by Lori Foster
Oh, Adam. Her eyes stung, even as she smiled. “I think you’re doing just fine by yourself.”
He made a noise between a groan and a chuckle. “God, I’ve missed you. I want a second chance, Claire. Do you think—”
Yes! The word shouted across her mind, even as she threaded her fingers through his hair and pressed her mouth to his. It was like stirring adrenaline into espresso with a lightning bolt. Claire’s lips curved at the thought. No, it was just Adam, the man, heaven help her, she’d never stopped loving.
Every persuasion, every apology flew from Adam’s brain. For several stunned seconds he just experienced the kiss. Claire’s soft, full lips, her sexy perfume, the stimulating slide of her fingers against his scalp. . . . Then the weeks of pent-up longing punched through his surprise, and he dragged her hard against him. She gasped, and it was all the invitation he needed to plunder her sweet mouth. How had he lived without her? It was like returning to a treasured past and discovering a blindingly bright future.
Just as Adam was figuring out the logistics for making love in this narrow booth—they’d fit together in the Mustang, hadn’t they?—and wondering why some part of his brain was insisting it wasn’t a good idea, something barked. Buddy.
Adam broke the kiss in time to see a grinning Sergio and Chien disappear behind the aquarium. The crestie barked again, drawing his eyes to the floor by the end of the booth.
God, his special gift. He’d almost forgotten.
Claire blinked up at him, her eyes darkly dreamy and her mouth swollen and so damned tempting. “Did I hear a dog?”
Nodding, Adam picked up the crestie, who was wearing a little yellow vest. Through the leash loop in the back was a rolled document. It had taken Adam half the day to train the dog to walk around with the document, but apparently the tiny mooch would do just about anything for country pâté.
Smiling at the dandied-up crestie, Claire asked, “Is Buddy joining us for dessert?”
“No. He has something to thank you for taking such good care of him.” Adam handed the document to her. She unrolled it, and he watched confusion, then astonishment cross her features.
“You can’t, this can’t—” she began.
Adam rubbed his thumb over her lips to stop her protest. “My accountant was thrilled. I need charitable deductions to balance the profits from this place and my other investments.”
“It’s too much.” She shook her head, stunned. “This says you bought the shelter building and donated it to Rescue Me.”
“No strings attached,” he said. It was important to make that clear. “Besides, you already agreed to a second chance, if I understood that kiss.” She blushed and nodded. “I just found you again, so you can’t move the shelter to Maryland. Buddy and I want you near. Being with you these last few weeks has shown me just how empty my life has been.”
Claire touched his cheek. “I love you. Even when I should have hated you, I couldn’t do it.”
A chest-tightening, throat-swelling happiness struck him dumb, so he pulled her close and pressed kisses to her temple. The crestie wriggled between them. “I love you, Claire. There’s never been anyone else in my heart.”
Buddy yipped, making them chuckle. Adam leaned back to give the dog breathing room. “I have to admit, though, this mutt’s growing on me. If it weren’t for him, I might never have seen you again.” He brushed a tear from Claire’s face just as Buddy licked the salty moisture from her chin. “That day I brought him to the shelter, you rescued both of us.”
Her smile trembled, then firmed. “It was my pleasure.”
Adam kissed her again and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt the feeling was mutual.
LORD HAIRY
Donna MacMeans
Yorkshire, 1878
“Dicken saw him on the road last night, blacker than night and bigger than a small man standing,” the scullery maid reported, her eyes wide in her pale face.
“The hellhound?” The Waverly’s cook sucked in her breath. “Were his eyes gleaming red? Did the dog look straight away at him? It’s death certain, if he did.”
“Aye. Dicken didn’t say, but it’s an evil portent just the same.”
Hannah Waverly tried to swallow her smile. Though the mouth-watering scent of Patsy’s cooking had drawn her to the kitchen, the gossip of the kitchen staff had kept her enthralled. She sampled one of Patsy’s dormer pies, tiny scraps of cold meat remnants wrapped in bits of dough, then fried into delicious bundles no bigger than her thumb. She enjoyed them even without the thick gravy Patsy would serve to complete the dish. As it was, she had difficulty restricting herself to just one.
