“No, Juno, no stick throwing inside,” her master said. “Put it back.” To Nicky’s amazement, with tail drooping, the dog put the stick back in the basket, then returned to rub a mournful muzzle against Nicky’s leg. Nicky swiftly drained the cup, sat on the rug, and began to pat the dog.
“Do you want some milk, too?” Mr. Renfrew asked her.
Callie shook her head. “No, thank you.” She closed her eyes. She felt sick. The incident with the milk had brought it all back to her. She could never relax her vigilance.
“Mrs. Barrow has brought you some dry clothing,” she heard Mr. Renfrew say a short time later. At least she thought it was a short time. Callie’s eyes flew open. Where was Nicky? She couldn’t have dozed off again, could she?
“He’s asleep,” said the man, reading her thoughts.
Her son was curled up on the rug with the big black-and-tan dog, sound asleep. His arms were wrapped around the dog, and the dog’s muzzle rested on Nicky’s shoulder.
Callie felt a lump in her throat, thinking of the puppy he’d lost.
“Worn to a frazzle, the poor little mite!” Mrs. Barrow said. “Take him up to bed, will you, Mr. Gabe, while I’ll help missy change?”
Mr. Gabe bent and scooped Nicky into his arms. The dog scrambled to her feet, clearly intending to go with them.
Callie rose.
“No, don’t come,” he said. “He’s sleeping like a babe and while I’m gone you can change into those dry clothes in front of the fire.”
Callie looked at her sleeping son and swallowed. He looked so small and helpless in the tall man’s arms. And so vulnerable. He didn’t even stir as Mr. Renfrew pushed open the door with a shove of his boot.
Sudden suspicion shot through her.Sleeping like a babe—or drugged?Some poisons were tasteless. Was that why she’d fallen asleep? Oh God, how could she have trusted him, even for a moment, with her precious Nicky—just because of his eyes? She lurched forward to stop them.
“Nicky?”
Blessedly, he stirred and opened sleepy eyes.
“Mama.” He smiled, yawned, and dozed off again, snuggling against the man’s chest as if perfectly comfortable.
Callie examined him. He looked just as he did every night when she checked him. His breathing was deep and even, his skin slightly flushed in the way children’s skin was in sleep. And his eyes just now had been clear, just sleepy. She cupped his cheek. Warm, neither too cool nor too hot.
She started to breathe again.
And then became aware that the man who held her child in his arms was staring down at her, silently absorbing the expressions on her face. She met his gaze. He looked thoughtful, the mobile mouth grim.
“I’m not Long Lankin, you know,” he said quietly.
“Who?”
“A bogeyman in a song from my childhood. Long Lankin was a gentleman who drained the blood of innocent children.”
She reddened. “I didn’t think—”
“Yes, you did.” There was an awkward pause, then he added in a gentler tone, “My guess is you have your reasons.”
She looked at the face of her sleeping child and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Yes, she had her reasons.
“Will you trust me to put him to bed?”
She hesitated. Nicky’s hair was damp and spiky as a new-hatched chick. He looked small and pale and vulnerable in the tall man’s arms, but his thin little body was relaxed. Tired beyond caring, or trustful? Sometimes it amounted to the same thing, thought Callie wearily.
“Mrs. Prynne?”
With an effort, Callie realized he was addressing her. “Yes?”
“Trust me,” he said in that impossibly deep voice. The steady blue eyes never wavered.
