They shook hands on it. "Am I going to get that tour now?"
"Sure." He draped an arm around her shoulder and entertained himself with the vision of those very fine legs beneath a tight red skirt. "We went with your idea of a kind of bridal suite." He led the way down the hall, opened a six-paneled door. "Just about ready for trim work in here."
"Rafe." Delighted, she stepped inside.
The delicate floral wallpaper was nearly all hung. The coffered ceiling gleamed with fresh paint. French doors were in place, and would one day open onto the wide porch, overlook gardens in riotous bloom. The floor was covered with drop cloths, but she could imagine it glossy and accented with a lovely faded tapestry rug.
She stepped around buckets and ladders, already arranging furniture in her head. "It's going to be beautiful," she murmured.
"It's coming along." He lifted a tarp from the fireplace. "The mantel was shot. I couldn't fix it. Found a good piece of yellow pine, though. The woodworker's using the original as a guide."
"That rose-colored trim is going to be wonderful in here." She looked through an adjoining doorway. "And this is the bath."
"Mmm..." He studied the room over her shoulder. It was good-sized, and the plumbers had roughed it in. "Used to be a dressing room."
She reached for his hand, gripped it. "Can you smell it?"
"Roses." Absently he rubbed his cheek over her hair. "It always smells like roses in here. One of the paper hangers accused his partner of wearing perfume."
"This was her room, wasn't it? Abigail's. She died in here."
"Probably. Hey." He tipped up her face, watched uncomfortably as a tear trailed down her cheek. "Don't."
"It's so sad. She must have been terribly unhappy. Knowing the man she'd married, the father of her children, was capable of such cold-blooded cruelty. How did he treat her, Rafe? Did he love her, or did he only own her?"
"There's no way to know. Don't cry." Awkward, he brushed the tear away. "It makes me feel like I have six thumbs. I mean it." For lack of something better to do, he patted her head. "There's no use crying over something that happened more than a hundred years ago."
"But she's still here." Wrapping her arms around him, Regan snuggled into his chest. "I feel so sorry for her, for all of them."
"You're not going to do yourself, or me, any good if you get tangled up every time you come in here."
"I know." She sighed, comforted by the way his heart beat strong and steady against her. "It's odd how you get used to it, a little bit at a time. Rafe, when I was downstairs alone..."
"What?" Uneasy, he tilted her face toward his again.
"If s nothing."
"What?" he repeated, giving her chin a little shake.
"Well, I walked into the library. What was the library," she went on, torn between the need to tell him and embarrassment. "What will be the library. And I— Rafe, I could see it."
His eyes were sharp, narrowed, totally concentrated. "See what?"
"The room. Not the stained floors and the new wiring you've put in. The room. Books on the wall, flowers on the table, drapes at the windows. I could really see it," she repeated, her own brow creasing. "Not the way I do in my head when I'm planning things out. Not exactly like that. I was thinking to myself, sort of projecting, I suppose. I imagined this, well, I thought I was imagining a Bible stand, with an old family Bible opened on it. And I could read the page, almost touch it. Marriage and births and death."
She took time to catch her breath. "You're not saying anything."
"Because I'm listening to you."
"I know it sounds crazy."
"Not in this house, it doesn't."
"It was so real, so sad. The way the scent of roses in this room is real, and sad. Then it was so cold, bitter, like a window had been filing open to the weather."
She moved her shoulders, laid her head on his chest again. "That's all."
"That's a lot for one day." Wanting to soothe, he stroked his hand over her hair. "I can give Devin a call, have him come get you.