How it had been, and could be, spun through her mind, and she didn't feel the cold that sent her breath ahead of her in clouds as she wandered.
In the parlor, she marveled over the Adam fireplace. The marble was filthy, but undamaged. She had twin vases in the shop that would be perfect for the mantel. And a needlepoint footstool that was meant for weary feet in front of this very hearth.
Delighted, she pulled out her notebook and got to work.
Cobwebs dragged through her hair, dirt smudged her cheek, dust covered her boots, as she measured and plotted. She was in heaven. Her mood was so high that when she heard the footsteps, she turned with a smile instead of a complaint.
"It's wonderful. I can hardly—" She was talking to thin air.
Frowning, she walked out of the parlor and into the hall. She started to call out, then noted that there were no footprints in the dust but her own.
Imagining things, she told herself, and shuddered. Big, empty houses made all sorts of noises. Settling wood, wind against the windows...rodents, she thought with a grimace. She wasn't afraid of mice or spiders or creaking boards.
But when the floor groaned over her head, she couldn't muffle the shriek. Her heart flew straight to her throat and beat like a bird's. Before she'd managed to compose herself again, she heard the unmistakable sound of a door closing.
She was across the hall in a dash, fumbling for the knob when it hit her.
Rafe MacKade.
Oh, he thought he was clever, she thought furiously. Sneaking into the house ahead of her, creeping through the back, she imagined. He was up there right now, doubled over at the idea of her bolting from the house like some idiotic Gothic heroine with a heaving bosom.
Not on your life, she thought determinedly, and straightened her shoulders. She thrust her chin up and marched to the curving stairs.
"You're not funny, MacKade," she called out. "Now, if you've finished your pathetic little joke, I'd like to get some work done."
When the cold
spot hit her, she was too shocked to move. The hand she'd gripped on the rail went numb with it, her face froze with it. There, halfway up the graceful sweep of stairs, she swayed. It was her own whimper that broke her free. She was up to the first landing in four effortless strides.
A draft, she told herself, cursing her own sobbing breaths. Just a nasty draft.
"Rafe." Her voice broke, infuriating her. Biting her lip, she stared down the long hallway, at the closed and secretive doors that lined it. "Rafe," she said again, and struggled to put irritation in her voice, rather than nerves. "I have a schedule to keep, if you don't, so can we get on with this?"
The sound of wood scraping wood, the violent slam of a door, and a woman's heartbroken weeping. Pride forgotten, Regan flew down the stairs. She'd nearly reached the bottom when she heard the shot.
Then the door she'd rushed to meet groaned slowly open.
The room whirled once, twice, then vanished.
"Come on, darling, snap out of it."
Regan turned her head, moaned, shivered.
"All the way out, pal. Open those big blue eyes for me."
The voice was so coaxing, she did. And found herself looking into Rafe's.
"It wasn't funny."
A bit dizzy with relief, he smiled and stroked her cheek. "What wasn't?"
"Hiding upstairs to scare me." She blinked to bring the world back into sharp focus and discovered she was cradled on his lap on the window seat in the parlor. "Let me up."
"I don't think so. You're still a little shaky on your pins. Just relax a minute." He shifted her expertly so that her head rested in the crook of his arm.
"I'm fine."
"You're white as a sheet. If I had a flask, I'd pour some brandy into you. Never saw a woman faint as gracefully, though. You sort of drifted down, gave me a chance to catch you before your head knocked against the floor."