saying it out loud will only ruin the mood.”
Mrs. Andrews shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and Tristan could have sworn he saw a flicker of sympathy cross her face.
“Shall I bring the letter here, my lord?” she asked again, her voice forcefully breaking the brimming silence.
“No.” The word came out too quickly. “I will take it when I return to the lodge.”
“Very well.” She turned to George. “Hurry, George, so you may eat before it grows dark.”
She walked back along the narrow track, her steps fading behind the rustle of leaves.
Tristan watched her go, then looked at George. “I suppose your mother does not want you learning to shoot so soon, Georgie boy.”
“She says it is not proper,” George muttered.
“She may not be far off if she thinks you might hurt yourself.”
George shrugged. “It is more than that. She says there are other things to learn first.”
Tristan kept his eyes on the clearing. “You have a parent who worries. You must be grateful. Not everyone is that fortunate.”
The boy nodded.
A flash of movement caught Tristan’s eye once again, and he turned. A deer stood some yards ahead, its ears twitching as it fed on the low grass. The air between them stilled as Tristan stared at it. It had not seen them. At least not yet.
“Hand me the rifle,” Tristan said quietly to the boy. “I will take the shot.”
“I can do it, my lord,” George whispered.
“All that I have said today, you may begin to practice tomorrow,” Tristan told him. “For now, hand me the rifle. It is important that the shot is precise.”
“I can do it, my lord,” George repeated, his tone firmer.
Tristan looked down at him. “You wish to redeem yourself?”
George nodded, setting his jaw.
“Very well. Breathe in and hold. Then let the air settle in your chest before you pull.”
George raised the weapon again, and his grip steadied. Tristan watched him put all his focus on the target ahead of them.