“Mr. Dicken is so old,” she said, debating if another dormer would affect her ability to wear her new blue gown to the dance tomorrow night. “He can barely see when the sun is high, much less in the thick of night. One of Mr. Sumner’s black sheep must have slipped through the gate again.”
Patsy shuddered. “Don’t tempt the devil by calling his hound a lamb, young miss. He’ll set the black dog on you.”
Hannah shrugged and decided that as the dormers were so small, one more surely couldn’t hurt. Her fingers reached for another tasty treat.
“And best not tempt your mother by eating those dormers. You know what she’ll say.”
“Stepmother,” Hannah quickly interjected. Surely, her real mother would never be so free with her disapproval. “They’re so tiny. I just thought to try another.”
“Stepmother,” Patsy amended. “I understand miss, but you know she’ll disapprove.”
Before Hannah could reply the very woman rounded the corner and scowled.
“Hannah, put that down. Didn’t they teach you at that Pettibone School a proper lady does not continually eat?”
Hannah did as she was told, bracing herself for the diatribe that was bound to follow.
Her stepmother curled her lip. “No man wants to marry a woman who eats him out of house and home. What would Lord Ashton say if he saw you right now?”
Hannah thought he might ask for a bite of dormer pie himself, but as she had never met the reclusive viscount, she had no idea of his personal tastes. She wisely kept her counsel while her stepmother continued to lecture.
“You should strive to be more like that Fanny Barnesworth if you want to catch Lord Ashton’s favor at the dance tomorrow night. He’s the one truly worthy catch in all the district and you shall lose the opportunity to Miss Barnesworth.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, trying to keep a frown from her face at the mention of Fanny. What man in his right mind would want to harness himself to that wicked piece of muslin? Hannah sniffed, her pride sullied by her stepmother’s comparisons. She might be a little plump, but at least she had strength of character. Mrs. Brimley, now the very proper Lady Nicholas Chambers, had told her so.
“Now don’t pout, Hannah, it’s not endearing,” her stepmother chided. She passed Hannah as she crossed the room toward a collection of baskets used for garden produce. She selected one, paused, then turned with a calculating gleam in her eyes and a sly smile on her lips.
“Do you recall Father Medlock’s sermon last Sunday on the necessity for charity?” She reached for the bowl of fried dough and dumped the contents into the basket. “I’ve decided we shall make a charitable gift of these dormers to the poor Mullins family.”
Patsy appeared shocked. Hannah’s stepmother’s uncharacteristic charitable act had just negated her entire morning efforts.
“In fact, I’d like you, Hannah, to take this basket to the Mullins house, but don’t go inside. One never knows what sorts of vermin inhabit those hovels. Don’t muss your skirts. I understand Lord Ashton has returned from his London trip and is currently in residence. Should he come to call you’ll need to be prepared to look your best.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hannah repeated. Why Lord Ashton should suddenly call now when he hadn’t in the previous five months since he purchased the Beale property was beyond her, but arguing with her st
epmother was futile. She imagined Lord Ashton to be as old as Dicken and as demanding as her stepmother. What young woman would wish for that future—even if he was the most eligible bachelor in Yorkshire?
Still, he was to host a dance tomorrow night and many of her friends from the Pettibone School for Young Ladies should be there. She refused to let the thought of her stepmother’s ridiculous expectations sully her anticipation of a reunion with her school chums.
She slipped the handle of the offered basket over her arm and retrieved her straw summer hat with two ostrich plumes from the hook by the door. She had paused to tie the ribbons when her stepmother offered her last piece of advice.
“Be mindful of strangers. Gypsies have been spotted in town. Don’t dally and don’t eat the dormers.” This last was said with such an emphasis as to suggest the tidbits had been individually tallied and would be accounted for upon delivery.
As Hannah stepped into the midday sun, she heard her stepmother inquire if Patsy knew how to make pheasant gitana as this was rumored to be Lord Ashton’s favorite dish.
