Page 17

Callista turned her face to the sun and drank in the warmth, enjoying the moment outdoors before she returned to the library to continue her work. Her strolling companion nudged her in the ribs, eliciting a laugh as she stumbled sideways and tried not to topple over.

"No fair pushing me when my eyes are closed, Spartacus. I need time to brace myself for your affection." She rubbed the giant dog's fur and laid her head atop his for a quick hug.

Mr. Griffin had been right about Spartacus's loving nature.

The big furball had shown no hesitation over making friends with the visiting book binder.

The meat scraps Mrs. Potter provided eased the original introduction, but now the Mastiff listened for her footfalls and ran to greet her whenever she exited the house.

Unless, of course, he was already occupied on one of his master's long rambles.

"Can you believe I've been here for three weeks? I'm almost halfway done with my commission." A fact that should fill her with satisfaction, not the strange emptiness that plagued her whenever she contemplated leaving this place.

The people at Manticore Manor had become a second family of sorts.

Mrs. Potter with her tea parties and affectionate nature filled the motherly niche in Callista's heart that had been vacant far too long.

Mr. Timens with his stuffy manners and tender heart.

How she adored teasing him out of his propriety and catching him in a smile.

And dear Mr. Lightfoot. Her champion and friend. She just might miss him most of all.

Well, perhaps not most of all.

Callista turned toward the house and peered up to the dormer windows that marked the attic where Mr. Griffin painted each afternoon.

Something about the man captivated her. Perhaps she longed to soothe the woundedness inside him.

Or maybe her book-loving soul simply recognized a kindred spirit.

Or it could be the mystery shrouding his secret studio that tantalized her imagination.

She'd never had much willpower to resist an intrigue.

He'd been less aloof of late, too. Even joined them for meals now.

By far her favorite interactions with him, though, came in the late afternoons.

About two weeks ago, he'd started coming to the library to read before dinner.

He'd pick up the book left by his favorite chair, the overstuffed burgundy leather one with the matching ottoman, and read quietly in the corner.

The only sound being the occasional turn of a page.

He didn't converse with her. He did peek at her work as he moved past her work station—not in a critical way, just with the innate interest of an artist appreciating another's craft.

At first, his presence had been terribly distracting, but once she acclimated, she found she enjoyed having him there. It reminded her of working alongside her father and alleviated much of the loneliness that pressed in on her at the end of a day spent alone.

Four days ago, however, everything changed.

He finished the book he'd been reading, the copy of Treasure Island that she had recovered for him, and he'd selected a new novel to read from her growing pile of completed volumes.

King Solomon's Mines. A story only a few years old, and one she'd not yet read.

He must have recognized the yearning in her voice when she mentioned that fact, for he made the most astounding offer.

To read it aloud to her. As long as his reading wouldn't deter her from her work.

Too excited by the prospect of hearing the story to even contemplate turning him down, she accepted—probably with far too much enthusiasm for someone claiming to be a diligent professional.

Mercy, but that man could read. His rich, baritone voice brought Allan Quatermain to life in a way that brimmed with masculinity, perfect for an adventurer and big game hunter.

And his inflections! Exquisite. Everett Griffin could have been a stage actor, so well did he capture the emotions of a scene.

All without stirring from his chair. It proved quite challenging to stay on top of her work when all she wanted to do was close her eyes and listen to him.

A woman could fall in love with a voice like that.

Callista's hand froze on top of Spartacus's head. The dog whined and tilted his face toward her, as if he could feel residual frissons from the lightning that had just bolted through her. Love? That was not an appropriate notion to associate with one's employer.

Good heavens. She must banish such ridiculous romanticism at once. She was no Jane Eyre or Lucy Snowe. She was here to complete a job and save the Rosenfelds' floundering bindery. Thoughts of love and flirtation had no place in—

Crack!

Callista flinched. The sound echoed faintly, as if from a great distance, but she recognized it with ominous clarity. A gunshot.

Spartacus recognized it too, for he let out a deep woof then bounded away in pursuit of whoever threatened the manor. Callista raced toward the front of the house, heart pounding in dread over what she might find.

The front door flew open as she rounded the corner. A wide-eyed Timens ran from the house, calling Lightfoot's name.

