sure was noisy outside, with the wind slapping the walls. It wasn’t hard to imagine the sound being Frenchie Brown’s fist pounding out his anger.
She wanted to cower in a corner remembering the way that hand had looked like death coming upon her, dripping blood and wrath.
Straightening, she stiffened her back, pictured energy and strength pulsing through her muscles. Even if William had not stopped Frenchie’s blow, the worst she would have been was bruised, or maybe had a bone broken.
Compared to other things she had been through in her life, a bruise was insignificant. Nothing could be worse than helplessly opening her mouth and allowing Mrs. Brunne to pour laudanum down her throat.
There had been a time, before Ivy came home, when she had called that woman Mother. Nothing, she now knew, could be further from the truth. All Agatha ever was to her was a replacement for her own lost daughter. There were times when her nurse did not know the difference between Agatha and the kidnapped Maggie.
In the end, Hilda Brunne’s perception of what was past and what was present had become blurred and driven the woman insane.
Something smacked the window hard, might even have cracked it. Crossing the room, she drew the heavy curtain aside.
The night was dark. Dirt and sand blew everywhere. By the light of the lanterns lining the sidewalk, she saw folks hurrying along, bent against the wind and blocking grit from their faces with lifted arms.
A group of young ladies crossed through a beam of light, all of them looking well-to-do.
One of them stopped to stare at her. She recognized her even though she’d only seen the woman from behind while she clung to William hoping for the fortune-teller’s blessing.
The lady pointed her finger. Her companions gawked, nudging each other in the ribs.
It was understandable. Who would not stare at someone dressed the way she was? Indecent was how she looked.
“Oh, my!” It suddenly occurred to her that everything she owned was in her trailer back at the circus encampment.
She was not going back there! Elephants could not drag her back down that hill. Which meant this was all she had to wear.
When the women on the sidewalk did not move on, but continued to look at her as though she were a sideshow attraction, she let go of the curtain.
All of a sudden her arms ached, and her legs. The altercation with Frenchie must have taken more out of her than she first thought.
With some effort, she returned to the couch. Lying down, she motioned for Miss Valentine to join her. It would be polite to ask William if dogs were allowed on his furniture, but that would mean hunting up her prince.
She hadn’t the strength for that.
One day she would, though. One day she would run for a mile and not become winded.
For tonight, she was going to sink into this couch, close her eyes and find comfort in the small but solid weight of Miss Valentine pressing into the curve of her belly.
* * *
Impossible!
William paced the upstairs hall, crushing the note in his hand.
He stopped, pressed it open one more time. Even reading it for the fifth time did not change the words.
Mrs. Bronson and Mrs. Feather had been called away to tend their ailing mother. In the future, he would have to remember not to hire sisters.
They had written that the situation was urgent, and a wire had arrived to summon them home. They’d given an address for him to send their wages, which left him wondering if they would return at all.
“Impossible!”
He had carried a woman dressed in glittering, morality-defying underwear into his house. Many of the folks in town had seen him do it.
And now there was no chaperone when he had expected there to be two.
Unless he wanted his reputation smeared, his career ruined, there was only one thing to do.
Going down the stairs, he tried not to think of everything all at once. If he did he’d be overwhelmed.
He could only be in control of one thing at a time.
Coming into the parlor with the note pinched in his fingers, he found Agatha asleep on the divan.
The dog’s head was resting on her ribs but it wasn’t sleeping. Its brown eyes tracked his progress while he crossed the room, built up a fire in the hearth then settled into a chair facing the couch.
The last thing he wanted to do was wake her. Someone as tender as she was would need to regain her strength, maybe shut out the ordeal she had been through for a time.
The poor thing looked a proper mess with dirt on her nose, twigs and leaves in her hair—and just there on her chin, a faint smear of Frenchie Brown’s blood from when she had bit him.
Even with it all, she didn’t seem as gaunt as he recalled she’d been the last time he’d seen her. She’d filled out some, with curves in womanly places—
Curse it! Why was he looking there?
Because where else was he to look? The girl was wearing something that looked like sin, designed to draw a man’s attention.
But why was she? What was she even doing in Tanners Ridge? It was twenty-five miles from home.
In the end it didn’t matter why she was here, how she had ended up in a circus and was being forced into the mouth of a cannon. Here she was, under his protection. The details would sort themselves out later.
“Agatha,” he whispered. “Honey?”
Not an eyelash stirred.
“Hey, dog. Lick her face, do something to wake her up.”
Without the household staff present, he didn’t dare even touch her shoulder to shake her awake.
The dog sighed deeply and closed its eyes.
“Agatha! Wake up!”
She sat up suddenly, eyes blinking in confusion. The parts of her that had filled out, which he should not be seeing the outline of but could not help it, jiggled.
The dog moved to the far side of the couch. After he settled the situation between them he would tell Agatha dogs were not allowed on the furniture...or in the house for that matter.
“William?” She looked confused, as though she did not recall that he’d carried her here.
“You’re safe, honey. Don’t worry, we’ll be married as soon as this wind lets up and the preacher can get here.”
“William
