Page 67 of Her Beast of a Duke

“I do not know you!” she argued, standing her ground. “I did not know you fought in a war, or that you attended Cambridge, or what your parents’ names are. I do not know if they were kind to you, if you were happy, oranything that has ever happened.You are an enigma to me, Oscar. How much longer do you wish to continue to be?”

“Leave, wife. Before I truly lose my temper.”

“I have no wish to go. I want to know more about your past and—” her words came out bolder than she felt, and his eyes dropped back to hers.

“Leave,” was all he said again.

Her attention fell back to the bandages, and she reached out, but he growled at her, pulling himself further out of reach.

He turned his back on her. “I will not tell you again.”

“It’s Morris,” she called out, stopping him with the only thing she knew would make him pause. “That is why I am here. He is injured, and he fled through the castle, and I ended up here trying to find him. With the door unlocked, I thought he had found his way to you in this wing.”

She offered no apology, for she did not think she ought to, but she met his gaze sternly when he turned to look back at her.

The anger dissipated for a moment, concern tightening his features. She still could not stop thinking about the difference in the light in his eyes, the life that had been stolen from them.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he muttered, turning his back on her once more. “Follow me.”

At that, Isabella finally conceded, and the two of them set out to find his hound.

He led her back down the hallway in quick succession, not lingering, and when he shut the door to the northern turret behind them, it was with a hard slam. He shoved at the padlock, his jaw tight, and Isabella pretended not to notice the aggression fueling his sharp movements.

After locking up, he jerked his head down the main hallway, leading her to a staircase she had not come across before.

Wordlessly, Isabella followed, for Oscar seemed to know where to look for Morris. The staircase led to an exit that was set into the castle itself—some forgotten servants’ exit, perhaps. It took them into the back of the garden, a part that was more overgrown with wildflowers than carefully pruned rosebushes like the rest.

Oscar hastened his paces, long strides that carried him with ease, but his body never released the tension he had been carrying.

Isabella was still not scared of him, and she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the tight line of his shoulders through his black shirt.

Soon, they came to a wilder underbrush where she heard the low noise of a whimper.

Crouching, Oscar reached out with a scarred hand.

“There you are, boy,” he said, his voice considerably softer than she had heard in a while. “Come on, let me see what’s the matter.”

There was blood on some of the brambles and branches, and Isabella wondered how long Morris had been quivering there, in a known hiding place.

“Does this happen often?” she dared ask as Morris slowly crawled out of his hiding place with more gentle coaxing.

As soon as his body was out, Oscar scooped him up, cradling the hound against his chest.

Her husband only nodded at her.

“It seems you both have your hiding spots I do not know about,” she muttered under her breath, unable to help herself.

She regretted the comment as soon as it slipped out, borne from her startlement from his anger at finding her in his private gallery.

But Oscar was too busy carrying Morris back inside through the main entrance and took him right to his own washroom in his chamber. He didn’t tell Isabella to leave them be, so she followed, shutting herself in the room with Oscar and the hound.

“There we go,” Oscar said, still speaking softly to Morris. “Let us check you over, all right? Good, that’s a brave dog.”

With gentle hands, he ran touches over Morris’s soft body, sometimes giving him a stroke or pat, but mostly keeping it clinical. When he touched Morris’s underbelly, the dog let out a hard whine, and Oscar froze.

For a second, he didn’t move, and Isabella watched carefully.

“I—” Oscar’s voice was rough. “Can you pass me a towel?”