Page 68 of Her Beast of a Duke
Confused at his sudden change, Isabella busied herself with the towels and filled a washbasin as well. She didn’t know the first thing about a wounded animal, but Oscar fell silent again and methodically washed the wound. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and she noticed how labored his breathing was.
By the end of the cleaning, he clenched the bloody towel, which Isabella quickly discarded.
“Is it the blood?” she dared to ask.
Tightly, Oscar shook his head.
She didn’t ask anything else, and especially not when Oscar tore away from the counter.
“I’ll send for a veterinarian,” he mumbled.
He left the chambers, and Isabella began to stroke Morris’s ears.
She leaned close, nuzzling her face into his quivering body.
“Your master is most confusing,” she whispered in case Oscar had not gone far. “Between his strange reactions and these locked rooms, I do not know where I stand with him. Then there is, of course, the distance. He loves you, though; that much is clear. He tended to you very gently, did he not?”
Morris’s deep, brown eyes looked up at her, and she imagined him agreeing. He sighed, nosing his own face into her palm.
“There, dear Morris. It’ll be all right,” she whispered to him.
She continued stroking his soft head until Oscar returned.
“The veterinarian will be here within the hour,” he told her. “Until then, I will keep another towel pressed to the wound. I cannot patch him up myself.”
His voice broke when he confessed that, and she saw regret and fear on Oscar’s face. Something in her crumbled at the sight of him as he stared at Morris.
After a moment, Isabella stood up.
“We can move him to my chamber if you need to breathe,” she offered, not knowing why he looked so torn, for this looked like more than distress at the wound.
He only nodded.
Then, he helped her bundle Morris into a blanket and moved him into her chambers.
Limply, Morris lay on her bed, and she sat next to him, continuing her petting.
She knew Oscar did not go far, but when he returned, the veterinarian was not behind him. Oscar still looked anguished but slightly more composed. Isabella was still curious about the bandages, but he had rolled down his sleeves, concealing them from view.
The veterinarian made quick work of checking Morris over, too, his face drawn tightly.
“It looks like some sort of animal attack,” he said. “I would guess, given the terrain, a fox. Does he often escape into the woodland?”
“He has been known to,” Oscar answered quietly. “Is he going to be all right?”
“He is in a critical condition, but you have done well cleaning him up.” The veterinarian looked at Isabella. “Your Grace, would you like to step out while I address the wound? It might not be a sight that is easy to stomach.”
She glanced at Oscar, who gave no indication of his preference for her staying or going.
“I am staying,” she said.
Together, they watched over the veterinarian as he treated Morris with salve to stop any infection, and then he stitched his wound closed.
Sweat slicked her back, and she did indeed find it hard to stomach, but Morris was going through it more so. She could handle a few unpleasantries in support of the dog, who seemed to have taken so well to her.
Once the veterinarian had departed with a promise to return the next day to check on Morris, Isabella slumped against the pillows, careful not to jostle the dog. To her surprise, Oscar hesitantly sat on Morris’s other side, avoiding her eyes as he played with Morris’s ears.
“I found him in the woods,” he told her after the silence stretched on for so long she thought he might have fallen asleep. “I actually found him wounded in a similar way. He had had a run-in with wolves deeper in the countryside. The poor boy dragged himself all the way to the outskirts of our estate, collapsed by a creek, almost bleeding out. It was only seven yearsago. I carried him in my arms all the way back here and told my father I was keeping him.”
