Vixen by Jane Feather Page A

knowledge that Dante would never choose to spend this amount of time away from her obtruded through wine-induced buoyancy.
    By midnight she was distraught and Hugo at point non plus. All three of them had stumbled across fields by the light of an oil lantern, trod cautiously through the tinder-dry wood, and called until they were hoarse.
    “Go to bed, lass.” Hugo leaned wearily against the kitchen door to close it. “He’ll be outside in the morning, a picture of penitence.”
    “You don’t know him,” she said, the catch in her voice accentuated by unshed tears.
    But Hugo had formed a pretty fair impression of Dante and didn’t believe for one minute that his continued absence from his beloved owner’s side was voluntary. However, he strove to keep that from Chloe.
    “It’s time you were in bed,” he said again. “There’s nothing more to be done tonight.”
    “But how can I sleep?” she cried, pacing the kitchen.“Supposing he’s hurt … in a trap …” She covered her face with her hands as if to block out the images of Dante in agony.
    “ ’Ot milk and brandy,” Samuel declared, setting the oil lamp on the table. “That’ll send ’er off like a babby.”
    “Heat some milk, then,” Hugo said. He took Chloe’s shoulders and spoke with calm authority. “Go upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ll bring you up something to help you sleep in a minute. Go on.” He turned her with a brisk pat on the behind. “You can do Dante no good by pacing the floor all night.”
    There was sense in that, and she was bone-weary. It had been a long and exhausting day after a disturbed night. Chloe dragged herself upstairs. She put on her nightgown and sat beside the hat box, trying to take comfort from the contentment of Beatrice and her now-much-prettier offspring.
    Downstairs, Hugo contemplated lacing the milk with laudanum rather than brandy. But then he thought of Elizabeth, slipping into addiction. Maybe such tendencies could be passed on. He slurped a liberal dose of brandy into the beaker Samuel filled with milk and took it upstairs.
    He tapped lightly on the door to the corner room and went in. Chloe was sitting on the floor. She looked up as he entered, her eyes huge in her white face. He remembered how young she was, but he also remembered fourteen-year-old midshipmen who’d witnessed death and suffered agonizing deaths of their own under his command. Seventeen was mature enough to handle the emotional stresses of a missing dog.
    “Into bed, lass.” He put the beaker on the table beside the bed. “In the morning, you’ll be able to deal with it.”
    She didn’t argue. “It’s not knowing, that’s all,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “I could accept his death… I just find it hard to think of him suffering alone somewhere.” She pushed her hair away from her face and regarded him seriously. “You mustn’t think that I count the suffering of a dog above the suffering of people. But I do love Dante.”
    Perfectly mature enough to handle the emotional stresses of a missing dog … and some. Without conscious thought, he put his arms around her and she hugged his waist fiercely, her head resting against his chest. He cupped her chin in the palm of his hand and turned her face up, lowering his head.
    He had intended an avuncular kiss on the brow, or perhaps the tip of her nose. But instead he kissed her mouth. All might still have been well if it had been a light brushing of lips. But as his lips met hers, a heady, intoxicating rush of blood surged through his veins, driving all else from his mind but the warmth of her skin through the thin shift, the delicate curve of her body in his arms, the press of her breasts against his chest. His hold tightened as he possessed her mouth with a fervent urgency and she responded, her lips opening for the probing tongue, her arms gripping his waist. Her scent of lavender and clover honey engulfed him, tinged now with the spice of arousal … and for