Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 243: The Duke’s Heir

The boy’s eyes flickered with confusion, recognition, and finally, something that looked like longing. He took a step forward, then another, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

"Mother?" he asked, his voice small and uncertain.

The woman before him was very thin and sickly. He remembered his mother, who had radiant, beautiful eyes and was very pretty. Why did his mother turn out like this?

Linnea sobbed openly, rushing forward and collapsing to her knees before him. She reached up, cupping his face with trembling hands. "You’re alive," she wept. "You’re alive..." Her fingers traced his cheeks, his brow, as if verifying that he was real.

Sandoz recognized the voice—the same gentle voice that sang lullabies to put him to sleep, the same voice that would protect him whenever a maid bullied him or the duchess scolded him. The voice that gently explained to him that he needed to dress as a girl so the duchess could not harm him.

"Mother!" This time, Sandoz cried out with certainty. His voice cracked, raw with yearning, and he threw himself into his mother’s arms. He underestimated his strength, and the force of his embrace almost sent them both to the floor if not for Lara’s swift reflexes, her steady hands bracing them both. Linnea clung to him fiercely, her frail arms trembling as they wrapped around her son. Her bones pressed sharply against him, startling him.

Sandoz frowned as he pulled back just enough to look at her, his face full of worry. Why was his mother so thin? Her cheeks were hollowed. Dark circles were under her eyes, and her embrace felt brittle, as though she might shatter if he held her too tightly.

Linnea pulled away from his embrace. She hungrily studied him, and her dry lips curled up. "You have grown." She said in between sobs. "My baby has grown up and looks so handsome." Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, her touch feather-light as if he might vanish at any moment.

Still on her knees, she looked up at Lara gratefully and bowed her head. She did not have to ask. She knew immediately that she must be General Odin’s daughter, the one who had saved her son. She had silently listened to the duke’s conversation while they were on their way to the general’s residence, and she learned that the daughter’s name was Lara.

"Thank you, Miss Lara, for saving my son. I owe you a life, and I will do anything to repay the favor."

"Madam, please stand up." Lara urged her and tried to help her up, but she refused. Linnea wanted to hug her son more. She knew she could no longer lift him like she used to, so she could only kneel to keep hugging him. She wanted to feel his son’s flesh, the proof that he was here, breathing and real, and it wasn’t a dream.

Lara guessed her intention, and she did not insist on helping her. She stepped back, her heart softening. She glanced at Linnea’s frail frame, noting the fragility in her bones and the sorrow etched deep into her eyes.

How much had she suffered all these years? The thought made Lara’s heart ache. Did her own mother suffer the same way when she lost her? Is that why her family had agreed to bring Mira into the family? The realization brought a strange comfort to Lara, easing the old wound just a little.

"Mother, why are you so thin? I can feel your bone sticking out." Sandoz’s voice was barely above a whisper, his eyes wide with concern.

Linnea’s expression faltered, and she released him just enough to study his face. "I’m sorry," she said anxiously, her hands fluttering over his shoulders. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," Sandoz shook his head and hugged his mother.

"My boy... I was worried when you were gone. I can’t eat and sleep." Linnea cupped the back of his head, smoothing his hair in soft, rhythmic strokes. "But now that you are back, I will eat more and sleep more, and I will be healthy."

Sandoz nodded, helping her to her feet, his small hands gentle but determined.

Behind them, Duke Connor stood frozen, his gaze locked on the boy. Disbelief and awe battled across his face as he stared at Sandoz—truly looked at him—for perhaps the first time. His eyes traced the sharp line of the boy’s jaw, the slope of his brow, and he swallowed hard. It was all there. The resemblance was undeniable. Sandoz looked just like his grandfather, Prince Dakota. How had he missed it? Had his indifference blinded him? Had he never paid attention to his daughters before?

His breath caught in his throat. He approached the mother and son and crouched to be eye-level with the boy. "My son, Sandoz, what a nice name," he said, his voice slightly trembling, and his hand hovered there, uncertain and hesitant, until Sandoz turned to look at Lara, his eyes wide and questioning. She gave him a firm nod of encouragement.

"Father," Sandoz’s voice was still high-pitched, but it was noticeably a boy’s voice.

Connor’s vision blurred, His eyes squeezed shut, and when they opened again, tears brimmed at the corners. His hand found Sandoz’s shoulder, then the back of his head, pulling him into his arms. "My son," he whispered, the words both fragile and fierce. "My Sandoz... I am so sorry. I didn’t protect you. I didn’t look hard enough. I should have found you... saved you from suffering."

Sandoz frowned. "But Father, I did not suffer. Grandpa, Sister Lara, and Sister Reya took good care of me, and they are good to me.

Duke Arces felt a pang in his heart and he was a little envious. The way Sandoz spoke their names—his voice warm, eyes bright—it was clear they held a sacred place in his heart.

"Having short hair and wearing boy’s clothing does not mean that he is a boy. She is clearly Sandara. How did she become a boy?" sneered Duchess Eloisa from where she stood in the reception room, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "That child is clearly Sandara. How did she become a boy?" She hated the sight of the three of them so close together.

Connor stood up, lifted Sandoz, and hugged him tightly. Then he felt it, and a broad grin appeared on his face.

"Shut up, Eloisa!" he barked, his voice reverberating with authority as he scolded the duchess. "There is no doubt—Sandoz is my son."

Duchess Eloisa was not reconciled. How could Linnea give birth to a boy? How could she had fooled her throughout those five years? Linnea looked simple-minded and easily bullied. How could she have thought of hiding the boy’s identity?

Then it struck her like a bolt of lightning—the midwife who delivered the baby. She was Linnea’s aunt.