“Lord Ashton this, Lord Ashton that,” Hannah muttered beneath her breath. If ever she were to meet the mythical Lord Ashton, she was afraid she’d be inclined to tap his leg with a crochet mallet for all the grief his residency had caused. Granted the secluded Beale property had been a grand estate in earlier days. Years of neglect had made it less so. Why would a viscount be interested in property so far removed from fashion?
The trip to the Mullins house would not take overly long. Especially, as she knew a less-traveled path through the woods that wound around a small pond to rejoin the main road before the village church. She remembered walking the path with her mother in happier times. Even though ten years had passed since her mother’s untimely death, she still missed her deeply. The path and all the ensuing memories gave her a comfort she could never find at home.
The heavily laden trees shaded the path making the hot summer day more pleasant. She had been fairly well lost in her day-dreams when she heard a suspicious rustle behind her. She turned, but saw leaves stirring with the breeze, nothing more.
Her thoughts turned to her stepmother’s comments about the Gypsies. They were known to camp in the woods on the Beale property, now Lord Ashton’s domain. Of course her stepmother didn’t mention that as Lord Ashton was apparently incapable of anything less than perfection. There was no rustling now. It must have been her imagination.
Lord Ashton, Lord Ashton. Hannah smiled to herself. She’d have to remember not to repeat his name in a high, singsong mimic of her stepmother’s voice when she was introduced to him tomorrow.
She hadn’t traveled far when she heard the rustling again. Closer this time. Even her active imagination could not produce actual sounds. Suddenly, a crashing through the brush sent a surge of panic and alarm through her. Gypsies! She lifted her skirts so as not to hinder her feet and ran from the threat, the basket swinging from her arm.
How foolish to travel the hidden path alone! The sentimentality of a walk once shared with her mother could well cost her life. She glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone followed—anyone of the Gypsy persuasion—and thus failed to see the root that caught her foot and hurled her sprawling onto the path beyond. Her basket freed itself from her arm and took flight, emptying itself of cargo by spewing succulent dormer pies in every direction. The fall to the ground jolted her hat from her head and sent it skittering down the path, ostrich plumes waving farewell.
Lord, she couldn’t breathe! The fall had stolen her breath and she couldn’t replace it fast enough. Her attacker would be upon her in a second. She gasped for breath, generating a sound not unlike that of a landing goose. If the villain had previously failed to detect her position, he’d have no difficulty now. Footfalls burst through the low-lying shrubs, racing in her direction.
She cringed, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the worst to come.
But nothing happened. No one pinned her to the ground. No evil villain pounded the earth in her direction.
Confused, she turned her head toward a gnashing of teeth somewhere on her right.
A huge dog with matted black fur gazed back at her before returning to placidly eating the spilled dormers. Patsy’s description of the hellhound sprung into memory. This was certainly no sheep. She wasn’t even sure it was a dog. From her current low vantage point, the beast appeared enormous, much larger than any common dog she had ever seen.
“Stop that!” she yelled, thinking at first to save any edible treats. She pushed on her hands and rolled to her side. The black beast paused, then looked in her direction with large baleful brown eyes. A thin strand of white spittle hung from his mouth. He glanced at the doughy treats, then back at her with a sad pleading quality that speared her heart. His long black tail hung low and still. A huge pink tongue slid around the black muzzle, but other than his energetic pant, he didn’t stir.
“You’re the hellhound, aren’t you?” she said, pushing herself to a sitting position.
It’s not that she expected the dog to answer. She braced herself in case its response was a menacing growl. Indeed, that would be an evil portent as she was truly defenseless against such a beast, and assistance was unlikely on the secluded path. However, the dog’s tail began to slowly sway. The beast continued to pant and again glanced at the food with a clear longing. His black muzzle lifted in the direction of the nearest dormer as if the mere scent was fortifying. If he was the devil’s servant, then the help was kept severely undernourished.
“You poor dear, you’re hungry.” She waved him on. “Go ahead. You might as well finish them. I can’t take them to the Mullins all covered in dirt and leaves, can I?”
