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“I’m done being a cowering ninny.” Matching action to words, he grabbed the handle and turned the key in one motion. He threw back his shoulders, yanked the door open, and invited the full might of the storm into the kitchen with them.
The frigid, gale force wind immediately swirled around them, dumping icy sleet at least five feet into the kitchen. Charity hissed and cringed away from the cold, but he muttered something foul beneath his breath and stepped forward, his head bowed as he focused on something out of her line of sight.
“Mrs. Cole, grab a towel. Quickly,” he called, and Charity—alarmed by the urgency in his voice—leaped into action and seized the closest thing at hand, a tea towel, and braved the cold wind and sleet again to hand it to him. He had something clutched protectively to his chest. He tugged the towel from her without a word of thanks and covered the tiny, wet thing he held cradled in the crook of one arm.
Charity carefully navigated the slippery, wet floor to shut the door behind him. He was saying quiet, soothing things to the wrapped bundle in his arms, and she turned to see what he was holding.
“I think it needs a warm bath, Mrs. Cole.”
“What is it?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t a baby baboon. The last thing they needed was Mommy and Daddy Baboon looking for their offspring. One thing Charity had learned after the incident last winter was that if a baboon wanted in, it would damned well find a way in.
“A puppy,” Mi—Mr. Hollings—he said. “Poor thing looks like it’s on its last legs, we need to get it warmed up fast. A bath and a blow-dryer, if you have one.”
“I try not to use too many appliances during a blackout. We only have so much fuel for the generator. And we don’t know how long this blackout will last. It could be days and if we’re cut off we can’t—”
“A few minutes won’t do any harm, Mrs. Cole,” he interrupted her, the uncompromising grimness in his voice brooked no argument.
Charity clamped her lips together and folded her hands in front of her. “Very well, sir.” She turned away to get the dryer from her room
“Not sir.” The reminder sounded like an afterthought, and she didn’t bother to acknowledge it as she left the kitchen.
He went back to talking to the puppy, his voice gentle. She didn’t think she’d ever heard him speak so quietly before. It did strange things to her chest. If anyone had asked her to describe her employer before now, she would have used words like brusque, frigid, unemotional…terrifying. Never kind or sweet or tender. And yet he was being all of those things right now; to a wet, probably tick and flea riddled, helpless little pup.
Granted, two to three weeks a year over a p
eriod of three years, was hardly conducive to truly getting to know someone. Especially when Charity herself had done her utmost to remain unobtrusive and had rarely spoken to him at all. She had drawn her own—probably erroneous—conclusions about the man. But his coldness had been such a contrast to the friendly warmth of his younger brother and sister, it had been hard not to judge him accordingly. Her inherent mistrust of powerful alpha males didn’t exactly help.
And while him showing kindness to one puppy didn’t make her change her opinion of the man entirely—it shook her previously rock-solid preconceptions somewhat.
She was returning to the kitchen with the blow-dryer when his voice, coming from the guest powder room, stopped her in mid-stride.
“In here, Mrs. Cole.”
She pushed the ajar door open all the way and found him hunched over the sink. The puppy—much smaller than she’d anticipated—stood shivering in the deep basin, immersed in filthy, soapy water up to its neck. It resembled a skinny, brown drowned rat and stared at Charity with big, pleading eyes.
“She’s absolutely filthy,” Miles said, his focus on the pathetic little pup.
Mr. Hollingsworth! She corrected herself sternly. But she had been finding it difficult to think of him as such since he had invited—commanded?—her to call him by his first name that afternoon. It was like a niggling ear worm that she couldn’t rid herself of.
Miles. Miles Henry. Miles H.
Miles smiles for miles.
Ugh. So frustrating.
“She has fleas and I’ve already removed a couple ticks the size of apple seeds from her ears. I fear there may be more.”
“No doubt, there will be more. But once you hand her over to the SPCA, I’m sure they’ll take care of the problem.”
“There’ll be no talk of handing her over to the you-know-what right now, Mrs. Cole,” he said, with a pointed look at the top of the dog’s head. His unspoken implication that the scruffy, shivering, miserable looking bag of bones could understand them, was both ridiculous and oddly sweet.
His flash of whimsy confused her, and she wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Besides,” he continued, sounding self-conscious in the face of her silence. “We probably won’t be able to get her out to a vet for a couple of days yet.”
“More like a week.”
“A week?”
