North Devon, England
December 1860
Neville Cross shut and latched the door of the loose box, giving Lady Helena’s bay mare one last pat on her glossy neck. It was warm and snug in the Greyfriar’s Abbey stable. Far warmer than the biting cold weather outside. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the sky remained dark with thunderclouds, the air pregnant with the damp fragrance of wet earth and churning sea.
Carriage wheels clattered in the distance, a faint but familiar sound. Like the Abbey itself, the stone stable block was set high atop the cliffs above the small coastal village of King’s Abbot. The road up was precarious at the best of times. In wet weather it was positively dangerous. Nevertheless, over the past weeks the carriage had passed up and down, from the Abbey to the village and back again, with some regularity.
The coachman was delivering guests and supplies for the monthlong Christmas celebration. He never returned to the stable until his cargo had been unloaded. The carriage would simply roll by on its way to the Abbey. Neville had become as well acquainted with that passing clatter of wheels and clip-clop of horses’ hooves as he was with the sound of the driving rain.
Until today.
The carriage didn’t roll on in its usual manner. Instead it slowed to a halt. The door of the carriage opened. A swell of voices followed, unintelligible in the whistling wind. And then the door shut, and the carriage clattered on again.
“Good morning!” a soft feminine voice called out. “Is anyone here?”
Neville went still. His instincts told him to retreat. To withdraw to the feed room, or to the private rooms he kept above. It was a cowardly impulse, and one with which he regularly did battle. He had no good reason to avoid people. As long as he kept his speech to a minimum, he could manage very well in company.
But dashed if it wasn’t awkward. Especially where ladies were concerned.
He wiped his hands on a cloth, dusted the straw and horsehair from his white linen shirt and dark trousers, and slowly walked out into the aisle.
A young lady stood inside the doorway. A shapeless woolen cloak billowed about her small frame, the hood shielding her face from view. As Neville approached, she pushed it back with one gloved hand.
He stopped where he stood, his mouth suddenly dry.
“I’m looking for Mr. Cross.” Her chocolate brown eyes were large and luminous, with a peculiar sheen to them. “Neville Cross.”
On a good day, the words Neville formed in his mind could be translated into short phrases with minimal difficulty. He’d learned over the years how to keep things from getting muddled. How to say what he intended with the least fuss, even if that meant he must occasionally sound like a child.
Today wasn’t one of those days.
Not when the young lady standing before him had a face that made his heart beat faster.
It was a perfect oval, with a finely molded nose, a damask rosebud of a mouth, and wideset eyes framed by thick, gracefully arching brows that were several shades darker than the flaxen blond of her hair.
His thoughts, which were usually clear, proceeded to tangle themselves into a Gordian knot. With his brain in such a state, his speech didn’t stand a chance.
“Are you Mr. Cross?” She stepped forward, a wash of pale pink tinting the sculpted curve of her cheekbones. “Mrs. Archer said I should speak with you about Bertie.”
He stared down at her, fully aware that he must look as dumbfounded as he felt.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I should have explained straightaway. This is Bertie.” She opened the front of her cloak, throwing it back over her shoulders to reveal a black pug dog.
A very old pug dog, by the look of it. The little creature was cradled in her left arm, its face and body liberally peppered with gray.
Neville swallowed hard. His voice, when it emerged, was many steps behind the workings of his brain. “I’m Neville.”
He could have groaned aloud in frustration. It wasn’t what he’d meant to say. Not now.
But the young lady appeared unfazed by his inarticulateness. She extended her hand. “I’m Clara Hartwright, Mrs. Bainbridge’s companion.”
He hesitated an instant before shaking her hand, all the while conscious of how much smaller it was than his own. Every part of her was smaller. Good lord, her head scarcely reached his chest. He felt a veritable goliath looming over her. A clumsy giant who could crush her as easily as breathing. “Mrs. Hartwright.”
“Miss Hartwright,” she corrected. “Mrs. Archer said to speak to you about finding a place for Bertie in the stable. He must be kept warm, you see. And I haven’t yet received permission to keep him in the house.”
Neville reached out to brush his hand over the little dog’s head. Bertie blinked up at him with rheumy eyes. A smile tugged at Neville’s mouth. He was often shy around people, but he understood animals. He’d always had a way with them, long before his childhood accident on the cliffs and the head injury that, even now, affected his speech. It’s why he preferred to work in the stables. Being around dogs and horses settled him. Helped to put his mind at ease. It helped his speech, as well.
“He belongs to Mrs. Bainbridge?”
Miss Hartwright’s blush deepened. “Er, no. He belonged to the previous lady I worked for. She died last month, and poor Bertie isn’t a favorite with her family. They were going to have him destroyed. I couldn’t leave him behind. And I can’t permit him to catch his death out here.”
“It’s warm enough.”
“Yes, it’s much warmer than being out of doors, but Bertie is accustomed to residing inside the house. He’s spent much of his life on a velvet cushion in front of the fire, and I fear—”
“May I?” Neville reached for the little dog.
“Of course.” Miss Hartwright helped to transfer Bertie into Neville’s arms. “He’s very sweet and gentle. Not spoiled at all. Not like some pugs. He won’t be any trouble to you.”
Neville scratched Bertie under the chin. Bertie didn’t appear to notice. He was more than old. He was positively ancient, content to stare off into the distance and pant. Neville wondered if the little dog had all of his faculties.
Miss Hartwright moved closer. Close enough that he could smell the soft fragrance of orange blossoms that clung to her hair and cloak. “I understand you already have two dogs in residence. Mastiffs, Mrs. Archer said.”
“Yes.”
“Are they friendly?” She gazed up at him. “It’s only that Bertie has no way to defend himself. If a bigger dog were to—”
“I won’t let them hurt him.”
“Yes, but—”