Vixen (11 page)

Hugo dismounted and yelled for Billy. The lad appeared from the direction of the kennels, swinging an empty pail. He set the pail down and came toward them, rather less lethargically than usual.

“I was feedin’ the dogs, sir.” He tugged a forelock and then stared in unabashed disgust at the turnip seller’s nag. “What’s that?”

“You may well ask,” Hugo said. “Where’s Miss Gresham’s dog?”

Billy scratched his head. “Well, I don’t rightly know.” He gestured to the pump. “I ’ad ’im fastened over yonder. But ’e up an’ went when I went for me dinner.”

“Did he break the rope?”

Billy shook his head. “Don’t look like it, sir. Rope looks like it’s gone an’ untied itself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Chloe stalked across to the pump. The rope was not frayed or broken. “You must have tied him insecurely.”

“He’ll be back, lass,” Hugo said, seeing her expression. “How long’s he been gone, Billy?”

“ ’Bout an hour, I reckon, sir.”

“He’s chasing rabbits in the wood, I’ll lay odds,” Hugo reassured her. “He’ll be back covered in mud and starving as soon as it gets dark.”

Chloe frowned unhappily. Til look for him when I’ve seen to Rosinante.”

“You’ve christened that sorry beast Rosinante?” Hugo gave a shout of laughter. “You absurd creature.”

“Rosinante was a fairly sorry animal,” Chloe retorted. “Anyway, I’ve always liked the name. And hell grow into it, won’t you?” She scratched between the ears of the nag’s hanging head. “Billy, I want you to make up a bran mash. I’m going to do something about his cuts.”

Hugo turned toward the house, inquiring with a degree of curiosity, “By the by, what name does the parrot rejoice in?”

“Falstaff,” she said promptly. “I’m sure he’s had a thoroughly dissolute life.”

Chuckling, Hugo went inside.

Chloe bathed Rosinante’s wounds, fed him warm bran mash, and installed him in a stable with a lavish supply of hay.

“I’m going to look for Dante,” she said, entering the kitchen. “It’s getting dark.”

Hugo, gratefully ensconced before a bottle of burgundy, squashed the uncomfortable conviction that he ought to abandon his wine and accompany her himself.

“Take Billy with you, since it’s largely his responsibility.”

“What if I don’t find him?” Her eyes were purple.

“I’ll go out with you after dinner,” he promised. “But be back here in half an hour.”

Chloe returned punctually but empty-handed and sat miserably at the table, picking at the laden plate Samuel put in front of her.

“Summat wrong wi’ it?” he demanded roughly.

She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry … I’m not hungry.”

“That’s a first,” Samuel remarked to no one in particular.

“Have some wine.” Hugo filled her glass. “And eat your dinner. You only think you’re not hungry.”

Chloe chewed a mouthful of chicken. It tasted like sawdust. She drank her wine with rather more enthusiasm and by the second glass was beginning to feel more cheerful. Dante was a young, healthy dog who hadn’t had too many opportunities to roam the countryside, chasing up scents.

“Wretched animal!” she exclaimed crossly, and attacked her dinner. There was no point going hungry because the exasperating creature was doing what dogs, given half a chance, did.

“That’s better,” Hugo approved. “What are you going to do with him when he does decide to return?”

“Nothing,” Chloe said. “What could I do? He doesn’t know he’s doing anything wrong … in fact, he’s not. He’s just being a dog.”

But the knowledge that Dante would never choose to spend this amount of time away from her obtruded through wine-induced buoyancy.

By midnight she was distraught and Hugo at point non plus. All three of them had stumbled across fields by the light of an oil lantern, trod cautiously through the tinder-dry wood, and called until they were hoarse.

“Go to bed, lass.” Hugo leaned wearily against the kitchen door to close it. “He’ll be outside in the morning, a picture of penitence.”

“You don’t know him,” she said, the catch in her voice accentuated by unshed tears.

But Hugo had formed a pretty fair impression of Dante and didn’t believe for one minute that his continued absence from his beloved owner’s side was voluntary. However, he strove to keep that from Chloe.

“It’s time you were in bed,” he said again. “There’s nothing more to be done tonight.”

“But how can I sleep?” she cried, pacing the kitchen.
“Supposing he’s hurt … in a trap …” She covered her face with her hands as if to block out the images of Dante in agony.

