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Ambrose Batton? As in the man who'd been pressing his unwanted suit on Callista? The man they suspected of shooting Lightfoot? Everett charged down the stairs, envisioning another gunshot, only this time at close range. Bringing down the woman who had brought his heart back to life.

A roar built in his chest—her name—and begged for release.

He clamped his jaw tight, imprisoning the impulse.

He'd not embarrass her with overprotective possessiveness, even if that was precisely what pounded through his veins.

He understood arrogant men. Shoot, he used to be one.

They believed themselves invincible. Entitled to whatever they desired.

They sought out weaknesses in their opponents and exploited them with no mercy.

Everett donned a shield of icy disdain, determined to hide his weaknesses.

At least the ones that could be hidden.

If Batton was the kind of man Everett expected, he'd attack any available shortcomings, and Everett wore one of his biggest deficiencies on the outside for all to see. But today, his scars would serve as his screen, hiding his true weakness—Callista.

"Ah, Miss Rosenfeld. We meet again." Batton's overloud, unctuous greeting echoed through the entry hall, warning Everett that Callista had already made it past Timens. "You're looking quite fetching today."

"Spartacus. Heel."

Everett reached the first-floor landing and took a moment to steady his breathing and muster his composure. It helped that Callista had ignored the man completely and addressed herself not to Batton but to the dog.

Spartacus's barking mellowed, and Everett pictured the giant padding over to his newest friend and planting himself at her side.

Everett planned to join him. He approached the entrance from behind the open door, taking a moment to size up the threat by peering through the crack between the door hinges.

"Please, miss," Timens urged in that fretful tone he used whenever things failed to follow the expected protocol.

"Come back in the house." He left his post at the door and shuffled across the porch, arms outstretched toward Callista as if he could draw her back from where she stood at the base of the steps, mere feet from Batton's horse.

"The master will not wish for you to be in harm's way. "

"Harm's way?" Batton scoffed as he swung down from the saddle, strutted over to Callista, and propped a foot on the second stair, effectively blocking Timens's descent.

He leaned forward and aimed a cocky grin her way.

"Surely, you don't think I pose a threat.

" He spoke to Timens, but his gaze devoured Callista's face.

"I hold Miss Rosenfeld in the highest esteem.

In fact, I came here today to offer her my services. "

Spartacus growled, obviously as distrustful of the man as the rest of them.

Callista rubbed the dog's neck and hushed him, angling herself in front of the giant Mastiff as if she thought to protect him .

Did she not understand that she was the one who needed protection?

Her kind heart was going to get her into trouble.

"Mr. Batton." She spoke in a clipped, impatient tone that Everett had never heard from her before. "I believe I've made it quite clear during our previous encounters that I am not inclined to accept your offers. While I appreciate your kindness, I must decline."

"Decline?" He gave a forced laugh, but a muscle in his jaw ticked a warning of displeasure. "You haven't even heard what I'm offering yet."

Timens stiffened his posture and descended another step. "Please, sir. The lady has made her position clear. I must ask you to leave."

Batton speared the butler with a glare. "You ready to back up your inhospitable attitude with action, little man? Because you'll have to pick me up and plant me in the saddle to get me to leave before I've said my piece."

Timens bristled, at a loss for words. He held his ground, though, refusing to abandon Callista. Good man. Time for Everett to join the party as well.

Discounting Timens as no threat, Batton turned his disgustingly handsome face back toward Callista.

"I heard your Sunday morning escort met with an unfortunate accident earlier this week.

Such a shame." He made a tsking sound that lacked even a hint of genuine concern as he gave his head a wag.

"A stray bullet, people are saying. Probably from an incompetent hunter. I hear your friend might lose an arm."

"You hear wrong," Callista snapped. "The doctor has assured us that Mr. Lightfoot will make a full recovery."

"But he won't be able to drive your buggy to church for you, will he? I know how important attending church is to you, and I would hate for you to miss even one service, so I'll be here bright and early on Sunday to drive you myself."

Everett stepped over the threshold and marched straight to the stairs. "That won't be necessary."

Batton turned, his scowl dark until he spotted Everett. He jumped back slightly, his foot falling from the step as his brows arched and his square jaw hung agape. "Great Scott, man. What happened to your face?"

"Probably the same thing that happened to your manners."

Batton's expression hardened, a spark of challenge lighting his gaze. Good. They understood each other. Everett strode down the stairs, placing himself between Batton and Callista.

Batton smirked. "You really are an ugly son of a gun, aren't you? I heard talk of a local monster in these parts. Thought it was just a bunch of kids exaggerating. Guess I was wrong."

Everett raised his left brow, refusing to rise to the bait. "Seems you're wrong quite often."

That wiped the smirk from his face.

"Miss Rosenfeld?" Everett kept his gaze locked on Batton. "Would you please take Spartacus into the house and keep him in the entry hall until after our guest has departed?" Everett figured she'd not want to leave if she believed the dog still in danger, so he'd send them both inside.

Timens's gasp and hurried footsteps told him breakable items currently residing in the entry hall would be gathered up with haste.

"Right away, Mr. Griffin." Callista moved behind him. "Come, Spartacus."

The furry beast jostled Everett from behind, and an odd look crossed Batton's face.

"Your name's Griffin?"

What did his name matter? Everett folded his arms over his chest and nodded. "It is."

Batton's gaze carved its way through Everett's face again, lingering over the eye patch. Then it traveled behind him, where canine toenails echoed on entryway tile and a certain beautiful woman likely peered out as she closed the door.

"Interesting." In a blink, Batton's expression switched from contemplative to cheerful. "Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Griffin." He tapped his hat brim then retreated to his horse and mounted in a smooth, practiced motion. "I'll be seeing you."

