Free The Widow and the Rogue by Beverly Adam

attention. He continued to give a throaty murmur of discontent.
    They walked across the stone bridge. The occasional sound of quacking ducks and fluttering wings could be heard below.
    Tim’s growl grew louder. It was not directed at her or the waterfowl below, but at a group of trees off in the near distance. He refused to move. The hair on the back of his neck bristled. His large paws dug stubbornly into the stone.
    “It’s all right, Tim, there’s no one here. Just us, lad,” she said reassuringly, pulling on his leash.
    But it did no good. He barked at the swaying branches ahead on the side of the path. It was then she saw the long end of a gun’s barrel aimed at her.
    She started to turn away, but it was too late. She heard the loud crack of gunfire.
    Losing her balance as Tim suddenly leaped forward, she fell roughly onto her hands and knees. She could feel the hard stones beneath. Her skin rubbed against the unforgiving surface.
    Smoke emitted into the air from the fired shot. The bullet zipped past, flying wide towards the ducks. Frightened by the loud report, the birds took flight off in a circular pattern into the hazy sky.
    The shooter fired again.
    This time, the bullet hit the stone railing above her head. A spray of shattered fragments fell. Frantic, no longer obeying commands, Tim rushed towards the trees and the hidden gunman.
    The leash slipped through her fingers.
    Lying prone, afraid of moving lest the shooter try again, she heard a man yell, “Get off me . . . damn dog!”
    Looking up, she watched a man appear from behind the screen of tree branches. He ran from the footpath. With the gray mist heavy in the air, she could not identify the man. He was a fog-blurred figure.
    Hurriedly, she arose and chased after them. Frightened, she called frantically, “Tim . . . Tim . . . come here, boy!”
    The layers of her skirts and petticoats caused her to trip and stumble as she rushed to get to Tim. Her heart pounded heavily—she worried for her pet’s safety, rightly reasoning the villain might have shot the puppy.
    She heard a loud yelp and hastened forward.
    Lying on the green was Tim. He’d been bludgeoned on the head by the end of the firing pistol. Blood trickled from his skull.
    She knelt, touching the unconscious dog. Nothing appeared to be broken. Frightened, she looked about. The gunman was nowhere to be seen. He’d run off.
    “Oh, Tim,” she whispered as she ran her hand over his black fur.
    Kneeling by the brave dog, tears of regret welled in her eyes. If only she’d held on more tightly to his leash, this would never have happened. He’d been trying to protect her.
    She took off her long gabardine cloak, realizing the animal was too heavy to carry, and covered him. She rose and ran back to the house to seek help.
    Kathleen had no idea what state she was in when she rushed into the study where Beau was quietly reading. Her hair and clothes were in complete disarray, the walking gown torn and shredded. At the sight of splattered blood on her clothes and hands, his heart nearly stopped beating.
    He hurried to her side, exclaiming, “What’s happened! Are you wounded?”
    He took her into his arms, feeling her limbs, reassuring himself that she was not physically harmed. He could feel her heart thumping loudly against his chest as her body trembled from shock.
    She tried to regain her composure to speak. She said shakily, “No-o . . . I’m fine. But Tim . . . he’s been badly hurt.” And she proceeded to explain what had occurred.
    Upon learning of the terrible events that had taken place, Beau, with a look of deadly determination, opened a locked case. Inside, neatly aligned by size, were his shooting pistols.
    Humphrey appeared by his side.
    “May I be of service, sir?”
    “Aye, load these for me,” he said, choosing two weapons.
    He kept glancing over at her, as if he was reassuring himself that she was truly alive and unharmed.
    Methodically, with the expertise of a man used to