The Silent Governess(30)

Johnny pulled her closer, murmuring, “Come on, Livie. Just one kiss. You don’t have to say a word. . . .” His razor-stubbled chin scraped her cheek as he pushed his face close.

Olivia held her tongue by the thinnest thread of self-will. She tried to pull away, but the groom was strong indeed. Would Lord Bradley just stand there? Was he no gentleman at all?

She thought, I don’t have to say a word, do I? Well, I am about to. Olivia twisted in his grasp and opened her mouth to make very plain her ill-opinion of them both.

A gunshot exploded in the air. Johnny flew to his feet, sending Olivia tumbling from the bench onto the ground. His face went white as he whirled and saw Lord Bradley standing a few yards away, gun against his hip.

He strode toward them purposely, his face hard. “Back to the stables, Ross,” he ordered as he bent toward Olivia and extended his hand to help her up. She ignored it and scrambled to her feet on her own, cheeks burning in indignation.

Johnny hesitated only long enough to glance her way without meeting her eyes and mumble a weak, “Sorry, miss.” Then he all but ran up the path and out of sight.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Olivia hissed, “You needn’t have done that. I could have managed on my own.”

“That is not how it appeared.”

“Perhaps you judged incorrectly. Perhaps I am sorry you interrupted us.” She saw him hesitate, his jaw clench.

He said coldly, “Then you must excuse me. If you and your lover want privacy, I suggest you find a less public rendezvous. If Hodges had witnessed that little scene, Ross would be packing his bags as we speak. In the meantime, you ought to return to the house. It is not safe for you to be out in the wood alone.”

“I am perfectly safe.”

“Wild dogs have been spotted near Barnsley, Miss Keene. There is no guarantee they will not come here as well.”

“You are only trying to frighten me.”

“You should be frightened. You haven’t your stick with you this time.”

She stared, mildly stunned by his reference to their first meeting. So he did remember her from the hunt. Good. Maybe he would remember how rudely he and his friends had treated her.

“I appreciate your concern,” she said coolly. “But I am certain you have more important things to do than protect me.”

“You are correct. Therefore, I repeat—return to the house. Now.”

“I have not finished my walk.”

“Walk all you want in view of the house.”

“I shall walk where I please.”

“You forget your place.”

“And you forget your promise of a half day to spend as I like. And your duty as a gentleman to treat me as a human being.”

“Albeit a trespasser.”

“You shall never let me forget my mistake, will you? Forgive and forget are not in your vocabulary. I am guilty of many things, but for the last time, I am neither spy nor thief. I foolishly trespassed upon your land, yes, but I would rather be a trespasser than an arrogant, unfeeling, ungentlemanly person like you!”

She turned her back on him, unwilling to allow him to see her tears.

“Miss Keene,” he reprimanded.

She felt his gaze spear the back of her head but refused to turn around.

He raised his voice. “Miss Keene!”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “I am not deaf, sir,” she retorted. “Simply mute.” And with that she lifted her skirts and ran down the path, deeper into the wood, choking back sobs as she ran.

Edward watched her go and realized with a prickling chill that it was the first time she had failed to address him by his courtesy title.

He sat down on the bench with a heavy sigh and held his head in his hands. Her words ricocheted inside his head and his stomach churned.

Well, she is wrong about one thing, he thought. I am not unfeeling. I feel. I feel indeed.

When Edward had spied her with Ross, he had been angry—but knew the emotion had little to do with the fact that fraternizing among servants was frowned upon. Hodges had let go more than one amorous footman and housemaid in the past.

In truth, he had been shot through with jealously, illogical though it was. Jealous . . . over attentions paid to an under nurse? He had never been attracted to one of the servants before, not even for a light flirtation as Felix often was. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

When Ross had leaned forward to kiss Miss Keene, Edward’s gut had clenched within him. He knew he should turn and quietly go—let Hodges deal with the groom later.

But I refuse to feel guilty, he thought. Did she not spy on me?

But instead of meeting Ross’s kiss, Miss Keene had turned away. The flash of her eyes over Ross’s shoulder told him she had seen him there and was not pleased. Still, he was relieved she had avoided the man’s kiss.