Immediately, the dog’s nose thrust toward the ground and the closest fried tidbit disappeared. His tail waved once back and forth before he advanced on the next morsel and the next, grabbing each off the ground with his massive mouth, and snapping his jowls together repeatedly until all had disappeared.
Hannah watched in amazement. This, no doubt, was Dicken’s harbinger of evil: the black dog that stood as tall as a man with fur as black as night. From where had he come? Perhaps the Gypsy camp? She glanced about in sudden alarm, but no man appeared. The black dog, having consumed all the treats bound for the Mullins, wagged his tail with a force that slashed the foliage from the brush. His mouth hung open in a slobbery mess and he advanced on her as if she were to be his next meal.
Momentarily panicked, Hannah tried to pull her feet beneath her, but her ankle protested. The dog was upon her before she could rise. His massive head pushed at her arm, forcing her hand to rest on his head.
“Look at you. You’re nothing but a big baby”—her hand slid down his matted fur—“a big hungry baby.”
The dog leaned closer, pressing his body next to hers. She patted his head, then scratched between his ears. His eyes closed as if in enjoyment.
“You like that, don’t you?” Hannah said, accepting the dog’s reaction as an invitation for more affection. She stroked his long matted fur. “I wonder what your name is.” The dog looked at her with soulful eyes, pulling her smile in response.
“I suppose it would be difficult to tell me, wouldn’t it? Yet I shall have to call you something.” She pulled back to look at the full of him, but the dog crushed close as if afraid she would leave. He fairly knocked her over. “You’re as black as soot and covered with”—she brushed her hand across his fur, dislodging a fine dust that floated on air—“ash.”
A memory of her stepmother chiding her earlier in the day struck her. “Ash . . . I shall call you Ashton. Lord Hairy Ashton, to distinguish you from the disagreeable viscount at Beale. Do you like that, Lord Hairy?”
The dog responded with a lick on the side of her face.
“Where did you come from, Ashton?”
Lord Hairy responded with a wag of his tail, which of course did not answer her question.
“I can’t take you to the Gypsy camp if that’s where y
ou’re from. I haven’t heard of a family in the area having a big, black dog.” Given the uproar over the sighting of this hellhound, she was fairly certain that the dog did not belong to anyone local. Whoever had brought him this far had apparently not brought sufficient quantities of food to keep the giant dog fed.
“I can’t very well leave you out here to starve, or to scare the villagers.” She struggled to her feet, using the dog’s back as a crutch to get her from her knees to her feet. Her ankle protested with a jolt of pain that made her grit her teeth, but the pain subsided. She glanced at the dog. “No, Lord Ashton, I will not dance with you no matter how much you beg. It’s my ankle, you see.”
Lord Hairy tilted his head, his wagging tail stirring up wispy dust clouds. He was certainly a big thing. She chuckled to herself in spite of the painful sprain. “I’d be tempted to ride you, if you were better fed and I less so.”
The dog’s ears perked and he smiled, or at least it seemed he did.
“I can’t very well carry this empty basket to the Mullins now, can I?” She sighed, then glanced down the path for her hat. To her dismay, she saw one of the plumes waving to her from the pond.
“Oh dear!” She hobbled closer to look. “My hat. I’ll not hear the end of this for months. My step—”
A black streak bounded past her, followed by a splash. Her new companion nabbed her drowned bonnet, then swam back to the path. He pulled himself from the water and trotted to her with his prize, a soppy, dripping, mess of straw and plumage.
“I appreciate the effort but I’m afraid—”
The dog shook the water from his fur, sending droplets over her filthy skirts and disheveled bodice.
“Ashton!” she scolded, but the dog took no notice. His tail continued to wag with pleasure as he placed his trophy at her feet. She set the basket down to retrieve the hat and the dog took the handle of the basket in his mouth. What a sorry pair she suspected they must appear: a disheveled woman who appeared better suited for the gutters of London than a country road, and a massive, matted beast of a dog carrying an empty basket. With few other options available to her, Hannah trudged home with the hellhound following meekly after.