He put his nose to the ground and began sniffing.
Miss Brooking looked away from the dog and back at the wooded area. “She’ll want somewhere to hide,” she said. “She’s afraid of wolves, and if she made it this far, she will have realized she can’t cross the stream. She might also look for a place out of the rain.”
“Let’s look for fallen trees or shallow, sheltered ravines.”
“Good idea. You go upstream, my lord, and I will walk downstream.” She tried to release his hand. He hadn’t even realized he still held her hand, and he wasn’t about to let it go now.
“I’m not losing both of you,” he said. “We stay together.” He glanced at the dog, who was moving downstream. “Let’s try that way first.”
She followed him—not that she had much choice, considering he was still holding her hand—and they moved along the edge of the woods, letting the dog take the lead. “Frances!” Miss Brooking called. “Frances? Where are you?”
Rory hadn’t thought about calling for her before. He assumed, if she’d run away, she didn’t want to be found, but now he started calling too. A few hours outside, and she might be wet and hungry and ready to go home. “Frances!” he called. “Answer me!”
“Frances! Sweetheart, please answer!”
“Fran—”
The dog’s head jerked up, and Miss Brooking squeezed Rory’s hand. “Listen,” she said. Rory froze and listened. He heard something rising above the sounds of the rain and the stream. It sounded like a sort of hiccupping bird call. Admiral gave a quiet huff and shot into the woods.
“That’s her,” Miss Brooking said. “She’s crying.”
“I hear it. Follow the dog. He has her scent now.”
The crying grew louder, and he followed the sound toward a large tree further back in the woods. As they neared the tree, he caught sight of the dog, head turned to look back at them as though he were wondering what was taking so long. Miss Brooking released Rory’s hand and ran forward, rounding the tree, and then falling to her knees and pulling what Rory assumed was Frances into his arms. Rory approached more slowly, and as he rounded the large tree trunk, he sawFrances with her face buried in Miss Brooking’s neck. The dog had moved closer, too, nosing them both. The governess was whispering, “I have you now. Shh. You’re safe.”
For a moment, Rory felt as though he were falling. Everything went sideways. Relief surged through him, but something else sent him off balance. He reached out and grasped a tree trunk, steadying himself. He could still hear Miss Brooking comforting Frances. Rory tried to think of a time when he’d been held like that, when he’d been comforted as a scared child.
He couldn’t remember even once.
Rory straightened, feeling steadier now, and Miss Brooking looked up at him. Then, to his astonishment, she lifted Frances and pushed the child toward him. Rory waited for the child to refuse, to fight to stay with her governess, but she reached for him. His breath catching in his throat, Rory took her in his arms, holding her in a way he couldn’t remember ever being held himself. Frances wrapped one small arm about his neck and pressed her face against him. The other arm held her doll. Miss Brooking had been right that she wouldn’t leave it.
“You’re soaking wet,” he murmured, unsure what else to say. He wasn’t used to whispering reassuring words or calling anyonesweetheart.
“I’m cold,” she said.
Rory refrained from mentioning that she wouldn’t be cold if she had stayed at home. Now wasn’t the time. “Let’s get you home and warm.”
She lifted her head from his shoulder, and her bespectacled eyes met his. He wasn’t sure how much she could see, as her eyeglasses were wet, foggy, and had smudges of dirt. “Is Miss Genevieve going back with us?”
“Of course I am,” the governess said immediately, laying her hand on Frances’s back. “And something tells me you won’t argue about sinking into a warm bath when we get there either.”
“I’m hungry,” Frances said, burying her head back in Rory’s shoulder.
“Then let’s go home.” He started back, carrying his daughter. She was too big to be carried like this, but nothing could convince him to put her down. He liked the weight of her in his arms, liked knowing she was safe because he had her. He would keep her safe.
Despite the steady rainfall and the weight he carried, the walk back seemed to go quickly. Admiral led the way, veering toward his master as soon as they approached the house. Rory began barking orders to the servants who were about, asking for food and warm water and dry clothes.
He walked into his home, dripping everywhere, and carried Frances straight up to the nursery. Once there, Miss Brooking took over, ordering the fire built up and the bath brought as soon as possible. She began pulling wet clothing off Frances, and he backed out of the room and closed the door.
“My lord, I have dry clothing waiting for you.”
He turned and saw his valet was waiting. With a last look at the closed door of the nursery, he followed Chaffer. Once he was clean, dry, and fed, he summoned Gables. “Is my daughter in bed yet?”
“I am not certain, my lord.”
“Find out, and as soon as the child is asleep, I want to see Miss Brooking.”
The butler bowed. “Very good, my lord. Er—in here, my lord?”
