“What? No, I can’t do that.”
“The scaffolding provides outside access to any window or balcony on that entire façade.”
“Yes, Ransom, that’s the point. I have stonemasons restoring ornamental openwork.” Faced with Ethan’s unyielding expression, West groaned. “Do you know how many days the stonemasons took to build that scaffolding? Do you have any idea of what they’re going to do to me if I tell them to pull it all down and put it back up a week later? You won’t have to worry about assassins from London. My workmen will happily string us both up in short order.”
A terrible weariness had begun to invade Ethan’s muscles, and he felt a pressing need for sleep. Damn it. “I’d spare you all of this by leaving now, if I were able,” he muttered, passing a hand over his forehead.
“No,” West said instantly, his tone changing. “Pay no attention to my complaining. God knows no one else does. You belong here.” He ran an evaluating glance over Ethan. “You look ready to drop. I’ll accompany you upstairs.”
“I don’t need help.”
“If you think I’m going to risk having anything happen to you, and then face Dr. Gibson’s wrath, you’re mad. I’d rather take on a baker’s dozen of assassins.”
Ethan nodded and headed out of the gallery. “They won’t send more than three men,” he said. “They’ll come in the wee hours of the morning, while it’s still dark and the household is sleeping soundly.”
“Eversby Priory has over two hundred rooms. They won’t know the layout.”
“Yes, they will. The floor plans and specifications can be retrieved from the offices of any architect, contractor, or surveyor who’s had anything to do with the rebuilding of this place.”
West heaved a sigh, conceding the point. “Don’t forget my London banker,” he said glumly. “He asked for copies when we were arranging for loans.”
Apologetically, Ethan said, “They won’t want to cause unnecessary casualties. All they’ll want is to find me. I’ll surrender myself before I let anyone here get hurt.”
“Damned if you will,” West retorted. “The Ravenel family motto is ‘Loyalty binds us.’ I’ll blow the head off of any bastard who threatens one of my kinsmen.”
Chapter 22
“Is this how they did it at Miss Primrose’s?” Ethan asked, standing back as a pair of footmen—supervised by the elderly butler, Sims—ceremoniously laid tablecloths on the ground beneath a shade tree. They proceeded to set out china plates, silver flatware, and crystal goblets.
Garrett shook her head, watching with a bemused smile as ice buckets filled with bottles of lemonade, ginger beer, and claret were arranged beside the dishes. “Our picnics were bread, jam, and a slice of cheese, carried in a tin pail.”
It had been her idea to have lunch with Ethan on the estate grounds, within the shelter of a high garden wall. She had told Ethan about the picnics she and her classmates used to enjoy at school, and he said he’d never been on one. Garrett had asked the housekeeper if she could borrow a basket to carry out some items from the daily sideboard buffet. Instead, the cook had provided what she called “a proper picnic” in a pair of massive wicker and leather hampers.
After Sims and the footmen had departed, Ethan sat with his back against the tree trunk and watched as Garrett unearthed a feast from the hampers. There were boiled eggs, plump olives, stalks of crisp green celery, jars of pickled carrots and cucumbers, sandwiches wrapped in paraffin paper, cold fried oyster-patties and wafer crackers, jars of finely chopped salads, a weighty round of white cheese, muslin-lined baskets filled with finger cakes and pastry biscuits, a steamed cabinet pudding left in its fluted stoneware mold, and a wide-mouthed glass bottle filled with stewed fruit.
As they ate a leisurely meal beneath the dense green beech canopy, Garrett was pleased to see Ethan relaxing. For the past five days, he had been more active than she would have preferred, going through every nook and cranny of Eversby Priory with West. As with most ancient manor houses, many modifications and additions had been made over the centuries, resulting in quirks, oddly shaped spaces, and offset stairs and windows.
Despite Garrett’s concerns that he would set back his recovery, Ethan had painstakingly made his way to each level of the house to assess it with his own eyes. New bolts and locks had been installed, and the outside scaffolding had been removed. Doors were now routinely locked every night, and so were the ground and basement windows. The household staff had been instructed to raise an alarm if they heard suspicious noises at night, but under no circumstances should they confront a housebreaker on their own.
Although Ethan had continued to heal and improve at an impressive rate, it would take weeks or even months for him to reach the level of health he’d enjoyed before his injury. It exasperated him to be constrained by his physical limitations, having been accustomed to inexhaustible reserves of energy and strength.
It had been almost three weeks since Ethan had been shot. In ordinary circumstances, Garrett would have insisted that he wait twice that amount of time before leaving the estate. However, this situation was far from ordinary. Whether or not she approved, Ethan had told her, he had to leave for London the day after tomorrow. He couldn’t continue to remain at Eversby Priory and put the household at risk. Nor could he stand by and do nothing after Jenkyn had diverted eight tons of stolen explosives to a terrorist group that could conceivably blow up the House of Commons.
Reaching out to the luxuriant undergrowth of wintergreen shrubs beneath the stand of beeches, Ethan plucked a sharp minty leaf. He lay back on the cloth and nibbled on the bit of green, staring up at the canopy of sky and leaves overhead. The beeches were gnarled and graceful, their branches tangling as if they were holding hands. All that could be heard were rustling leaves and the trill of a wood warbler. The air was fresh with the loamy scent of rich earth. Rustling leaves and the occasional trill of a wood warbler were the only sounds they could hear.
“I’ve never been in a place so peaceful, outside of a church,” Ethan said.
“It’s a world away from London. All the clashing fire bells and the roar of railways and construction . . . and the air filthy with smoke and dust . . . and all those tall buildings blocking out the sun . . .”
“Aye,” Ethan said. “I miss it too.”
They both chuckled.
“I miss my patients, and the clinic,” Garrett confessed. “Now that you’re too healthy for me to fuss over, I must have something to do.”
“You could begin writing a memoir,” he suggested.
Unable to resist the temptation he presented, Garrett bent over until their noses nearly touched. “My life,” she told him, “hasn’t been nearly sensational enough for my memoir to be interesting.”
“You’re in hiding with a fugitive,” he pointed out.
Her lips quirked. “That means you’re the one with an interesting life, not me.”
Ethan traced the edge of her low-necked gown with his fingertips, and hooked his forefinger into the soft valley between her breasts. “We’ll return to London soon, and I’ll provide all the excitement you want.” His lips brushed hers with teasing dry warmth, and she let him draw her down, increasing the pressure until the kiss was strong and damp and savoring. Her senses were filled with him, the sweet taste of his mouth, the vital feel of his body as he pulled her full length against him.