“The dog is well.” He hoped. He prayed. “Be quiet now and I shall take you to your chamber. You are safe. Can you hear me?”
No answer. Was she too afraid or without consciousness already?
He hurried from the carriage house, stepped over the body of the man who had hurt her, and ran for the manor with her arms dangling limp and weak.
He had failed her.
He had brought her here, promised to protect her, and failed a second time. In the name of heaven, were that man not already dead, Felton would have ripped him apart and bashed the filthy blackguard into oblivion. He’d fight the world if he needed to.
But this couldn’t keep happening.
By all that was holy, it could never happen again.
Lord Gillingham wore the look again. The one he’d worn as he’d entered her chamber a few nights ago, with untidy hair, with the dress of his wife draped across his shoulder.
Now he sat next to her bedside. He said nothing, only stared at her, with his lips half open and torment in the moisture of his eyes. With movements so slow she might have escaped them had she wanted to, his hand reached out.
The caress settled on her cheek, brushed back her hair.
She closed her eyes. He was a stranger to her, yet it brought her comfort. Maybe only because she imagined it was Captain instead, with his twinkling eyes and his familiar smile and the laugh she missed so much it hurt.
Merrylad, Merrylad.The doctor had come and gone and told her the dog was fine. Mrs. Eustace had assured her as much. Even Minney, who’d entered for a minute or two, had promised the animal was well.
But she didn’t believe them. They didn’t wish to upset her, or make her sad, not when she was so injured in other ways. Why had she let them keep her here?
Everything was her fault.
She should have run away. She should have been brave. She should have done as any heroine in Captain’s stories would do and forged her own path back to home and freedom.
“I am sorry.” The words struck the air like a discordant note. Lord Gillingham’s hand withdrew from her. “I am sorry.” What did he mean? That he was regretful someone had attacked her again?
But no, it was more than that. His words meant something, something vital, only she didn’t know what. Why was he having so much trouble meeting her eyes?
Too quickly, he rose to his feet. He dismissed himself without words and quit the room, and a strange silence fell in his wake.
So much of her body hurt. Her scalp where the rough hands had pulled. Her neck where the bruising now swelled. The back of her skull where she’d suffered so many strikes. Why? Why must someone want to kill her? Didn’t they know she remembered nothing? Couldn’t they see that if she’d known who killed her mother, she would have already told?
More tears leaked free. Always tears. She was weary of grieving.I’m so afraid, my Savior.Of this manor and its memories. Of Lord Gillingham and the strange way he looked at her. Of the beast and the brutal pain when he clawed, and clawed, and clawed her all over again.
Her bedchamber door creaked as it eased back open. This time, Felton Northwood leaned in.
She turned her face into her pillow and closed her eyes. She had no wish to see him. Why should she?
All her pain linked back to him. She’d been happy before he ruined her life. Hadn’t he done enough without bothering her now? Why didn’t he go downstairs and find the golden-haired woman he was so fond of dancing with?
Quiet footsteps padded across the floor, and his presence loomed over her. Something lowered onto her bed. A whimper. A brush of soft fur and the wet, rough scrape of a tongue against her neck …
Merrylad.More tears unleashed as she pushed herself up, wrapped her arms around the animal, held him against her, and shook.Merrylad, my sweet. My sweet.Without meaning to, she glanced up at the man who had delivered her dog.
He stood rigid, beagle hair on the black tailcoat, with eyes that seemed more unsure of himself than she’d ever seen them before. As if he wished to ask how she felt but didn’t know how. As if he’d been afraid for her but didn’t know how to show it. As if he wished to make up for everything but had no other ideas than carrying up her beloved dog.
She didn’t want to forgive him so quickly. She had no wish to count him a friend again when he had so easily forsaken her downstairs.
But she had no heart to do anything else. Something vulnerable flickered in the way he looked at her, a strong sense of caring, and it made her reach out her hand to him in silent gratitude.
He grasped her fingers, squeezed, smiled, and reached over to scratch the ear of her beloved dog.
He was forgiven for everything.
