“Now, then, Sir Mouse,” he murmured as he held out the cheese in long, strong fingers. “Have you thought over your sins?”
The nose twitched, and then Mouse took the cheese very carefully from Vale’s hand and disappeared.
Melisande expected Vale to push into the little cellar room, but he simply waited, still squatting on the stone floor as if he had all the time in the world.
A few seconds more and the black, twitching nose reappeared. This time Vale held the cheese just out of the dog’s reach.
Melisande waited, holding her breath. Mouse could be terribly stubborn. On the other hand, he did adore cheese. The dog nudged the door open with his nose. Dog and man eyed each other a moment, until Mouse trotted out and took the second piece of cheese from Vale. He immediately retreated a few steps, turned his back, and gobbled down the cheese. This time Vale held the cheese in his open palm on his knee. Mouse crept forward and hesitantly took the cheese.
When he came back for another bite, Vale ran his hand gently over the dog’s head as he ate. Mouse didn’t seem to mind or even notice the touch. Vale took a long, thin leather cord from his pocket. One end had been made into a loop. When Mouse came back for his next bite of cheese, Vale deftly slipped the loop over the dog’s neck, where it hung loosely. Then he fed Mouse more cheese.
By the time he’d consumed the entire slice of cheese, Mouse was letting Vale rub him all over his little body. Vale stood and tapped his thigh. “Come on, then.”
He turned and left the cellar. Mouse shot a puzzled glance at Melisande, but since he was on the other end of the lead, he was compelled to follow.
Melisande shook her head with wonder and trailed behind. Vale continued through the kitchen and out the back door, where he played out the lead enough to let Mouse do his business.
Then he reeled in the leash and smiled at Melisande. “Shall we partake of supper?”
She could only nod. Gratitude was welling in her chest. Vale had tamed Mouse, proved his mastery over the dog, and all without hurting him. She knew of very few men who would bother to do the same, let alone without beating an animal. What he had done had taken intelligence and patience and not a little compassion. Compassion for a dog that had bitten him only that morning. If she didn’t already love him, she would love him now.
MOUSE LAY UNDER the table at Jasper’s feet. The leash was wrapped about his wrist, and he’d felt the tug when the animal h Sn tAY ad made a couple of abortive attempts to go to his mistress. Now, the animal simply lay, head between his paws, and gave a theatrical sigh every now and again. Jasper felt a smile curve his lips. He could see why Melisande was fond of the little beast. Mouse had an outsized presence.
“Do you intend to go out again tonight?” Melisande asked from across the table.
She was watching him over the rim of her wineglass, her eyes shadowed and mysterious.
He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
He looked down as he sawed at the roast beef on his plate. Did she wonder why he was always going out, why many nights he stayed away until the wee hours of the morn? Or did she simply think him a mindlessly drunken wastrel? What a lowering thought. Especially since he didn’t particularly like the gaming hells and balls he attended every night. He simply hated the hours of black night more.
“You could stay in,” Melisande said.
He looked at her. Her expression was bland, her movements unhurried as she broke a roll and buttered it.
“Would you like me to?” he asked.
She raised her brows, her gaze still on her roll. “Perhaps.”
He felt his belly tighten at the single, subtly taunting word. “And what would we do, sweet wife, if I did stay here with you?”
She shrugged. “Oh, there’re many things we could do.”
“Such as?”
“We could play cards.”
“With only two players? Not a very interesting game.”
“Checkers or chess?”
He arched a brow.
“We could talk,” she said quietly.
He took a sip of wine. He chased her during the day, but for some reason the idea of simply spending the evening talking with her made him uneasy. His ghosts were most ferocious at night. “What would you like to discuss?”
A footman brought in a tray of cheeses and fresh strawberries and set it between them. Melisande didn’t move—her back, as always, was militarily straight—but Jasper thought she leaned a little forward. “You could tell me about your youth.”
“Alas, a rather boring subject”—he idly fingered the wineglass—“except for the time Reynaud and I nearly drowned in the St. Aubyn pond.”
“I’d like to hear about that.” She still hadn’t taken a strawberry.
“We were in a perilous time of life,” Jasper began. “Eleven, to be exact. The summer before we were sent away to school.”
“Oh?” She selected one strawberry and transferred it to her plate. It was neither the biggest nor the smallest berry, but it was perfectly red and ripe. She stroked it with her forefinger as if savoring the anticipation of eating Stioles it.
Jasper swallowed some wine. His throat had gone suddenly dry. “I’m afraid I’d escaped from my tutor that afternoon.”
“Escaped?” She turned the strawberry on the plate.
He watched her fingers on the fruit and imagined them somewhere else entirely. “My tutor was a rather elderly man, and if I had a bit of a head start, I could outrun him easily.”
“Poor man,” she said, and bit into the strawberry.
For a moment, his breath caught and all coherent thought fled his mind. Then he cleared his throat, though his voice still emerged hoarse. “Yes, well, and what was worse, Reynaud had slipped his traces as well.”
She swallowed. “And?”
“Unfortunately, we chose to meet up by the pond.”
“Unfortunately?”
He winced, remembering. “Somehow we got the notion to build a raft.”
Her eyebrows lifted, delicate light brown wings.
He skewered a bit of cheese on his knife and ate it. “As it turns out, building a raft from fallen branches and bits of twine is actually much harder than one would at first think. Especially if one is an eleven-year-old boy.”