He gave a salute then reined his horse around and rode away, leaving Everett with a pit in his stomach that he couldn't quite explain.

Callista placed her latest finished volume into the book press and twisted the handle to tighten the overlarge screw that closed the iron plate on top of the book to ensure the newly-pasted leather cover learned its proper shape.

After securing the press, she turned to view the fiction shelves behind her. Nearly full.

It had been almost a week since that awful visit from Ambrose Batton.

A week full of tea times with Mrs. Potter, informative historical discussions regarding tapestries and ceiling frescoes from Mr. Timens, and daily visits to the library by Mr. Lightfoot, with his inexhaustible supply of amusing anecdotes.

Unable to accomplish many of his duties with his arm in a sling, he'd alleviated his boredom by popping in on her, a happenstance she enthusiastically encouraged—for both their sakes.

Yet, as each day passed, the end to her magical time with these dear people drew nearer.

How she would miss them! In the few short weeks she'd lived at Manticore Manor, they'd become like family. And Mr. Griffin—Everett—he'd become the dearest of all.

He hadn't needed her to sit for him any more after the first week of working on the portrait, but they still shared luncheon together every day up in his studio.

He'd told her more about his family. His father the investment broker, and his brother Alex who'd followed in their father's footsteps.

His mother's love of watercolors and her obsessive desire to be part of the top tier of New York society.

Callista told him of her father's love of tinkering despite his laughable lack of skill with mechanical things.

Of how she'd often wished she'd had a sibling to play with when growing up.

Of how books had offered her escape and solace after her mother passed.

Things had been progressing so well between them that she'd even gathered the courage to ask about the circumstances surrounding his injuries.

He'd been slow to respond at first, but he didn't shut her out.

He eventually poured out the entire story.

A beautiful woman with an ethereal voice.

An innocent portrait sketching session that deteriorated into shrieking violence.

A young woman's mental instability, and her family's desperation to cover it up.

Throughout the telling, she'd felt his regret and an occasional tinge of bitterness, but the pain that she'd witnessed in his artwork had been absent from his recitation.

The wound was no longer open and bleeding.

Any infection had been cleared away, leaving new skin to grow.

A scar of could have been lingered, marking the place where his life had taken a drastic turn, but he was healing, and she praised God that she'd been able to play some small role in that process.

If only she could get him to stop hiding himself away.

Yes, people could be cruel, but they could also be kind once they realized they had nothing to fear.

She'd been thrilled when he'd offered to drive the household to church last Sunday, but he'd insisted on staying with the carriage.

He'd kept his coat collar turned up and his hat brim pulled low while standing guard from the churchyard shadows, on a mission to protect her from Ambrose Batton.

Who hadn't even put in an appearance, thank the Lord.

She'd longed to introduce Everett to the Poindexters, especially Wade.

Show the boy that he had nothing to fear from the master of Manticore Manor and show Everett that friendship with the community was possible.

But she'd sensed that Everett would balk, so she kept her introductions to herself.

Perhaps Mr. Lightfoot could convince him to take that step after Callista left.

Her posture wilted. She didn't want to leave. But she had no choice. Papa needed her, and she missed him terribly. If only there was a way for her to have Papa and Everett in her life at the same time.

A knock on the library's door drew her gaze from the bookshelves to land on the man dominating her thoughts of late. Instantly cheered, she smiled in welcome and hurried forward.

"Everett!" She glanced down at his empty hands. "No Allan Quatermain this afternoon?" He'd finished reading King Solomon's Mines on Saturday and had started the second book in the series on Monday.

He held out his hands as if just realizing that he'd forgotten the book, then gave a shrug. "I thought we might do something different today."

"Oh?"

He came alongside her and offered his arm.

She gave him a quizzical look. "Something that requires an escort?" She tossed a sideways glance to the decorative clock that sat amid the shelves. "It's not yet five o'clock. I still have another hour of work to complete."

Something mischievous twinkled in his eye. "Not tonight. You have a party to attend, instead."

"A party?"

He tilted his head toward his extended arm, and all at once it hit her.

He wore a suit. One exceptionally well-tailored to show off the width of his shoulders and narrowness of his waist. She glanced down at the plain blue work dress and white apron she wore every day and felt shabby in comparison.

Nibbling on her lip, she reached a hand up to check her hair.

He leaned close and whispered a secret in her ear. "You look beautiful."

She rolled her eyes at him. "I look like I've been working in a bindery all day."

He smiled. "If this is what a woman looks like after she's worked in a bindery all day, you should write it up as a beauty regimen and print it in the Ladies' Home Journal . Debutantes will flock to binderies in droves."

She laughed at his ridiculousness. "Is this the legendary Everett Griffin charm?"

"I thought I'd dust it off for today's special occasion. Might be a bit rusty, though." His mouth twisted in an expression of self-deprecation she found utterly adorable.

After taking a moment to remove her apron and smooth the bodice of her dress, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm and allowed him to lead her from the library.

"And just what occasion are we celebrating?"

There was that twinkle again. "You'll see."

He turned toward the front of the house and led her to the formal parlor where she'd had her interview with Mr. Lighthouse all those weeks ago.

Everett slowed his step and gestured for her to enter the room ahead of him. The moment she crossed the threshold, a cheer rang out, and three beloved faces jumped into her field of vision.

"Happy birthday!"

Birthday? How had they known? Tears distorted her vision as joy flooded her soul.

She glanced over her shoulder to find Everett beaming at her with little-boy hope in his eye.

He'd done this. To please her. She smiled at him with all the love in her heart then opened her arms to embrace her friends, even starchy Timens.