Peeking through the grime on the vaulted ceiling were fat little winged babies tumbling and peering from behind clouds.
“They’re adorable.”
“They’re … unsettling. How could you eat with all those faces watching you?”
She laughed aloud, the first time he’d heard her do so, and it had an odd effect upon him, as if something inside him that had been tensed for a long time eased a bit. As if a warm breeze had whispered in a cold, dark place.
And wasn’t that fanciful thinking? But her face was more relaxed and open than he’d seen it before. Unguarded as she gazed up at the water-stained mural.
She was beautiful. Like some fine statue or painting, but real. And she was his.
“Evan.” Diana did a slow turn and then touched the marble mantelpiece. “I know the place looks a bit of a disaster now, but it’s got … potential. I really think we can make something fine here.”
“She’s right, sir. Cleaned up and repaired, it could be a cracker of a good house.” Shand crossed the foyer again, holding his lantern aloft.
Evan stared at the pair of them. How could a veteran campaigner and a girl who had been sheltered by a father so possessive and domineering as to be qualified as a jailer have such a positive view of the world that they could see a diamond in the midst of all this rubble?
And why did it make him, who had seen too much of war and destruction to follow flights of fancy, want to embrace that view?
A familiar metallic click sent a cold shaft of iron from the top of his head to his heels. Someone had pulled back the hammer on a gun, and in that instant, Evan went from civilian to soldier.
“Who are ye, and why are ye here?”
The voice ricocheted off the walls, and Diana turned toward it.
Panic clawed up Evan’s chest, and the need to protect her overwhelmed him. His hands felt empty without his rifle. His only weapon was a knife, and that had been tucked into his boot. Where was his gear? What kind of soldier went into battle so poorly armed? Gripping the chair in front of him, in one movement he lifted it and spun, slinging it toward the door, where a man aimed a blunderbuss at him. At the last instant, Evan swiped upward with the chair, knocking the gun skyward.
A gout of flame, a roar, and pellets hit the ceiling, massacring cherubs and shattering crystals. Somewhere behind him, Diana screamed. The gunman toppled backward from the force of the blast, and Evan leapt after him, pinning him down, yanking the gun from his hand, and hurling it into the hallway.
He had the man by the coat front, shoving him onto the floor, straddling him, and raising one fist, when an iron grip wrapped around his wrist. He pivoted, bringing his other hand up for an undercut to the gut to this fresh assailant.
Barely in time, he pulled his punch. Shand shoved him backward, letting go of the wrap he had on Evan’s arm. “Sir, stand down!”
He pointed to the man on the floor, a man whose hat had fallen off and revealed a shock of white hair. Wrinkles seamed his face, and he cowered, his faded-blue eyes red rimmed and streaming tears.
Evan’s chest heaved as he fought the rage that possessed him. His skin itched and twitched, and he clasped and unclasped his fists, staggering to his feet. For a moment it was as if he had been back on the battlefield, fighting for his life. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air, burnt sulfur and saltpeter stinging his nose. He gulped, tremors trickling outward from his core. He bore down in his mind, trying to put the monster back in the cupboard, afraid of losing control completely.
What was happening to him? Why couldn’t he quell the panic? Why was he torn between the past and the present, unsure at any moment when something would pull the door open and let the fear and anger out?
“My lady?” Shand asked.
Evan jerked. Diana. She’d screamed. Had she been hit? How could he forget about her? He whirled again and almost struck her. She’d come up behind him unheard. Jumping back to avoid his hand, she squeaked.
Dust covered her hair and shoulders, and bits of ceiling plaster clung to her cloak. But it was the fear in her eyes, the way she had thrown her hands up to ward off a blow that whipped a cold, sober wind through his thoughts, chasing away the last of the battlefield mind-set.
He reached for her, but she skittered backward, putting space between them, just as she had last night in the inn parlor.
“Let me help you, sir.” Shand reached down and pulled the old man up from the floor.
Evan noticed for the first time that his former sergeant was armed.
Shand tucked a pistol into the back of his trousers, pulling his coat down to cover the weapon. “Are you hurt?”
Seeing the man’s hunched back, his tottering balance, shame seeped into Evan. He’d attacked a feeble old man?
Still, the stranger had held a gun on them. Evan went into the hallway and picked up the weapon. Weighing it in his hands, he grimaced. Amazing that the thing had fired at all. Rust encrusted the trigger, the hammer, and the pan. It had to be nearly a hundred years old, a Dutch blunderbuss by the look of it, a swan-neck barrel that flared at the muzzle, a pitted and chipped stock. The thing had probably been new around the time the Spanish Armada sank.
“Who are you?” Evan asked.
The old man glared, the question putting some starch in his spine. “I could ask the same. What do ye mean coming in here where ye’ve no right?”
“I have every right. I own this house and property. Now, I’ll ask again. Who are you?”
“That’s a lie. This house belongs to Himself, the Earl of Whitelock. He put me in charge, and I’m his steward. Have been since Himself inherited the title. He’s away just now, but when Himself comes back, he’ll toss ye out like the mongrels ye are.” The man swiped his hand under his rather bulbous nose and glared at Evan.
“You’re waiting for the Earl of Whitelock to return?” Evan wanted to quit the old man, for he was clearly deranged. There were fences to mend with his wife, but she stayed on the other side of the table, as far from him as possible while he tried to make sense of the “steward’s” words.
“Aye, and he’ll sort you lot out.”
From what Marcus had said, the former Earl of Whitelock had died more than twenty years ago and the house had been vacant since then. Had the old man been waiting more than two decades for his master? He was daft. Surely someone, somewhere along the way, had mentioned the former earl’s demise?
Evan felt even worse. Not only had he attacked an old man, but one who was demented. “Sir, please sit down.” The “steward” tottered, as if a slight gust might knock him over. Evan pulled out one of the chairs from the dining table and turned it.
Shand guided the man to the seat and knelt before him. “What is your name, sir?”
“Greville?” He scratched the hair over his ear, asking rather than telling. “Yes, Greville Monroe. Steward of White Haven.” He sounded more confident now.
Footsteps pounded from the back of the house, coming toward them, and Shand rose, pulling his pistol as Evan stepped between the door and Diana. His heart kicked up again, but he fought to remain calm.
A woman skidded to a halt in the doorway, slipping on the debris. “Grandfather, are you hurt? I heard a shot.”
Shand put out his hand to steady her. “He’s not hurt, madam. Does he belong to you? He really shouldn’t have a gun. He’s a danger to himself and others carrying that old relic around.”