“ ’Ot milk and brandy,” Samuel declared, setting the oil lamp on the table. “That’ll send ’er off like a babby.”

“Heat some milk, then,” Hugo said. He took Chloe’s shoulders and spoke with calm authority. “Go upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ll bring you up something to help you sleep in a minute. Go on.” He turned her with a brisk pat on the behind. “You can do Dante no good by pacing the floor all night.”

There was sense in that, and she was bone-weary. It had been a long and exhausting day after a disturbed night. Chloe dragged herself upstairs. She put on her nightgown and sat beside the hat box, trying to take comfort from the contentment of Beatrice and her now-much-prettier offspring.

Downstairs, Hugo contemplated lacing the milk with laudanum rather than brandy. But then he thought of Elizabeth, slipping into addiction. Maybe such tendencies could be passed on. He slurped a liberal dose of brandy into the beaker Samuel filled with milk and took it upstairs.

He tapped lightly on the door to the corner room and went in. Chloe was sitting on the floor. She looked up as he entered, her eyes huge in her white face. He remembered how young she was, but he also remembered fourteen-year-old midshipmen who’d witnessed death and suffered agonizing deaths of their own under his command. Seventeen was mature enough to handle the emotional stresses of a missing dog.

“Into bed, lass.” He put the beaker on the table beside the bed. “In the morning, you’ll be able to deal with it.”

She didn’t argue. “It’s not knowing, that’s all,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “I could accept his death
… I just find it hard to think of him suffering alone somewhere.” She pushed her hair away from her face and regarded him seriously. “You mustn’t think that I count the suffering of a dog above the suffering of people. But I do love Dante.”

Perfectly mature enough to handle the emotional stresses of a missing dog … and some. Without conscious thought, he put his arms around her and she hugged his waist fiercely, her head resting against his chest. He cupped her chin in the palm of his hand and turned her face up, lowering his head.

He had intended an avuncular kiss on the brow, or perhaps the tip of her nose. But instead he kissed her mouth. All might still have been well if it had been a light brushing of lips. But as his lips met hers, a heady, intoxicating rush of blood surged through his veins, driving all else from his mind but the warmth of her skin through the thin shift, the delicate curve of her body in his arms, the press of her breasts against his chest. His hold tightened as he possessed her mouth with a fervent urgency and she responded, her lips opening for the probing tongue, her arms gripping his waist. Her scent of lavender and clover honey engulfed him, tinged now with the spice of arousal … and for too long he yielded to the intoxication, exploring her mouth, encouraging her own tentative exploration, his hands sliding to her bottom, kneading the firm flesh, clamping her to the rising shaft of his body.

Too long he yielded to temptation, and when reality finally broke into entrancement, he pushed her from him with a roughness that could almost have been engendered by revulsion. For a moment he took in her swollen, kiss-reddened lips, her tousled hair, the excitement in her eyes, now the color of a midnight sky. With a soft execration he turned from her and left the room.

Chloe touched her lips wonderingly. Her heart was
pounding, her skin damp; her hands trembled. She could feel the imprint of his body on hers, his hands pressing her against him. And she was on fire, a surging maelstrom of emotions and sensations that as yet she had no name for.

Dazed, she picked up the beaker of cooling milk and drank it down, the brandy curling in a hot wave in the pit of her stomach, bringing insidious relaxation to her already heavy limbs. She blew out the candle and climbed into bed, pulling the sheet up to her chin, lying still and flat on her back, staring up into the moonlit dimness, waiting for the fire to die down, for some words to come to mind that would make sense of what she was feeling … of what had just happened to her.

Hugo walked slowly downstairs, cursing himself. How had he allowed himself such a piece of flagrant self-indulgence? And the memory of her eager response lashed at him even further. He was her guardian, a man she trusted. She lived under his roof, subject to his authority, and he’d taken shameless advantage of his position and her innocence.

Samuel looked up as Hugo entered the kitchen, watched as he swept up the brandy bottle from the table, and left again, the door banging shut behind him. Samuel recognized the signs, and sighed. Something had happened to send him into one of his black tempers, from which sometimes he wouldn’t emerge for days.

Music drifted in from the library. Samuel listened, recognizing Beethoven’s strong chords. Anger was the driving force at the moment. When the bleak despair was on him, Hugo played the most desolate passages of Mozart or Haydn. Samuel preferred the anger—recovery was usually speedier.

