Page 25 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
Carrie nodded, her expression brightening. “Bun-Bun kept me company.”
“Bun-Bun is a sweet friend, is she not?”
The child nodded again, even more enthusiastically. “Just like Heathy. You like doggies, don’t you?”
“Very much so,” Belle replied, picturing her own sweet pup. Angus had been a feisty little terrier, her near constant companion for more than a dozen years until he’d gone to his rest. Nearly twelve months had passed since the night when her furry companion had left the world, but the pain was still achingly fresh.
Carrie’s eyes brightened. “Tell me about your doggie.”
“Oh, he was a naughty boy,” Belle reminisced. “Always getting into fixes.”
“Heathy does too,” the girl said with a little grin. “He chewed the lace on my nanny’s shoe. She was very cross.”
“It sounds like Miss Pritchard spent quite a bit of time being cross,” Belle replied.
“That she did,” Jon agreed, the slightest hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
Suddenly, a small cry tore their attention to the hallway. Mrs. Gilroy!
From the corridor, the raspy tones of Heathy’s barking seemed a summons, not quite drowning out Mrs. Gilroy’s hoarse cries for assistance. Jon leapt to his feet. “Stay here,” he said, darting toward the commotion. “If anything happens, take Carrie to my study. She knows where it is. Lock the door.”
A chill washed over Belle’s nape. Good heavens, what was happening? Her pulse raced. Had Gideon tracked her down so quickly? Would he dare to intrude upon Jon’s home?
Carrie squirmed off the chair, looking to the door. Belle took the girl’s small hand in hers, stilling her. If there was any chance of danger, she had to ensure the girl was out of harm’s way.
The tinkle of a small bell replaced the sound of excited barking. Heathy trotted back into the room, cutting a straight path to the girl. Was it Belle’s imagination, or did the dog’s features betray a look of guilt?
“Heathy!” Carrie cried out happily, enfolding the dog in her gentle embrace.
“The wee beast will be the death of me yet.” Mrs. Gilroy’s low grumbling drifted into the room.
As relief crashed over her, Belle exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and rushed to the doorway.
My goodness. Belle bit back a smile at the sight that further eased her anxious mind. Jon supported Mrs. Gilroy with one crooked arm as she slowly made her way into the dining room, tapping her cane against the floorboards with each unsteady step. Behind them, a cloud of what looked like feathers floated through the air.
“Good heavens, what’s happened?” Belle asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer. At least part of it.
As Jon met her questioning gaze, Mrs. Gilroy grumbled heartily. Despite whatever had happened, her spirit had not been diminished. “That yapping ball of fur has it out for me, I tell ye.”
“I hardly think the dog has engaged in a vendetta,” Jon replied lightly, even as relief gleamed in his dark eyes.
“That’s easy for ye to say. The pup is always underfoot,” Mrs. Gilroy said with what looked like a deliberate little glare. “It would seem he has taken a fancy to my walking stick. Always wants to take a nibble. This time, he darted beneath my feet to get close to it.”
“Oh, dear.” Belle envisioned the scene as it must have unfolded.
“At least the pillows cushioned my fall. But my knee twisted—my bad knee, at that.” Mrs. Gilroy glanced behind her to a pile of feathers and silk that used to be one of the aforementioned cushions. “Heathy got it into his wee head to hunt for whatever was inside the things that smelled like a goose. He’s made quite a mess.”
“Good heavens,” Belle said as she looked over Mrs. Gilroy’s shoulder to the still-airborne feathers amid shreds of silk. “Don’t worry. I’ll tidy it up.”
“I’d be forever in yer debt, Miss.” The housekeeper flashed a wan smile.
Belle shot Jon a speaking glance. “Might I ask why Mrs. Gilroy is still on her feet? Light as she is, you might have carried her.”
“You think that did not occur to me?” Jon hiked his brows. “It would be easier to transport a wildcat.”
“Carry me?” Mrs. Gilroy balked at the notion, backing up his words. “I am not helpless.” She took a step, wincing loudly and undermining her point in the process. She cocked her chin. “Not at all, lass.”
“You should rest,” Belle said. “You mustn’t chance making the injury worse.”
