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“No, Mouse!” She reached for her pet.
But Vale held her off with his other arm. “Don’t. He’s mad with temper and might bite you as well.”
“But—”
He turned, one hand still holding the dog that was biting him, and looked at her. His eyes were a deep blue now and held only a certainty of purpose; his face was more stern than she’d ever seen it, dark and lined and with no trace of amusement. It came to her that this must be what he looked like when he’d ridden into battle.
His voice was as cold as the North Sea. “Listen to me. You are my wife, and I’ll not see you hurt, even if it makes me your enemy. There can be no compromise in this matter.”
She swallowed and nodded.
He eyed her a moment more, seemingly oblivious to the blood dripping from his hand. Then he jerked a nod. “Good. Stand back and don’t interfere in what I do.”
She grasped her hands in front of herself so that she might not be tempted to snatch at Mouse. She adored the dog, even knowing he was an ill-tempered animal that no one else liked. Mouse was hers, and he returned her adoration. But Vale was her husband, and she could not contradict his authority—even if it meant sacrificing Mouse.
Vale shook the dog in his hand. Mouse growled and held on. Vale calmly thrust his free thumb down Mouse’s throat. The dog gagged and let go. In a flash, Vale wrapped his hand around the dog’s snout.
“Come on,” he said to her, holding the dog in both hands. The crowd had scattered when the prospect of blood had disappeared. Now Vale led her back to their carriage.
One of the footmen saw them coming and started forward. “Are you hurt, my lord?”
“It’s nothing,” Vale said. “Is there a box or bag in the carriage?”
“There’s a basket under the coachman’s seat.”
“Does it have a lid?”
“Yes, sir, a sturdy one too.”
“Fetch it, please.”
The footman ran back to the carriage.
“What will you do?” Melisande asked.
Vale glanced at her. “Nothing terrible. He needs to be contained until he calms down a bit.”
Mouse had stopped growling. Every now and then, he gave Kthe/p>a violent wriggle in a bid for freedom, but Vale held fast.
The footman had the basket out and open when they reached the carriage.
“Close it as soon as I put him in.” Vale eyed the man. “Ready?”
“Yes, my lord.”
The action was done in a flash, the footman wide-eyed, Mouse struggling desperately, and Vale grim. And then her pet was confined in a basket that rocked violently in the footman’s hands.
“Put it back under the seat,” Vale said to the footman. He took Melisande’s arm. “Let’s return home.”
HE MAY HAVE alienated her, perhaps made her hate him, but it couldn’t be helped. Jasper watched his wife as she sat opposite him in the carriage. She held herself rigidly erect, her back and shoulders straight, her head tilted down just a little as she stared at her lap. Her expression was veiled. She wasn’t a beautiful woman—a part of him was coldly aware of that fact. She dressed in demure, forgettable clothes, didn’t do anything, in fact, to make herself known. He’d engaged—bedded—women far more beautiful. She was an ordinary, plain woman.
And still, his mind furiously worked as he sat, planning his next assault against the fortress of her soul. Perhaps this was a kind of madness, for he was as fascinated by her as if she were a magical fairy come to lure him into another world.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, her voice dropping into his thoughts like a pebble into a pond.
“I’m wondering if you’re a fairy,” he replied.
Her eyebrows arched delicately upward. “You’re bamming me.”
