Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(19)

“Idiot,” Christopher muttered, although he wasn’t certain if the word was directed at his dog or himself.

He felt troubled and guilty. He knew he’d behaved like an ass to Beatrix Hathaway. She had tried to be friendly, and he had been cold and condescending.

He hadn’t meant to be offensive. It was just that he was nearly mad with longing for Prudence, for the sweet, artless voice that had saved his sanity. Every word of every letter she’d sent him still resonated through his soul.

“I’ve done a great deal of walking lately. I seem to think better outdoors . . .”

And when Christopher had set out to find Albert, and found himself walking through the forest, a mad idea had taken hold of him . . . that she was nearby, and fate would bring them together that quickly, that simply.

But instead of finding the woman he had dreamed of, craved, needed for so long, he had found Beatrix Hathaway.

It wasn’t that he disliked her. Beatrix was an odd creature, but fairly engaging, and far more attractive than he had remembered. In fact, she had become a beauty in his absence, her gangly coltish shape now curved and graceful . . .

Christopher shook his head impatiently, trying to redirect his thoughts. But the image of Beatrix Hathaway remained. A lovely oval face, a gently erotic mouth, and haunting blue eyes, a blue so rich and deep it seemed to contain hints of purple. And that silky dark hair, pinned up haphazardly, with teasing locks slipping free.

Christ, it had been too long since he’d had a woman. He was randy as the devil, and lonely, and filled with equal measures of grief and anger. He had so many unfulfilled needs, and he didn’t begin to know how to address any of them. But finding Prudence seemed like a good start.

He would rest here for a few days. When he felt more like his former self, he would go to Prudence in London. At the moment, however, it was fairly clear that his old way with words had left him. And Christopher knew that whereas he had once been relaxed and charming, he was now guarded and wooden.

Part of the problem was that he wasn’t sleeping well. Any slight noise, a creak of the house settling, a rap of a branch against the window, woke him to full heart-pounding readiness. And it happened in the daylight hours as well. Yesterday Audrey had dropped a book from a stack she was carrying, and Christopher had nearly jumped out of his shoes. He had instinctively reached for a weapon before recalling in the next instant that he no longer carried a gun. His rifle had become as familiar as one of his own limbs . . . he often felt it as a phantom presence.

Christopher’s steps slowed. He stopped to crouch beside Albert, looking into that shaggy fur-whisked face. “Hard to leave the war behind, isn’t it?” he murmured, petting the dog with affectionate roughness. Albert panted and lunged against him, and tried to lick his face. “Poor fellow, you have no idea what’s going on, do you? For all you know, shells may start exploding overhead at any moment.”

Albert flopped to his back and arched up his tummy, begging for a scratch. Christopher obliged him, and stood. “Let’s go back,” he said. “I’ll let you inside the house again—but God help you if you bite anyone.”

Unfortunately, as soon as they went into the ivy-covered mansion, Albert erupted in the same hostility he had shown before. Grimly Christopher dragged him to the parlor, where his mother and Audrey were having tea.

Albert barked at the women. He barked at a terrified housemaid. He barked at a fly on the wall. He barked at the teapot.

“Quiet,” Christopher said through gritted teeth, pulling the crazed canine to the settee. He tied one end of the leash to a leg of the settee. “Sit, Albert. Down.”

Warily the dog settled on the floor and growled in his throat.

Audrey pasted a false smile on her face and inquired in a parody of teatime manners, “Shall I pour?”

“Thank you,” Christopher said in a dry tone, and went to join them at the tea table.

His mother’s face pleated, accordionlike, and her voice emerged in a strained tone. “It’s leaving mud on the carpet. Must you inflict that creature on us, Christopher?”

“Yes, I must. He has to become accustomed to staying in the house.”

“I won’t become accustomed to it,” his mother retorted. “I understand that the dog assisted you during the war. But surely you have no need of it now.”

“Sugar? Milk?” Audrey asked, her soft brown eyes now unsmiling as she gazed from Christopher to his mother.

“Only sugar.” Christopher watched as she stirred a lump of sugar into tea with a little spoon. He took the cup and concentrated on the steaming liquid, while he struggled with a rush of untoward rage. This, too, was a new problem, these surges of feeling that were entirely out of proportion to the circumstances.

When Christopher had calmed himself sufficiently to speak, he said, “Albert did more than assist me. When I spent days at a time in a muddy trench, he kept watch over me so that I could sleep without fear of being taken by surprise. He took messages up and down the lines, so that we didn’t make mistakes in carrying out orders. He alerted us when he sensed the enemy approaching, long before our eyes or ears could have detected anyone.” Christopher paused as he glanced into his mother’s taut, unhappy face. “I owe him my life, and my loyalty. And unsightly and ill mannered though he is, I happen to love him.” He slitted a glance at Albert.

Albert’s tail thumped the floor enthusiastically.