Page 39 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Andrew reined in Drake and listened, but there was nothing other than the sound of his horse’s breathing. He was about to nudge his gelding into motion when he heard the sound again. It was undeniably a canine cry—a dog in pain—and it was coming from somewhere in the trees.

“Let’s go and see what this is all about, Drake,” he murmured, guiding the horse off the path. A quick glance at the ground showed a disturbance in the frost that covered the fallen leaves, branches, and bracken which had somehow managed to grow in the shadows beneath the tree canopy.

The next time the yelping sound came it was followed by the murmuring of a voice. A female voice.

Andrew dismounted when he encountered a huge rotting log. “You stay here, boy,” he said, looping Drake’s reins lightly over a branch before following the disturbed detritus toward the canine whining and human cooing.

“Hello?” he called out.

Both the dog and human sounds ceased and then a head popped up above a thick cluster of ferns.

It was the companion—Miss Martin—the very woman he’d been dreaming about, although she looked nothing like the temptress who’d aroused his sleeping body.

Her small face was a study of emotions: worry, relief, indecision, reluctance, and a dozen others. “I’ve got an injured dog. His foot is caught in a trap. I tried to free him, but I am not strong enough to pry it open.”

“I will have a look,” he said, climbing over lumps of old deadwood so thickly covered in moss they looked as if they’d grown green fur. When he reached the patch of bracken, he parted the tall fronds and found her kneeling with a wiry-haired mutt that looked to be chiefly terrier.

Miss Martin’s gray walking costume was liberally smeared with blood and dirt, and she was holding the shivering animal on her lap, along with a very nasty snare.

“That’s a cruel looking thing,” he said, dropping to his haunches. “We’ll get that off you in a trice, you poor little blighter,” he said to the dog and then looked up at her. “Hold him firmly and keep talking to him. He’s going to want to pull his paw away when I open the trap.”

She nodded, her attention on the dog. “There’s a good boy,” she praised. “Just another minute and Lord Shelton will take away that awful pain. Be a good boy for a little while longer.”

Andrew looked for a release plate that was sometimes on such devices, but this was a rustic trap that was hardly more than a tangle of metal with spikes. He was going to have to wrench it open.

“Here I go,” he warned.

The dog whined and twitched as he began to pull the jaws apart, but Miss Martin held him steady.

“Be ready to lift his paw off the spikes before he can jerk it away.”

She nodded and moved one hand to the dog’s haunch.

Andrew gritted his teeth—more against the pained animal sounds than the effort required—and the jaws grudgingly parted. He’d barely opened it an inch when Miss Martin carefully freed the paw.

“Well done,” he said, closing the trap and tossing it aside before turning to look at the dog. “Hold him steady and I’ll check the leg for a break.”

“There’s a good boy,” she said, gently but firmly holding the little beast still.

“I know, I know,” Andrew said when the dog made a pitiful whine as he felt the limb. There was a lot of blood coming from two deep punctures. “I don’t feel a break,” he said after a moment, releasing the leg and looking up. “But I’m sure it hurts like the dickens.”

Her cheeks were stained with tears and her eyes red and swollen. She was not the sort of woman who could cry prettily and looked almost as bedraggled as the poor creature she held.

Andrew pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped it around the wound while the little dog stoically watched without making a peep. “There,” he said, scratching the dog behind the ears. “That should hold it until we get back to Wych House. Although I’m afraid your gown is ruined.”

She raised a hand to her cheek and wiped away the tears with the back of her trembling hand.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“I don’t know; it feels like a long time.”

“I imagine it does. It is a little early for a walk, isn’t it?”

“You are out walking,” she shot back.

Andrew bit back a smile at her sharp retort; a little hostility was better than weeping anguish.

He held out his hands. “Let me hold him while I help you up.”