"I'm really terribly sorry, Rafe. Does it hurt?"
"Yes."
He snatched up a frayed towel and dried his face. Without another word, he strode to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer.
"If s stopped bleeding."
He twisted off the top, tossed it aside, then downed a third of the bottle. Regan decided that, under the circumstances, she could try again.
"I didn't see your car. That's why I didn't think anyone was here."
"Devin dropped me off." He decided that, under the circumstances, he could give her a break. "I've been putting in some extra time at night, camping out here. We're supposed to get hit with a snowstorm tonight, so it didn't make any sense to have the car. I can walk into town if I need to."
"Oh. Well. That explains it."
"Want a beer?"
"No thanks, I don't drink beer."
"Fresh out of champagne."
"Well, then, I really should be getting back. Actually, it's already starting to snow." Feeling awkward now, she pushed at her hair. "Ah, there were these candlesticks, and a really wonderful set of fire irons I bought today. I just wanted to bring them by, see how they looked."
He lifted the beer again, watching her. "So, how do they look?"
"I don't know. I set everything down in the hall when I came in and heard the, ah, evening performance."
"You decided to go ghost hunting instead of decorating."
"Looks that way. Well, why don't I set them up now, before I take off?"
Taking the beer along, he went with her. "I guess you've cooled off since this morning."
"Not exactly." She spared him a brief look as she headed to the main hall. "Though giving you a bloody nose, even inadvertently, was satisfying. You acted like a jerk."
His eyes narrowed as she picked up the box she'd left in the hall and sailed into the parlor. "I was giving it to you straight. Some women appreciate honesty."
"Some women like jerks." She set the box on a drum table she'd had the movers place at the window. "I don't. I like simplicity, manners, tact. Which, of course, you're completely without." Then she turned, and smiled. "But I think, under the circumstances, a truce is in order. Who broke your nose before?"
"Jared, when we were kids and fighting in the hayloft. He got lucky."
"Hmm..." She supposed she would never understand why brotherly affection meant bloody noses to the MacKades. "So this is where you're camping out." She gestured toward the sleeping bag tossed in front of the fire.
"If s the warmest room in the house right now. And the cleanest. What circumstances equal a truce?"
"Don't set that bottle down without a coaster." Heaving a sigh, she walked over, took one from the silver-plated basket and offered it. "You can't treat antiques like..."
"Furniture?" he finished, but he used the coaster. "What circumstances, Regan?"
"Our ongoing business relationship, for one." Because her fingers were tense again, she busied them by unbuttoning her coat as she walked back to the window. "We're both trying to accomplish the same thing with this house, so it doesn't make sense to be at odds. These are nice, aren't they?" She took the fire irons from the box, stroked a finger over the curved handle of the coal shovel. "They could use some polish."
"It ought to work better than the crowbar I've been using." Tucking his thumbs in his pockets, he watched her carry the irons to the fire, set them carefully and individually in their stand on the stone hearth.
"Whatever you used, it's a nice fire." Torn between courage and doubt, she stared at the flames. "I'm still looking for the right screen. This one doesn't really suit. It would be better in one of the rooms upstairs. I imagine you'll have them all working. The fireplaces."
"Eventually."
He'd only known her for a few weeks, he realized. How could he be so sure she was arguing with herself? With the firelight flickering over her, her back so straight, that sweep of hair curtaining half her face, she looked relaxed, confident, perfectly at-ease. Maybe it was the way she had her fingers linked together, or the way she wasn't looking at him. But he was certain some small inner war was being waged.