Page 40

Poor man. First the knock on the head she’d given him, then the sliced hand, now his ankle. At this rate, he wasn’t going to survive long enough to finish his inventory.

She placed both statues on the end of the counter, well away from the edge. Gran crouched before the duke, gently prodding his ankle.

“A sprain,” she pronounced. “We haven’t any ice, but I can pour a bucket of cold water to soak it in. That will help with the swelling.”

“A cold cloth will suffice.”

“It most certainly will not.” Gran went to the tap and poured cold water into a large bowl. She grunted lifting it out of the sink, so Evaine helped her carry the heavy container over to the duke and set it on the floor beside him. He had nice feet, she thought. Shapely.

You are losing your mind. Admiring a man’s feet—what has gotten into you?

She was out of sorts after a long and confusing day. She’d barely slept last night. She was attracted against her will to her mercurial, grumpy, surprisingly softhearted landlord. Maybe Gran was right. She should kiss the man and see where things went.

Absolutely not. Nice feet or no, he is still your employer.

Assuming he ever paid her. They never discussed when she would be paid her daily rate. All she had was a verbal agreement. Legally unenforceable. She knew that. Still, instinct told her she could trust Gareth not to cheat her. At least he was giving them a warm place to sleep and food to eat for the indefinite future. That was worth a great deal more than a few coins clattering in her otherwise empty purse.

You’ve been a trusting fool before.

Evaine shoved the thought aside and set the table near the window for three. Outside, the sun was beginning its descent beneath the horizon. Painting the sky vivid hues of deep-teal and pink. Clouds floated idly over the trees.

Serene.

Peaceful.

Difficult to comprehend the horrors that had taken place in this house.

Gareth and Gran kept up rhythmic patter. She peppered him with questions liberally as she cooked, coaxing reluctant responses out of him. Evaine couldn’t help but smile.

At moments like these it was possible to imagine a different kind of life at Wolfhaven. One where painful, dark history stayed in the past while life moved forward. Heartbreakingly, hers was a vision that the duke did not seem to share. He could only see the bad things that had occurred here. She understood why he felt the need to tear down his legacy. Yet knowing that in doing so he would destroy this historic place saddened her.

Before they all sat down for supper, Evaine wrapped his foot tightly in a long bandage from their first-aid kit. He had a nice calf, too. Muscular. His ankle was dusted in dark hairs. Touching him like this felt far more intimate than bandaging his hand earlier, and that contact had made her pulse beat furiously.

“You’re staring at me,” she murmured.

“Admiring the view.” He cleared his throat. “You don’t have to do this. I can⁠—”

“It’s easier for me to wrap your ankle than it will be for you.”

“Dinner is served,” Gran said brightly, carrying a dish to the table. “Tell me how you hurt your ankle,” she said, never one to leave well enough alone. Chairs scraped on the flagstones as she and Evaine took their seats.

“I took a wrong step coming out of the attic. The stairs are quite steep,” the duke said. He cast Evaine a quelling glance. She ignored it. She had lied to her grandmother enough.

“We thought we saw a ghost,” she said briskly. “Two of them, in fact.” She recounted the strange things they had witnessed today. The footsteps, the clock falling over, the breathy giggles, the piano striking a discordant note though no one was touching it, and the wagon with the doll.

“Frankly, it’s hard for me to imagine a place like this not having a few ghosts rattling around,” Gran said. She coughed slightly and put a discreet spoonful of her vile medicine into a cup of cooled tea, then passed the bottle across the table to Gareth. He shook his head in refusal.

“I don’t want that foul concoction. Gives me strange dreams.”

Gran shrugged off the prospect of forming an addiction as easily as she did the notion of ghosts haunting the mansion. “At my age, one longs only for comfort. I’m not worried.”

“You’re not a day over sixty,” Gareth said, the flatterer.

“I’ll have you know that I am nearly seventy. Aren’t I, Evie? I lived quite a life before I settled down with her grandfather. I suppose some would say I was a bit of a hussy.”

“Gran,” Evaine said warningly.

“Do tell.”