As the Devil Dares (Capturing the Carlisles #3)(50)

“It’s—it’s Lu-Lucy,” Polly choked out between hiccupping sobs. Her nose glowed red. “The boys took her, and they—they—” She thrust the headless doll at Mariah, as if that said it all. So did the angry “Boys!” that she bit out.

Then Polly glared over her shoulder at Robert, as if he embodied all the most horrible aspects of his sex. The ferocity of her look set him rocking back onto his heels.

“Not all boys are bad,” Mariah assured her, the fleeting glance she spared him inscrutable. “What did they do?”

“They hurt her!” Polly thrust the doll at her again. “See?”

Robert’s chest panged at the girl’s grief over her doll. The boys hadn’t hurt the pathetic little collection of stuffed rags in a dirty blue dress—they’d decapitated it.

“Where?” Mariah asked, her brow furrowing.

Where? Good Lord, it was obvious. But he had to give her credit for her composure in front of the child, the way she lovingly brushed her fingertips over the girl’s hair and calmly soothed away her tears. It was a caring, maternal side to her. And it stunned him to see it.

“Right here.” Polly lifted the mangled doll and pointed to a spot on its arm. “See?”

“Oh dear,” Mariah said with deep concern, taking the piece of stuffed rags gently into her hands. “She’s cut her arm.”

Her arm? The doll was missing its head, for heaven’s sake! But Mariah seemed as nonplussed about the decapitation as the girl.

“They hurt her,” Polly whispered, so intensely that Robert feared she might start wailing again.

“I’m certain they didn’t mean to,” Mariah assured her gently.

And Robert was certain the boys had intended much worse. He remembered every doll of Josie’s that he and his brothers had shaved bald, dragged from ropes behind their ponies, strapped to an archery target to take turns shooting arrows at it…They’d even blown one up with gunpowder. Boys, indeed.

“Will she get better?” Polly wiped the back of her dirty hand across her eyes.

“She needs surgery, but I’m certain she’ll be fine,” Mariah told her softly, kindness lacing her voice. “Go down to the kitchen and show Mrs. Smith. Tell her that I said it was okay if you have a biscuit while you wait for her to stitch up Lucy’s arm, all right?”

The girl nodded with a loud sniff. Mariah hugged her once more, then placed a kiss on her forehead and set the girl on her feet. With a parting glower at Robert, Polly ran from the room with her doll clasped tightly to her chest.

Mariah kept her gaze on the doorway long after the little girl disappeared as a quiet stillness fell over them. “Go on,” she urged softly, not looking at him. “Say it.”

“That doll’s missing its head,” he returned in the same solemn voice.

She sighed heavily. “I know.” Her slender shoulders deflated. “Polly’s father died when the Mary Grace went down last year. That doll was the last present her father gave her. It’s falling apart and lost its head last month, but she refuses to part with it, no matter that I’ve promised her a new doll to replace it.”

Robert understood that. Even now he carried with him the pocket watch his father had given him when he was graduated from Oxford. The same pocket watch that hadn’t worked in years.

“You can say the other, too.” Her gaze found him then, and wariness flickered in her green depths as if she expected him to attack. “That I’m wasting my time and money on this school. That I’m a fool to think that I can make any difference. That one little girl means nothing when so many are on the streets.”

Beneath her defensiveness, he glimpsed vulnerability, and it took his breath away. No one in the ton would have ever suspected that this softer side existed to the Hellion. He certainly hadn’t, and it surprised the hell out of him. So did the gnawing realization that he liked it.

He reached out and covered her hand with his. “I would never say that.”

She looked down at their hands, as if surprised at the tender gesture, but didn’t pull hers away. Then she stunned him by slowly bringing her other hand to cover his. The sudden connection that blossomed between them was undeniable.

“Why not?” she challenged softly, watching as she trailed a fingertip over the back of his hand. “My father would. In fact, he’s said so several times.” She gave a defeated glance at the dirty puddle around her. “Perhaps he’s right.”

“He’s not,” he assured her quietly, giving a small squeeze to her fingers as he thought of his sister and the orphans she’d helped in their village. One kind soul could change the path of every life it touched.

She slowly pulled her hands away, and immediately, he missed the warmth of her understanding touch. “Better not let Papa hear you disagreeing with him, Carlisle,” she warned, but with more teasing than reprimand. “You’ll lose your partnership.” She paused a beat for effect. “On second thought…”

He ignored that barb, not wanting to engage in battle, not when they were finally beginning to understand each other.

But something about her teasing bothered him. “Is that why you care so much about this place?” Had he completely misunderstood the complicated relationship she had with Henry Winslow? “Because it irritates your father?”