Remorse filled him now as he replayed their recent exchange in his mind. What am I doing? He sat there trying to make sense of his turbulent thoughts and emotions. He knew he had no right to keep her there any longer, and no honest way to guarantee her silence. He ought to let her go.

In more ways than one.

He heard a sharp scream in the distance and knew instantly whom the voice belonged to. He jumped up, grabbed his gun, and flew down the path.

“Go! Be gone! Help . . . Lord Bradley!”

At her panicked cries, his legs flew faster. Branches cracked as he pushed his way through the underbrush in the direction of her voice. The sound of barking and growling reached him, chilling his blood. Wild dogs . . . He sprinted on, trying to load his gun as he ran.

Rounding a bend, his eyes registered the scene in an instant. Three dogs. One in a crouch, preparing to lunge. Edward snapped the gun chamber closed and raised the piece. Too late . . . The dog was midair, teeth bared. The moment slowed to a slogging dream. He saw a flash, heard a sharp report, and the dog’s blazing eyes faded to grey, to emptiness, as the cur fell limply to the ground.

But Edward had yet to fire a shot.

Turning his head, he glimpsed Croome standing within a web of branches, arm outstretched and steady, fowling piece still smoking. Before Edward could respond, the second dog coiled to lunge. Crack! His own shot shuddered through the dog as it leapt. Olivia screamed as it landed in a heap at her feet. Before Edward could reload, the third dog flew forward and sunk its teeth into her skirts and gave a great jerk, pulling her feet out from under her, her head hitting the ground sharply as she fell. He saw Croome lift his fowling piece again and their eyes met. Croome did not shoot again. Why did the man not shoot? Fearing his own shot might miss its mark and hit Miss Keene, Edward charged forward, striking the dog with the butt of his gun. He shouted unintelligibly and struck again. Finally the dog unclamped its hold and scampered away. Croome’s shot chased it into the wood.

Edward ran to where Olivia lay, silent and still.

“Miss Keene? Are you all right? Miss Keene?”

No response. He pressed trembling fingers to her neck and found a pulse. He gently rolled her by one shoulder to examine the back of her head where she had fallen. A jagged rock lay beneath her, smeared with blood.

Looking up, his gaze fell on the nearest dead dog. The dog’s blank eyes were rheumy. Its tongue swollen. Foamy drool puddled beneath its mouth. Edward’s heart thundered, ice formed in his stomach. He prayed the cur that escaped had only bitten her skirts, not her flesh. Jerking off his coat and bunching it to cushion her head, he rolled her gently back down. He was vaguely aware of Croome dragging the carcasses out of the way. Crawling to Miss Keene’s feet, Edward pushed up her skirts only as far as necessary.

He winced. Just below her knee, blood trickled red through her stocking. God, no . . .

He recalled too well his father’s stories of the rampage of rabies through London in the days of his youth, when livestock and people died by the hundreds and lads earned five shillings for every dog they killed. The attacks of rabid dogs and foxes had become less common in recent years, but the disease—and dread of it—had never left England.

Edward rolled down the stocking and regarded the wound. The bite did not appear deep; the thickness of her skirts had no doubt hindered the cur’s goal. Tossing aside her shoe, he yanked the stocking from that leg and wound it around the top of her calf, tying it tight. Croome reappeared, surveying his actions with wordless concurrence. The old man pulled his hunting knife from its sheath, uncorked his flask and poured some of the brandy over the blade, then handed the flask to him. Edward splashed the wound with the amber liquid. Croome offered him the knife, but when Edward hesitated, the man groaned to his knees and unceremoniously sliced the wound site. Olivia moaned but did not awaken. As the bleeding quickened, Edward rinsed it away with more of the brandy. He did not know if these actions would help, but it was all he knew to try. Once more he met Croome’s eyes, deep in his skull beneath wiry grey eyebrows. The man’s ever-present scowl offered him little hope.

Edward lifted Olivia in his arms and carried her as fast as he could up the path. Croome did not follow. When he reached the lawns, he saw Talbot and Johnny working a new horse in the gates.

“Talbot!” he yelled. “Send Ross on your fastest horse for Dr. Sutton. Miss Keene has been wounded!”

“Wounded?” Johnny’s anxious eyes met his.

“Mad dogs,” he gritted.

The young man paled and flew to his task.