Chapter 7 #2
To Kyra’s surprise, he didn’t back away from her, now that he was no longer ensnared.
“My guess,” he went on, “is that this ragged little imp will grow into those ungainly paws. A Spanish hombre would be greatly shamed by being called ‘Sweetheart.’ I daresay an English one would feel much the same.”
“You are sure it’s a male?”
“Si.” A twinkle of amusement lit in his eyes. “Very sure.”
Kyra did not ask him to elaborate. She thought for a moment. “Then I shall name him Hero. Surely no hombre could object to that.”
“Hero.” Rafael reached out and ruffled his fingers through the dog’s matted fur. “Perhaps he will grow into his name as well as his paws.”
“At least he will have a chance to prove himself.” She hadn’t really considered the ramifications of running after the half-starved dog. As was her wont, she had acted on impulse. But as Hero began to suckle and chew on her finger, the decision was oh-so clear.
“But first I must get him something to eat. He’s starving.” After running a hand over his protruding little ribs, Kyra added, “And a blanket for the carriage ride home.”
She rather expected him to make all sorts of reasonable objections to adopting a scruffy stray.
But instead, Rafael merely nodded as he plucked his coat from where she had hung it on a protruding nail and tugged it on.
It was cleaner than his torn shirt, Kyra noted thankfully, and would provide him with some protection from the damp chill that was settled over the alleyway now that the sun had passed its zenith.
“Here, let me carry him,” he offered.
“But your coat, sir.” Her nose crinkled as Hero rubbed his whiskered snout against her cheek.
“We’ve already caused the ruin of your other clothing, not to speak of your boots.
” His valet would like swoon if asked to clean them.
“And as you’ve discovered, he has some rather foul things encrusted in his fur. ”
“To the Devil with my coat,” answered Rafael cheerfully.
“I was never fond of this particular shade of grey. It will be vastly improved by mixing in a bit of brown.” He lifted Hero from her arms, and was rewarded with a series of slobbering kisses to his chin.
“Yes, yes, you smelly little imp, I rather like you, too.” Unfazed by the needle-like teeth now attacking his lapels, he went on, “I think with some proper nourishment, he will make you a very fine country hound.”
Kyra felt a surge of elation well up in her chest. “Oh, you truly think it is alright if we take him with us?”
“I don’t see why not. He’s clearly been abandoned.”
“It is exceedingly kind of you to allow strays and outcasts to attach themselves to your . . .” She was suddenly aware of his steadying hold on her arm. “. . .Your coat.”
“My coat is already greatly improved.” A grin as he indicated the shredded fabric and missing button on his collar. “Perhaps, like your famous Beau Brummel, I shall start a new style in gentlemen’s fashion.” Rafael gave a mock wince as Hero nipped at his ear. “Shall we call it the Hungry Hound?”
Kyra laughed. “I know there are Tulips of the ton who spend hours in front of the mirror perfecting the knot of their cravats, but I am not sure they would be quite as tolerant as you are, not even for the sake of appearing an arbiter of style.”
“You underestimate the vanity of most men,” he said.
No, thought Kyra. I don’t. Which was why Rafael de Villafranca Greeley was so . . .
How to describe him? No single word seemed adequate to capture the complexity of his character. Whimsical, yet serious. Strong, yet sensitive . . . reserved, yet kind, handsome as sin, yet?—
She made her stop.
“Have a care, Lady Kyra.” His grip kept her upright as she stumbled over a broken crate. “Another turn and we will be out of the alleyways.”
They walked on in companionable silence and were soon back to the bustle of the Covent Garden market.
The man selling meat pies from his barrow had promised Kyra to keep their shopping basket, and as they approached to collect it, the vendors at the nearby stalls seemed highly bemused by their disheveled appearance.
“All that trouble for a flea-bitten cur?” The turnip seller scratched his bulbous nose. “Seems daft te me.”
“Aye,” agreed the fellow selling smoked hams. “Look at them garments—they ain’t fit for aught but the rag picker anymore.”
“That may be true,” Kyra said as she slanted yet another look at Hero’s lolling tongue and blissful expression as he bestowed another lick to Rafael’s chin. “But I consider their demise well worth it.”
“Perhaps the wee doggie is a Royal favorite, and they are going to receive a king’s ransom as a reward,” chimed in the dairy merchant. “Ha, ha, ha.”
A chorus of laughter followed.
“Looks to me like the ragged little rascal is more likely a Royal pain in the arse,” muttered the turnip seller, which sparked even more hilarity.
