She rose and so did he. “I won’t be but a moment,” she said.
“I’ll escort you.”
She was a fool to hope it was because he enjoyed her company. More likely, he didn’t trust her and suspected she was going to do something more than let her dog out for a wee. “As you wish.”
After setting Laddie on the floor, Esme began strolling through the residence; Laddie led the way, his paws clicking over the parquet, periodically muffled by a rug they crossed, until they reached the kitchen. The cocker hurried to the door, began scratching at it and whining. Esme detoured to the large wooden table where an unlit lamp rested. She struck a match. “Will you open the door to let him out?” A wooden fence that separated her property from her neighbors’ properties on either side would prevent him from running off.
She lifted the glass globe and lit the wick, vaguely aware of the door opening and Laddie dashing out. Loud, chaotic barking ensued.
“Something has him in a dither,” Marcus said.
With lamp in hand, she walked to the door. “Probably just a squirrel. He’ll tire of it soon enough.”
Edging past him, she stepped outside, aware of his following near enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. How she wanted to rest against him, have his arm circle her. What fanciful thoughts she was having. It had been so very long since she’d taken a lover, and it would certainly complicate things between them if they became intimate. Although he would probably tell her he could handle complicated. Fighting to tamp down any desire, she held the lamp aloft, but it didn’t provide sufficient light for her to see far enough in order to determine why her dog was engaged in frenzied barking. “He doesn’t usually put up such a fuss. Laddie! Hush!” She glided in the direction that the barking and growling seemed to be coming from.
“Bloody ’ell! Dog bit me!” a rough voice yelled, a voice she didn’t recognize.
A yelp quickly followed, and Laddie went quiet. Panic surged through her. Marcus was already running toward the rustling coming from one side of the garden.
“Run!” Another voice. Deeper, gruffer.
Two shadows broke free of the darkness, quickly followed by a third silhouette. She was relatively certain the last one was Marcus, giving chase. Who were the men and what the deuce were they doing here? But more importantly, where was Laddie? Holding up the lamp, dashing carefully through the gloom, she called out for him, even as her gut, her heart, her very soul told her it was pointless. No other sounds filledthe garden. No sniffing, no growling, no rustling of foliage as Laddie explored the surroundings to find the perfect spot to lift a leg.
Then the lamplight captured a speck of white. White mixed with black. An unmoving mound on the ground. Her heart lurched and her chest tightened as she slowly lowered herself to examine the inert form of her beloved Laddie.
Damnation! The buggers got away!
The scotch had slowed Marcus’s reflexes and by the time he’d arrived in the alleyway, the blighters were nowhere to be seen. They’d either had transport waiting for them or they’d scrambled over a wall into another property. He crept up and down the darkened path, listening intently for any movement, but all was silent. He cursed soundly before heading back into Esme’s garden.
He was only a few steps in when he spied her kneeling in a halo of light provided by the lamp resting on the ground near her hip. She reminded him of a painting of the Madonna he’d once seen: serene and angelic. And beautiful. So damned beautiful, making it difficult to breathe, as though he was still chasing after those damned scapegraces. But then another sight caught his eye, white strands reflecting the glow from the lamp. “Bloody hell.”
Without further thought he was running for all he was worth toward her. When he was near enough, he skidded to a stop on the dew-coatedgrass and dropped to his knees. Her hand resting on the dog’s chest, Esme didn’t look at him but said quietly, “He’s breathing, but he’s not moving.”
In her voice, he heard a depth of sadness so profound that it awoke within him the sympathy for another that he’d buried long ago, when his life took its drastic turn toward unfairness for him and his family. “One of them probably struck him.” Maybe the one who’d been bitten, in fury or fear, had delivered a blow or kick. “Knocked him out. My hands are larger. Let me carry him inside for you.”
She barely nodded before easing back, lifting the lamp, and standing. Shifting toward the cocker, he gently slipped his hands beneath its body and cradled it in his arms. The dog made no sound, didn’t twitch a single muscle.
Marcus followed Esme into the kitchen and tenderly laid Laddie on the table, stepping aside so she could once again bury her fingers in her pet’s fur. Here within this room, where walls served to contain the lamplight, so it brightened the space, he saw the track of tears, the dampness on her cheeks. She wept for an injured dog. How was it possible, with the exception of her beauty, that he had managed to misjudge every other aspect of her? Tenderly, with his thumb, he reached out and gathered up some of the glistening dew.
She lifted her gaze to his, the desolation in her golden-brown eyes causing a painful tightening in his chest. “For five years now, Laddie hasserved as my companion, my most trusted, devoted, and stalwart friend. If he dies—”
“He won’t.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sounded so sure about anything, and it was reckless of him to give her hope. He was neither a veterinarian—did they even treat dogs?—nor a physician. What did he know about canine injuries? What he did know was swooning women. “Have you any smelling salts?”
“What need have I for smelling salts? I don’t faint.”
“Spices then.” Moving away from her, he began opening drawers and cabinets until he found some jars and cloth sacks labeled with the names of spices. He sniffed the contents until he located something particularly pungent. Pouring some into his cupped palm, he returned to the table and placed his hand right beneath Laddie’s nose. The dog’s face twitched slightly. “That’s it. Come on. Be a good lad and wake up.”
Moving his hand nearer, he waited while the dog took a couple more breaths and finally his eyes fluttered open.
“Oh, Laddie!” Esme cried, swooping the cocker up into her arms. Marcus couldn’t remember ever seeing her so animated, so joyful, so... like women who weren’t weighted down with burdens.
“I’d be careful with him,” he said gently. “I had a friend who fell from his horse and conked his head. He had something the physician called aconcussion. He was confused for a while, walked like a drunk.”
“Do dogs get concussions?” she asked him earnestly as though he were an expert on the creature, and he wished he was just so he could reassure her. He didn’t know why he suddenly had this strong need to soothe her worries.
“I don’t know. I don’t know if anyone knows, if they’ve been studied. As far as I’m aware, veterinarians only tend to horses and cattle. Perhaps set him down and see what happens.”
She placed her pet on the floor, and Laddie merely lowered himself to his belly and placed his chin on his paws. Esme lifted him back to the table where he resumed the same pose. “That tin there.” She nodded toward a coppery container on the counter withLaddiepainted in block letters on it. “Cook bakes special biscuits for him. Will you get him one?”
