Paladin27
Citrine stomped up the hillside carrying the ax in both hands. She grumbled to herself as the wind and snow hit her face, stinging her eyes and cheeks. What on earth did that foolish man want with an ax? His dinner was going cold, Sophia had wandered away, and now he was off in the orchards doing God knows what.
She tugged her hood over her eyes and wondered what had happened between Monsieur Belmont and Sophia. Not a note of music had left the parlor, but both student and teacher had stormed off. Sophia had muttered that he was an infuriating man before she stormed out the back door and disappeared toward the barn. Moments later Erik had followed, stomping up to his room like a horse before he exited through the front of the house.
Such dramatics must be exhausting, Citrine thought at the time. Now she hoped that Monsieur Belmont hadn't found Sophia injured. With how the wind was blowing she had heard several trees splinter and fall. Once Monsieur Turro had arrived no one had seen Sophia. Citrine had no idea where she was, but both Monsieur Dupree and Monsieur Monteclaire were searching for her. Neither of them had ventured to the orchards yet.
While lost in thought Citrine didn't notice the shadow moving swiftly toward her.
"Here," Erik's voice boomed above the storm.
"My God," she gasped. "Even in the snow you are silent."
He made no reply as he snatched the ax from her hands and lumbered into the woods.
"May I ask what you are doing?" Citrine questioned as she trotted after him, negotiating her way through the slush and ice.
"No," he said over his shoulder. "Stay by the fence."
"I'll have you know your food—which I added salt to—is going to be ruined by the time you return home," Citrine said under her breath.
He whipped around and pointed the ax at her. "I said stay there!"
Her pace slowed and she almost lost him. When she caught up again she found him standing beside a tree, the ax held above his head and his cloak tossed to the side. Below him was a crumpled form, its tail wagging.
"No, Monsieur!" she screamed, tearing across the snow, her feet sliding beneath her.
On her hands and knees she crawled toward the dog, screaming for him to stop. Before the ax lowered she grabbed hold of Erik's leg and knocked him off balance, causing him to drop the ax behind his back.
"Stupid woman," Erik muttered as he pulled her hands away from his knee.
"Don't kill him. It's my fault that he's here, Monsieur. Please, in the morning I'll ask Gabe to take him away," Citrine begged. "Please, Monsieur, I'll take him down to the road tonight, but please don't kill him."
"He's injured," Erik snapped as he retrieved the ax and glared at her.
Citrine wrung her hands. She crawled toward the dog and placed her hand to his muzzle, feeling his tongue lave her palm.
"Don't hurt him anymore," Citrine whispered as she scratched the top of the dog's head. "He means no harm, Monsieur. The poor thing has been wandering around for months, ever since he was weaned, I believe."
He stared at her a moment, his chest heaving as he wrapped his hands around the ax handle. "I didn't hurt him in the first place, if that's what you're implying."
Citrine made no reply. Her attentions were toward the dog, which was whining and attempting to inch closer to her. He couldn't move far and she feared his back was broken.
"What happened to him, Monsieur? I saw him this morning and he was fine."
"His foot is caught in a leg trap," he stated.
Citrine kissed the dog on the head. "My poor sweet boy," she said to him, hearing him whine and strain to be near her.
"I told you to stay put," Erik growled. "You're fortunate you didn't get yourself caught in a trap, Mademoiselle."
She ignored his words, fearing the poor creature was too weak to survive. So that the master of the house wouldn't notice, she had only brought small scraps for the pup. It was enough for him to survive, she knew, but not enough to sate the hunger of such a large animal. Often she wondered if her acts of mercy only sustained him until the inevitable.
"He knows you," Erik murmured remorsefully. "He's not frightened of you."
"Because I feed him and give him water when no one else will," she murmured. She glanced up and pursed her lips. "I apologize, Monsieur. I give him scraps. I should ask for your permission, I know, but he's so friendly, and I didn't want anything to happen to him."
Erik nodded and gestured for her to move aside. "I know. I've seen you."
She stared up at him, her eyes glassy. She should have known he had seen her feeding him.
"Move. I need to break the chain."
Citrine had barely moved when he hefted the ax over his head and let it fall. With a spark, the chain broke. The dog panicked and yelped at the noise, struggling to his feet. He held his front left paw in the air, his thin body trembling from cold and fear, tail between his legs.
"He won't hurt you," Citrine promised as she ran her hand down his spine, feeling each bone.
Erik gestured for Citrine to move further away.
"What are you going to do with him, Monsieur?" she asked nervously, fearing that he would leave the dog to fend for himself.
With the trap still attached to his foot, Citrine knew infection would set in or the pain would become too intense. She had heard of animals gnawing their paws off to escape and couldn't bear to think of poor Dublin limping around until he died of exhaustion and starvation.
"Remove the trap," he said as he handed her the ax.
"How?"
He glared at her again, his brow furrowed, jaw set. The stern expression on his face made her turn away.
"When I can see it clearly I will find a way," he snapped as he bent down and replaced his gloves.
With no other choice, Citrine stood back and watched Monsieur Belmont gather his cloak and shook snow off the fabric. He folded it in half and draped it over the hound, which had sat again and began licking at its injured paw still caught in the trap.
"Have you named him?" he asked without looking at her.
