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‘He thinks it is,’ Teasdale called from where he stood beside the gate. ‘You be careful, Mr Montemorcy, sir.’
The dog bared its teeth and lunged towards the prone woman. Robert braced his feet and pulled again. This time, the dog turned, snarling at him. Its fangs were inches away from his wrist. Robert shook the dog, throwing it to the ground. It lay there, stunned, then looked up at him with big eyes, before tentatively licking his hand in a gesture of submission and whining. Teasdale’s bleats about how it was not his fault filled the air.
‘Go on. Back to your master, Bruiser.’ Robert kept his grip on the collar and led it back to Teasdale. Teasdale fastened a rope about its collar, striking the dog violently about the head.
Robert shook his head in disgust. Teasdale would sell him the dog before the day was out and Teasdale’s dog-owning days would be at an end. The man could forget any future work, too. A man who struck a dog in that fashion would be more than willing to strike a man or a boy on the slightest of pretexts. It was one of the few things that Robert agreed with his late father about—such behaviour was the coward’s way.
Controlling his anger, he turned his attention back to the poor woman who had been the victim of Bruiser’s attack. She had made no move to uncurl from the tight ball. Her straw bonnet was covered in dirt and tiny stones, but remained on her head, hiding her identity. He had reached the dog before it bit her, hadn’t he? He knelt down at her side and saw the torn lace petticoat rucked up over the sensible boots. Blood trickled from her shin, but without a thorough examination it would be difficult to tell how badly she was injured.
‘You are safe now. The dog is under control. Can you get up? Did you hit your head when you fell?’ Robert asked in a soft voice. A doctor should be sent for, but he didn’t trust Teasdale. ‘We need to move you and get you out of danger. The post-coach stops for no one.’
The woman gave a low moan and shook her head.
Robert gently turned the woman over. Her face was white against the darkness of tangled curls. Henrietta Thorndike, but a Lady Thorndike made suddenly vulnerable and without her fearsome expression. He softly swore as his blood sizzled. An added complication. She’d probably blame him for this as well as everything else. Her earlier words about how they had fallen out of civility haunted him. Was she coming to apologise or merely doing her duty visiting tenants?
‘Lady Thorndike, it’s Robert Montemorcy,’ he said quietly, attempting to control his body’s unexpected reaction to a glimpse of her slender leg. ‘The dog has gone. You are safe. You will be looked after. I promise you that.’
Henrietta Thorndike moaned incoherently as she screwed up her eyes tightly in pain.
He tried again. Civility be damned. ‘Lady Thorndike, are you all right? Give me a sign you understand what I am saying. Did the dog bite you anywhere besides your shin? Lady Thorndike, you are ruining a perfectly serviceable bonnet. We need to move before the post-coach comes through.’
‘Call me Henri. Hardly anyone ever calls me Henri these days,’ she murmured, her long lashes fluttering. Dark against the pure cream of her skin. Utterly delectable.
Robert drew in his breath, sharply, and struggled to control the hot rush of blood to his nether region. Right now, she needed assistance. He scooped her up and carried her to the side of the road as the post-coach thundered past.
‘Please. Am I going to die? Is my face ruined? My leg aches like the very devil.’
Robert gave a short laugh as the air rushed from his lungs. How like a woman to be worried about her looks, rather than exclaiming about how narrowly the coach had missed the both of them.
‘Henri, then. Your face is as ever it was.’ He knelt down beside her and supported her shoulders so she could sit up. Her body relaxed against his and the pleasant scent of lavender rose about him. Her bottom lip held a glossy sheen and trembled a few inches below his.
‘Please tell me the truth,’ she whispered, lifting a cool hand to his face. ‘Are you are keeping something from me? If I am horribly scarred, people are going to turn away from me…’
Giving into temptation, he bent his head and brushed his lips against hers. The tiniest of tastes, but firm enough to make his point clear. Her long lashes fluttered and a long drawn-out sigh emerged from her throat.
‘Do I look like a man who would kiss a woman with a ruined face?’
Chapter Four
Do I look like a man who would kiss a woman with a ruined face? The words echoed around and around in her brain. Henri lay on the side of the road with Robert Montemorcy’s arm about her shoulders and his body supporting hers, far too stunned to move. Her lips ached faintly from the kiss. And what was worse, her entire being demanded more.
