Stop it. He is dangerous and full of himself.
But he had put bread on her plate. She kept coming back to that. Such a small thing. A piece of bread.
Gordon would have taken bread off her plate. He would have told her she was eating too much, that she was growing soft, that ladies did not reach for the bread basket without being offered. The Hound just put it there without looking at her and did not say a word about it.
She wondered if her father knew about the auction. She had not written to him about it. She was not sure why. Maybe because explaining it would mean explaining everything, and explaining everything would mean admitting what Gordon had done, and she was not ready for that.
She was not ready to see her father’s face when he discovered the truth. She was not ready for the guilt he would carry. He had tried to stop the marriage. He had gone to the magistrate. He had gone to the bishop. But nobody had listened. Gordon had both the title and the influence, and influence in this country bought silence the way it bought everything else. Then her father had chosen to believe that this was a good match, despite the way it came about.
She would tell him, eventually. When the party was over, and the decision was made, and she had a man beside her who could stand between her and the world while she fell apart for five minutes.
She was owed five minutes. Maybe ten.
She was lost so far inside her head that she missed the sky going dark.
The first drop landed on her cheek. She wiped it away. By the time she looked up, the grey had thickened to charcoal, and the wind was bending the hedges.
“Oh no,” she gasped, looking up.
The storm broke all at once. The paths turned into mud in minutes. Her shawl was soaked. Her dress stuck to her body. Water landed on her face. In her eyes.
She could not find the way out. Everything looked the same in the downpour. Left. Dead end. Hedge wall taller than her head.
She doubled back and took a right. Another dead end. The rain was so heavy that she could barely see ten feet in front of her.
“Help!”
The wind drowned it.
She tried again, louder, hands cupped around her mouth.
Nothing. Not even an echo. The hedges swallowed everything.
She was alone in a maze she had designed herself, and the irony was not lost on her. Three years locked in a house, and now she was locked in a garden of her own making.
Her shoes were ruined. The hem of her dress was heavy with mud and water. She was shivering so hard that her jaw ached. Her hair was loose and clung to her neck.
The useless lot of them had gone inside at the first drop, then.
Suddenly, she heard footsteps. Heavy. Steady. Not hurried.
Herounded the corner of the hedge, his coat soaked through, his hair flat against his skull. Water ran down his face. He did not look cold. He did not look bothered. He looked like a man who had walked through worse than a rainstorm on a Tuesday morning and barely noticed the difference.
His green eyes found her immediately. She was crouched against the hedge, with her arms wrapped around her knees and her hair in her face and her dress ruined, and she had never looked less like a duchess in her life.
“Are ye hurt?” First thing he said. Not a greeting. NotI found you.
“No,” she replied, pushing wet hair from her face. “I am wet and furious.”
“That was a pretty stupid game,” he remarked.
“Of course, the Hound would be the one to find me.”
“Ye should be thankful Hounds are loyal. Everyone else went back long ago.”
He stepped forward and picked her up. One arm under her knees, one behind her back. He did not struggle.
“What are you doing?” she sputtered.