Citrine gave a sheepish grin. "I call him Dublin," she said. "He's a wolfhound, Monsieur. I thought it would be appropriate to give him an Irish name."
He grunted and placed his fist before the dog's nose, allowing the animal to smell him again. With a crooked grin he scooped the dog up, carefully supporting the weight of the trap so that it didn't pull on the injury. The dog growled and whined before Erik scratched him under the chin and held him firmly.
"You're not in Ireland," he said as he glanced at Citrine and carried the dog back toward the Manor.
-o-
Sleet had soaked Erik's shirt through by the time he reached the Manor. He shivered profusely, his teeth chattered and water dripped from his hair down his face. There was no doubt in his mind that he would have a fever the following day, though he knew he was more capable of combating illness over guilt.
He glanced down and saw the dog watching him. The emaciated beast had exhausted himself again and resorted to resting his chin on Erik's arm, whining with each step he took. Though kept in the cloak the animal continued to tremble, most likely from fear and pain.
Over his own labored breaths he still heard Citrine laboring to keep his pace. Her insinuation that he had harmed the dog still aggravated him, especially since she had nearly thrown herself before the ax to save the frail creature.
She was loyal at least, he reasoned. He'd never seen such an act of loyalty and compassion for anyone or anything, human or beast.
"Monsieur, if you would allow it I will keep him with me for the night," Citrine said as she followed Erik around to the back of the house.
"Perhaps," he said as he stepped aside and waited for her to open the door.
Once they were inside he glanced around, searching for a place to leave the dog while the trap was removed.
Citrine disappeared, saying over her shoulder that she would gather old towels to keep the wound clean and to dry the dog's fur. With no place to lay the dog, Erik set him on the kitchen table.
He heard Citrine gasp when she entered the kitchen.
Rolling his eyes, he turned to face her. "There's no place—"
Sophia stared back at him, her mouth agape.
"I thought you had gone to dinner," he said as he turned back to the dog.
"I had a terrible headache," she said.
Erik's back straightened at her words. He felt his ears burn but he held his tongue and bent over the table, examining the steel trap digging into the dog's foot.
"Citrine told me you found her dog," Sophia said as she stepped beside him.
Still he said nothing, his concentration on the animal's bloody foot. He saw no clear way to remove the trap, which frustrated him. The dog was still whining in agony as it licked its paw and bit at the trap.
"What are you going to do?" Sophia asked. "I don't see a way to remove the trap—"
"If you have such a terrible headache then perhaps you should return to your home and lie down awhile," Erik suggested through his teeth.
He could see her staring at him from the corner of his eye, her arms crossed. She was wearing a simpler frock than she had donned for her piano lessons, which only furthered his irritation. Touching her would have been unnecessary if she had worn this dress. As he stood bent over the kitchen table he could still feel his hands skimming along her back. If it weren't for the scent of wet fur in the air he would have been lost in the recollection of her smell.
"How are you going to remove the trap?" Sophia asked, ignoring his gruff words.
"I don't know," he said under his breath.
Sophia took a towel and wiped the dog's back. "You won't amputate his foot, will you?"
"I said I don't know," he grumbled, his eyes suddenly fixed on her. "Return home. Your day is done, Mademoiselle Dupree. I see no reason for you to be in my home now."
She looked as pathetic as the dog lying on the table, her green eyes large and glassy. He couldn't bear looking at her. With an exasperated sigh he turned away and grasped both sides of the trap.
The dog growled, but Sophia hushed him and continued to pet him.
"Why are you angry with me?" she asked softly.
"You are not ready for lessons," he muttered.
"I beg your pardon?"
His fingers still stung from the cold, but Erik managed to pry open the steel claws biting into the dog's paw. Sophia reached forward and eased the animal's torn foot from the trap and wrapped a towel around the wound, which had started pulsing blood the moment it was freed.
"You're not serious about music."
"Yes, I am."
Erik refused to look at her while he examined the trap. It appeared to be fairly new and he wondered if there were more in the snow. Once the storm stopped he would venture out again with a broom and search for others. If he found out who set traps on his property they would be quite fortunate not to have their privates caught in its unforgiving claws, he thought as he saw the dog lie its head down and sigh.
"You've not so much as played a single note," Erik grumbled. "If you were serious enough you would have embraced music."
"I do. I will."
"No, you do not."
Sophia hesitated, her eyes fixed on the dog. "Erik—"
He swung toward her, startled by her using his given name. He had wanted her to call him by his first name, but now that she had said it he wanted her to call him Monsieur Belmont. Cold formality was what he needed to forget her, to erase her taste and smell, the feel of her warm skin, her soft breath.
He stared at her a moment, his eyes searching her face. She didn't dare glance at him, and for that he was glad.
"If you cannot devote your time to music then I suggest you never return to the parlor again, Mademoiselle. I have neither the time nor the desire to pursue something fruitless. I will not waste my time with an undedicated student."
Sophia said nothing when she stared back at him. Erik expected her to turn and walk out again but she stood her ground, her hand still furiously drying the dog. His gaze faltered and he turned his back on her, suddenly not wanting her to see the mask.
He felt her step forward. Even with his back turned he swore her hand was beside his. If he opened his fingers they would touch one another.
"This evening in the parlor—"
"Care for this beast," he said before he walked from the room and locked his bedroom door.