That's when she saw him. Dear Mr. Lightfoot crumpled across the walkway.

No, God. Please. No.

Tears filmed her eyes as she sprinted toward him. Timens reached him first and fell to his knees beside the valet.

"Ray! Can you hear me?" Timens grabbed Lightfoot's shoulder and gently rolled him onto his back. He pressed an ear to the fallen man's chest.

A quiet groan vibrated the air.

"Thank God."

Callista's soul echoed Timens's heartfelt gratitude. Mr. Lightfoot was alive!

Coming alongside, she looked to the butler for direction. "How can I help?"

Timens reared back as if he'd been completely oblivious to her presence. Then, just as quickly, he narrowed his eyes. "Get in the house, woman! There's a shooter about."

"Surely he's gone by now. There've been no more—"

"I'm taking no chances. In the house. Now!"

Callista ignored his directive, more concerned with aiding Mr. Lightfoot than preserving her personal safety. "But I can help." She crouched down and slid a hand beneath his right shoulder. "You can't carry him inside on your own."

Timens batted her hand away, a sure signal of the seriousness of his distress. "If you want to help, fetch Mr. Griffin."

Mr. Griffin. Yes. He'd want to know about his friend. Armed with a task to complete, Callista forfeited the argument and ran for the house.

Hiking up her skirt, she sped up the stairs.

She didn't hesitate for even a heartbeat when she reached the forbidden attic steps, but she did call out Mr. Griffin's name to give him notice of what was about to happen.

Apparently, it wasn't notice enough, however, for when she threw open the door and stumbled inside, she found him paintbrush in hand and missing his eye patch.

The sight of him with both eyes staring at her in horror slowed her just long enough for a familiar thundercloud to fall over his stunned face.

A thundercloud they didn't have time to indulge.

Before he could rage at her, she dodged forward, grabbed the hand without the paintbrush, and started dragging him toward the door.

"Yell at me later. Mr. Lightfoot's been shot."

Her dumping a bucket of water over his head would have shocked Everett less.

"What?"

His mortified anger vanished in an instant as all self-focused thoughts fled. Lightfoot shot? How? By whom? Where?

A thousand questions bounced around in his brain as he dropped his brush and stumbled after Miss Rosenfeld, but the largest rose to the surface.

"Is he . . .?"

"Alive." She paused at the doorway, the anguish she'd hidden beneath her air of command finally breaking through. Her voice cracked. "Mr. Timens wouldn't let me stay. I have no idea how bad it is. Please, hurry. Timens will need your help to bring him inside."

Her distress amplified the fearful ache in his own chest and stirred the ill-timed desire to take her in his arms and whisper words of comfort. Instead, he briefly cupped her arm and met her watery gaze. "I'll see to him," he vowed.

Then he turned and charged down two flights of stairs, her voice ringing out behind him with instructions to head to the front door.

By the time he reached Timens's side, Lightfoot was conscious and arguing with the butler about being able to walk. Never had he been so happy to hear the two of them bickering.

"Stubborn-headed dandy. You can't even sit up on your own, I'm not about to let you try walking."

"Well, if you'd quit . . . " A groan interrupted. ". . . torturing me by pressing handkerchiefs into my wound for two seconds and help me sit up, maybe I could get . . . out of the dirt."

"I'm rendering aid, you fool." More concern than heat colored the butler's response.

"What you're doing . . . is getting blood . . . all over my favorite jacket."

Everett dropped to his knees beside Lightfoot, angling his head away from the sunlight as pain shot through his right eye.

He bent over his friend, not liking the ashen pallor of his valet's complexion but smiling anyway.

"Stop worrying about your clothes, you peacock, and let us carry you into the house."

Lightfoot shifted his gaze to Everett's face and grimaced. "Ah, Griff. The strangest thing happened. A bullet somehow found its way into my arm."

"So I see."

Everett slid his arm behind Lightfoot's back as he shared a look with Timens, who did the same.

"What do you say we take a closer look at that inside?"

Lightfoot moaned as Everett and Timens lifted him into a sitting position. Once up, his face paled even further, and he almost passed out. He gritted his teeth, though, and managed to hold on to consciousness.

"I think," he gasped. "I need a minute . . . before we move again."

"I can carry you," Everett offered, but Lightfoot waved him off.