Rafael grinned at the teasing. “Oh, come, you have to admit the scamp is rather endearing.” He held up Hero, who wagged his scruffy tail. “Or will be once he puts a little meat on his bones.”
“Scrawny runt, ain’t he?” The ham vendor looked at Kyra and cleared his throat. “Here, I’ve a few scraps for him.”
“I suppose I can spare a bit of milk,” piped up the dairy merchant.
“Here, ye can add some of these stale crusts to the milk,” offered a woman selling bread. “But mind, missy, not te feed him too much at once, else he’ll shoot the cat.”
“Shoot the cat?” She glanced at Rafael, who seemed equally puzzled.
“Cast up his accounts,” explained the ham vendor as he held out a piece of oiled paper piled with a generous helping of meaty scraps.
“Sick to his stomach,” added the costermonger
“Ah.” Rafael nodded.
“Feed him slowly,” counseled the woman.
Hero seemed to sense he was the center of attention and played shamelessly to his audience, eating with surprisingly genteel manners and whuffling contented little noises as he shifted his skinny body on his oversized paws.
The crowd was quickly won over, and a pelter of advice and suggestions followed on how much he should be fed at the present moment, and what should be done to keep him comfortable during the carriage ride to the country.
A blanket appeared, along with a battered bowl for water, and by the time she and Rafael were ready to take their leave with their new companion, they had made fast friends with the vendors.
“Come back soon, missy and bring yer Hero with ye,” said the bread woman.
She pressed an extra package of crusts into Kyra’s hands, along with several fragrant sultana muffins wrapped in a square of paper for her and Rafael to enjoy during the trip home.
“And yer handsome gent,” she added in a lower voice.
“We will,” she promised, trying not to blush. “And thank you all for your kindness.” With them, she hadn’t been treated as a reviled outcast, a subject of sidelong stares and nasty whispers.
“Indeed,” said Rafael. He had, she noticed, discreetly passed out a generous number of coins to all those who had offered to share their wares. “Though the next time you lay eyes our little imp, he will likely be as big as an ox.”
More laughter and cheery waves as they took their leave, a contented Hero already fast asleep in Rafael’s arms.
“Wait, we have one more stop to make,” he said as she started toward the passageway leading back down to the Strand.
“Surely we’ve acquired enough items for one trip,” said Kyra, unable to hold back a small frown. “Besides, I doubt you could fit one more thing in that basket.” She had offered to carry it, noting that his leg seemed to be troubling him, but he had refused.
“Your orchid.”
She had completely forgotten about the bloom.
“We can’t leave that behind.”
That he had remembered, despite all the tumult of the chase, brought a lump to her throat. “We can, and we will,” said Kyra softly, “unless you will allow me to carry it. I won’t have another burden weighing down your . . .”
She nearly said ‘step,’ but caught herself.
“Arms,” she finished lamely.
“My arms are stronger than they look, Lady Kyra.”
“Nonetheless, I insist.”
“Bueno,” said Rafael after a slight hesitation. “I learned from my Grandmother not to argue with a lady when she gets that glint in her eye.”
In short order, the orchid was collected and they made their way back to where the duke’s carriage was waiting.
The coachman’s face betrayed a spasm of surprise at their raggle-taggle appearance, but he quickly cleared it away with a brusque cough—or was it a laugh—and jumped down from his perch to help them with all their various items.
“The basket may go in the boot, John,” said Kyra. “But have a care that you pad it well so it doesn’t get too jostled during the journey.”
“Aye, milady.” His nose gave an involuntary twitch. “As for that . . . er, animal, would you care to have it ride out in the open air with me?”
“No, no, we shall tend to the dog ourselves,” replied Rafael.
“Dog, is it?” the coachman asked as he took charge of the basket. “Very good, sir. Just, er, give a rap on the trap if you need me to stop anywhere along the way.” His brows rose a fraction higher as he eyed the exotic orchid. “As for the, er, flower, milady.”
“Oh, we shall tend to that as well,” answered Kyra.
The coachman looked rather relieved.
“And now,” she added, seeing Hero was stirring, “perhaps it would be best if we set off without further delay.”
“Er, just one last thing, milady . . .” The coachman fetched a clean blanket from the boot and carefully spread it over the pristine tufted upholstery of the interior seat.
Once settled on the protective covering, Kyra leaned back against the squabs and let out a long exhale. “What a day.”
“Indeed, yet I trust that you mean it in a good way,” responded Rafael as he stretched out his long legs.
“Selfishly yes. But . . .” Despite the flitting shadows, she thought she caught a grimace of pain pull at his mouth. “But your leg must be hurting abominably, what with all the trouble I’ve put you through!”