“What happened out there? Mr. Fox rushed in so fast with you in his arms and blood on your shirt, and them bruises…” Jenny took a deep breath.
Jenny wasn’t worried a bit about Fox and her almost swiving.
The events on the road came back to her. “I was taken by the worst of smugglers. Oh, Jenny. I shouldn’t have gone.”
“Not without me, miss.”
Fox’s stinging rejection earlier came back to her. He’d have MacEwen go for her brother to take her away, he’d said. Even so, she’d been a fool to take off on her own.
“Mr. Fox sent up his brandy.” Jenny poured some into an empty teacup. “Drink this while I brush out your hair.”
She settled into the chair and felt the first gentle tug.
“A little pink on your jaw is all you’ll have, I think,” Jenny said. “The bruise on your neck we can cover with a scarf. It’s much like the bruise Lady Sirena had.”
Nonplussed was Jenny, as if she dealt with that kind of injury quite regularly, and well, hadn’t Bakeley’s wife, Sirena, been assaulted by a villain also?
And…she recalled a story shared by Bink’s wife, Paulette. Jenny had once also faced a violent man intent on harming her.
“For certain, it will be easier to comb out your hair now, miss. I knew as soon as I saw that chopped off plait you’d run off for good.”
“I should have burned it.”
“No. Mr. Fox and I would have known anyway, though we mightn’t have been so certain.” She tugged at a knot and clucked when it unsnarled. “And anyway, hair that lovely shouldn’t be tossed out.”
No one wanted her hair. Her mother might have, but she was dead. Her father and brothers wouldn’t want it. And Fox…her heart twisted as doubt crept in. She took a big swallow of brandy, letting the hot liquor burn her, and glanced at the table where she’d left the long plait.
It was gone.
Her heart picked up its pace. “What did you do with the braid?”
Jenny’s hands paused. “Me, miss? Nothing.”
Heat poured through her, making her heart swell, sending her nerves tapping against her skin. He could have the plait. He could have every strand of hair attached to her head, and her dowry, and this house, and every horse in her stable. The dowry was hers, this house was hers, through her mother. Father wouldn’t, and Bakeley couldn’t take them away. And if they did, she’d learn how to cook. She’d learn how to clean brushes. And stretch canvas. She’d even live without a horse if need be. She would marry him, somehow, with or without Father’s permission.
She clenched and unclenched her hands, itching to find him and touch him. She just had to somehow, get Fox’s agreement.
“It’s still long enough to put up, miss, and the curls spring up better. There.” Jenny set down the brush. “Shall I get your nightgown?”
“I’ll put on a dress. When MacEwen returns, I want to hear what he has to say.”
Jenny didn’t protest. She wanted to hear also. “There’s much afoot here, that’s for sure, miss.”
She returned with the pale green morning dress draped over her arm.
“Not that one.” The other two gowns she’d packed were just as flounced and beribboned. If they’d caught the man who’d abducted her, she might have to go out again tonight. “I want something more practical. What about the travel gown?”
“Still damp. I did find some plain kerseymere dresses in the press that might be long enough for you.”
Her mother’s. She sprang from the chair. “Let’s have a look.”
