He hated putting that look back on her face. “Precautions,” he told her as calmly as possible, stifling his raging beast. “One of the servants believes a prisoner is loose. They are probably with Hunt and Rafe, but I’m not taking chances.” He tried to believe that but life was too unpredictable.
“Lavender.” She rushed off, presumably to lock the tower door. Smart lady.
Only, Fletch had the ominous notion that Lavender had never been the target. Or Ana Marie.
Kate was.
And he only had his knives at hand.
Think, Fletch. Civilization required thought and planning, even if terror flooded his brainbox. With a roomful of vulnerable women watching him in fear, he had the urge to turn around and join whatever battle loomed outside this towering chamber. Rifles and violence, he understood. He couldn’t guard a ballroom of females with his wits. The immense space with it’s two-story leaded windows was no fortress. Real soldiers would batter through the glass. . .
He was crossing the ballroom before the plan had fully developed. “If anyone breaks in,” he shouted as he went, “direct them toward the tower, please. Should they be stupid enough to approach any one of you, all of you pick up your knives and shears and herd them toward the tower. Otherwise, stay back.”
Kate actually waited for him in front of the office door, keys in hand. “You can’t send escaped prisoners in here!” she frantically admonished. “I have to keep them from Lavender.”
And she still thought herself so unimportant that she considered Lavender before herself. Fletch refrained from rolling his eyes but snatched her keys. “You and Lavender take the tower stairs up and warn the schoolroom. Go in the attic and lock the doors behind you. If Arnaud is in his studio, you might send Rob up to warn him. We’ll guard the stairs.”
She worriedly glanced from him to the unlocked door, then accepting his orders, the pair fled.
He’d like to tell Kate that his monster wasn’t back, yet, but he lacked words to explain that this situation required rationality. Violence in a house full of women and children. . . Even his monster knew better.
If the escaped prisoner was stupid enough to try to escape through the ballroom, Fletch didn’t want them feeling trapped. If they ran free through the workspace—and didn’t see Kate—they had no reason to harm helpless bystanders.
He didn’t believe any of the demented prisoners smart enough to flee for the woods. He’d like to be proved wrong. Since he couldn’t be inside and out at the same time, he chose the tower as the strongest position for defending Kate. Rafe and Hunt had to handle any alternative.
If the prisoner was after Kate, however, they’d look for a way into the place where she worked—either through the ballroom or the tower with its outside entrance.
Fletch started down the stairs, knife drawn. Arnaud, Hunt’s artist cousin, clattered down to join him. A peaceful giant, he held only a small palette knife.
“Doors locked on top?” Fletch asked quietly, taking the narrow stones to the ground floor, listening for intruders.
“Secured and guarded.” At the bottom, finding the cellar empty, Arnaud accepted the longer knife Fletch handed him.
Guarded could mean anything from an army of women, children, and tutors, or ladies’ maids and dowagers with knitting needles or. . . Fletch had to hope the locks held.
This floor was a dirt cellar once used for storage. It had only one entrance. Fletch left it unsecured.
“Surely, they’re running for horses?” Arnaud asked, realizing they were setting a trap.
“Lunatic,” Fletch reminded him. “And not a bright one, if it’s Hugh.”
Although single-minded Hugh was more likely to aim for Kate’s house, not Kate, Fletch realized.
With that realization, Saturday’s nightmare slowly began to make sense. That’s what happened when he took the time to use his wits and not his fists.
He hated that he could think like a killer—but there one was, right on schedule, shoving at the entrance leading into a tower of innocents.
A flash of daylight from the opening door revealed the visitor’s identity.
Wilma.
Wilma, the grumbling, stupid, lazy ox who had followed her brighter, attractive butterfly of a sister to the manor. He’d like to believe she’d come to fetch her children in the schoolroom, but. . .
The ox held her youngest child by the arm. The skinny little girl appeared confused, trying to shake off the strong grip.
“I don’ wanna go back to school,” she whined. “I wanna go home.”
Anyone entering looked to the stairs first. Fletch slipped into the shadows of one of the medieval stalls across from the stairs, gesturing for Arnaud to step forward. Wilma wouldn’t know Arnaud.
