black curls. “A little piece of coal, eh? Your mistress loves you very much, young fellow, doesn’t she?”
Ghislaine was no longer capable of saying a word. She heard the door close behind her, and knew that Taverner had left them alone once more. She watched, trying to pull herself into that safe, secret place inside, where nothing could reach her, as Blackthorne continued to murmur to her beloved pet.
“Some people don’t approve of feeding animals at the table,” he murmured. “But then, this isn’t really the table, is it, Charbon? We’re much more casual than that, and I know a lively fellow like you would appreciate your mistress’s good cooking. What about a taste of this egg custard? Your mistress isn’t saying a word, though she looks quite pale. Do you suppose she’s jealous?”
She tried to pull herself together. “I’d really rather you wouldn’t feed him. He’s too fat as he is.”
Blackthorne’s midnight-blue eyes blazed into hers, full of cold, icy rage, as his mouth curved into a charming smile. “But I’m not interested in your wishes, haven’t I made that clear?” He broke off a piece of the pastry and held it in front of Charbon’s tiny black nose. The dog devoured it, wagging his tail in pleasure, and Ghislaine wanted to scream.
“You liked that, did you?” Blackthorne murmured. “I’ll have to try some myself, then,” and he popped a piece in his mouth. “I’m probably being foolish. What agrees with a dog’s constitution might not agree with mine. Would you like to try a piece of apple tart? Delicious, isn’t it? Your mistress is a wonderful cook.”
She wanted to scream, but her throat had closed up entirely She tried to find that safe, cold place, but it eluded her, leaving her raw, aching with pain. Surely revenge wouldn’t require this sacrifice too? She’d lost too much. She couldn’t lose the only creature who depended on her, trusted her, loved her without question.
And who was this handsome, smiling monster who’d calmly sit there and poison a helpless, affectionate little puppy who’d never harmed him? A puppy foolish enough to wag his tail and lick Blackthorne’s long fingers.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t, feed a dog herbal tea or brandy, Ghislaine finally realized. Charbon was safe. She wasn’t—there was no way Taverner would let her escape now that somehow, some way, Blackthorne knew.
Charbon had finally devoured everything on Blackthorne’s heavy silver tray. Everything but the tea and the brandy. Blackthorne’s dark eyes moved from Charbon’s wiggly little body to Ghislaine’s pale, set, face. “It all seemed to agree with him,” he murmured, setting the puppy down on the floor.
Charbon immediately raced over to Ghislaine, dancing in pleasure. She wanted to reach down and pick him up, to pull him close to her body, but she felt stiff, frozen, awkward. Before she could catch him he danced back to the man who’d fed him so well and stroked him so nicely, clearly ready for more attention.
“A sweet dog,” Blackthorne murmured. “You need something to drink. Now I know you don’t fancy tea much,” he said as he poured some of the richly scented mixture into a saucer, “but if I add a great deal of milk I expect you’ll find it palatable. You’re…”
This time she could move. She jumped up, knocking against the table, and her hand caught the Limoges teapot, sending if flying, with the saucer full of hot tea following suit, smashing on the floor.
“Dear me,” Blackthorne said faintly, his eyes dark with unfathomable emotion.
“Milk doesn’t agree with him,” Ghislaine said, not moving. The hot tea had soaked into her dress, scorching her skin, but she made no move to mop it up.
“A shame. And all the dishes have been smashed. I’m afraid your mistress might very well take that out of your wages. Except that your mistress is Ellen, and she’s a ridiculously soft touch.”
He glanced over at the mess on the floor.
Ghislaine was no longer capable of saying a word. She heard the door close behind her, and knew that Taverner had left them alone once more. She watched, trying to pull herself into that safe, secret place inside, where nothing could reach her, as Blackthorne continued to murmur to her beloved pet.
“Some people don’t approve of feeding animals at the table,” he murmured. “But then, this isn’t really the table, is it, Charbon? We’re much more casual than that, and I know a lively fellow like you would appreciate your mistress’s good cooking. What about a taste of this egg custard? Your mistress isn’t saying a word, though she looks quite pale. Do you suppose she’s jealous?”
She tried to pull herself together. “I’d really rather you wouldn’t feed him. He’s too fat as he is.”
Blackthorne’s midnight-blue eyes blazed into hers, full of cold, icy rage, as his mouth curved into a charming smile. “But I’m not interested in your wishes, haven’t I made that clear?” He broke off a piece of the pastry and held it in front of Charbon’s tiny black nose. The dog devoured it, wagging his tail in pleasure, and Ghislaine wanted to scream.
“You liked that, did you?” Blackthorne murmured. “I’ll have to try some myself, then,” and he popped a piece in his mouth. “I’m probably being foolish. What agrees with a dog’s constitution might not agree with mine. Would you like to try a piece of apple tart? Delicious, isn’t it? Your mistress is a wonderful cook.”
She wanted to scream, but her throat had closed up entirely She tried to find that safe, cold place, but it eluded her, leaving her raw, aching with pain. Surely revenge wouldn’t require this sacrifice too? She’d lost too much. She couldn’t lose the only creature who depended on her, trusted her, loved her without question.
And who was this handsome, smiling monster who’d calmly sit there and poison a helpless, affectionate little puppy who’d never harmed him? A puppy foolish enough to wag his tail and lick Blackthorne’s long fingers.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t, feed a dog herbal tea or brandy, Ghislaine finally realized. Charbon was safe. She wasn’t—there was no way Taverner would let her escape now that somehow, some way, Blackthorne knew.
Charbon had finally devoured everything on Blackthorne’s heavy silver tray. Everything but the tea and the brandy. Blackthorne’s dark eyes moved from Charbon’s wiggly little body to Ghislaine’s pale, set, face. “It all seemed to agree with him,” he murmured, setting the puppy down on the floor.
Charbon immediately raced over to Ghislaine, dancing in pleasure. She wanted to reach down and pick him up, to pull him close to her body, but she felt stiff, frozen, awkward. Before she could catch him he danced back to the man who’d fed him so well and stroked him so nicely, clearly ready for more attention.
“A sweet dog,” Blackthorne murmured. “You need something to drink. Now I know you don’t fancy tea much,” he said as he poured some of the richly scented mixture into a saucer, “but if I add a great deal of milk I expect you’ll find it palatable. You’re…”
This time she could move. She jumped up, knocking against the table, and her hand caught the Limoges teapot, sending if flying, with the saucer full of hot tea following suit, smashing on the floor.
“Dear me,” Blackthorne said faintly, his eyes dark with unfathomable emotion.
“Milk doesn’t agree with him,” Ghislaine said, not moving. The hot tea had soaked into her dress, scorching her skin, but she made no move to mop it up.
“A shame. And all the dishes have been smashed. I’m afraid your mistress might very well take that out of your wages. Except that your mistress is Ellen, and she’s a ridiculously soft touch.”
He glanced over at the mess on the floor.
Similar Books