The library was beneath Chloe’s bedchamber, and the strains of the pianoforte came clearly through her open
window. She’d heard him playing the night before, a haunting melody that couldn’t drown out Dante’s howls. The power of this music would drown groans from hell. A wave of sleepiness broke over her, and she turned over, pulling the sheet over her head.

She didn’t know how long she slept, but something brought her awake and upright in the same movement. The music had stopped and the night seemed blacker. She sat unmoving, straining her ears to catch the sound that had awakened her. Then she heard it again. It was faint but unmistakable. A dog was barking frantically.

“Dante,” she whispered. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window. She listened, trying to pinpoint the direction of the frenzied barking. Her room faced the front of the house and the side opposite to the courtyard, but if she craned her neck she could see the gravel driveway winding down to the road. The sound was coming from somewhere along the driveway. But why? He must be hurt, or stuck.

She ran from the room, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor, down the staircase, and across the hall. She stubbed her toe on an uneven flagstone and her cry of pain, hastily bitten back, sounded loud in the creaking quiet of the house.

She listened, but to her relief it seemed that she hadn’t awakened anyone. Dante had already caused enough upheaval without dragging the two reluctant men from their beds at dead of night.

She opened the door quietly and slipped outside, pulling it to gently behind her. Clouds had come up and the stars were now mostly hidden, making the night much blacker than it had been. She wondered what time it was, wishing she’d thought to look at the clock in the hall.

An owl hooted and there was a sudden screech of a
small anima’s terror and pain. But the barking had ceased.

Chloe knew she hadn’t imagined it. She ran lightly down the steps to the courtyard, the cobblestones cold beneath her feet. A breeze stirred, freshened with the coming of dawn, and she shivered as it pressed her nightgown to her body. She hesitated, thinking of the overcoat behind the kitchen door. But when she heard a faint yelping on the breeze, she forgot the cold and ran down the driveway, heedless of the gravel pricking the soles of her feet.

Hugo had heard her cry from the hall, but it took many minutes to penetrate the brandy stupor he had finally achieved as he sat slumped over the keyboard, a candle guttering beside him.

He raised his head, blinking fuzzily, listening, but there were only the usual night creaks of the sleeping house. He shook his head and let it drop onto his folded arm again; one finger of his free hand began picking out the melody of a piece by Scarlatti. But slowly, a prickle of unease penetrated his semi-conscious trance. He raised his head again, listening. There was still no sound, but he had the unmistakable conviction that something was missing from the house.

Chloe? She was sound asleep above him, knocked out by brandy and milk and physical and emotional exhaustion. His head dropped and then lifted again. He pushed himself off the bench and stood for a second swaying as he tried to marshal his senses. He’d go upstairs and satisfy himself that she was asleep in her bed and then perhaps he’d be able to pass out in his own bed.

Staggering slightly, he negotiated the obstacles in the library and stepped into the hall. A gust of wind blew the unlatched front door open, and he blinked at it, puzzled. Then the puzzlement left him and his head cleared somewhat.

Chloe again! Presumably, she’d gone out in search of that damned mongrel—wandering around the countryside all alone in the dead of night. Hadn’t she the faintest sense of self-preservation? It was a relief to turn his anger on someone outside himself, and a relief to recast her in the image of a stubborn, exasperating schoolgirl with a proclivity for scrapes that urgently required curbing.

He strode to the door, his step becoming firmer with each one as the brandy fumes cleared. He stared down into the shadows of the courtyard. There was no sign of her. He couldn’t guess how long it had been since he’d heard the first alerting noise. It could have been anything from five minutes to twenty—brandy played merry hell with a man’s sense of time.

Then he heard a dog’s bark, faint but frenzied, coming from the direction of the bottom of the driveway. It explained Chloe’s expedition, although it didn’t excuse its recklessness. Why the hell hadn’t she called him?

He set off down the drive, following the sound. The trees lining the driveway formed an archway, blocking out what little moonlight the intermittent clouds let through. He peered ahead, trying to catch the sounds of her footsteps or the glimmer of her shape. The barking grew closer and the frenzied note was even more pronounced. The dog must be trapped somewhere. He increased his speed, thankful that he knew the twists and turns of the drive like the back of his hand.