Page 11 of The Winter Companion

She waited for him to say something, but he only looked at her. Stared at her, really.

“It’s not Bertie, is it?” she asked at last. “Something hasn’t happened?”

Mr. Cross’s throat contracted on a swallow. “No. I’ve brought him to you.”

Her brows lifted. Mr. Cross’s arms were empty, hanging loose at his sides. She gave them a pointed look, and saw—for the first time—that one of his hands was clenched into a fist. Odd that. And slightly unsettling. Her eyes met his. “Where is he?”

“In the kitchen. Eating with Paul and Jonesy. I came to tell you—”

“I’m sorry, who? Paul and—” She broke off in dawning horror. “Not the two mastiffs?”

Mr. Cross nodded.

She pushed past him into the hall. “Which way is the kitchen?”

He caught her by the upper arm. “Miss Hartwright—”

She stopped short, her skirts swinging about her legs. “I beg your pardon. Will you please unhand me, sir?”

He abruptly released her, taking a step back, as if he’d been scalded. “I didn’t—” His face was stricken. “Did I hurt you?”

She straightened her sleeve. “Not at all. But I don’t care to be manhandled. And I won’t tolerate anyone taking liberties with Bertie. You should have told me you intended for him to meet the other dogs. I’d have been there to help. You can’t just—”

“He’s fine. He’s…happy.”

Clara stared up at Mr. Cross. A creeping feeling of confusion dulled her outrage.

Was something wrong with him?

She hadn’t noticed it in the stable. She’d been too focused on Bertie. But now that she thought of it, she realized Mr. Cross had faltered over his words there as well, his sentences short and riddled with uncomfortably long pauses.

Was it a speech impediment of some sort? A newly banished stutter? Or was it something more insidious?

Mr. Cross turned a dull red about the collar. “He’s fine,” he said again, his voice gone gruff. “That’s…that’s all.”

Guilt twisted in Clara’s bosom. Good lord, she’d hurt his feelings. Embarrassed him. And he didn’t deserve it. Not from her. She was a guest here. A stranger.

As he turned to go, she laid a hand on his sleeve. He stopped immediately, as if her touch had turned him to stone. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to scold you.”

Mr. Cross’s eyes met hers.

“You must understand,” she said. “Bertie is my first dog. All I have, really. And I’m terribly afraid that I won’t be able to care for him properly. To protect him. I’m in no position to—”

“It’s all right.”

“It isn’t. You’ve been nothing but kind since I stormed into the stable this morning and interrupted your work. A demanding lady with a pampered pug. It exceeds caricature.”

“You weren’t…” His jaw tightened. “You’re not.”

“That’s very kind of you to say, but I know I can be demanding at times. The trouble is, I never realize it until afterward. An unfortunate failing, to be sure.” She dropped her hand from his arm. “Is Bertie truly all right? The other dogs didn’t bully him, did they?”

A shadow of a smile edged Mr. Cross’s mouth. So faint, she might have imagined it. “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

Miss Hartwright followed Neville into the hall, shutting her bedroom door behind her.

He slowed to accommodate her pace. “Paul and Jonesy liked him. They didn’t bite or growl.”

“Well, that’s something.” She folded her arms at her waist. “And what did Bertie think of them?”