Kam Reardon had Lucien’s eyes. She leaned out again, her curiosity trumping her fear.
The man’s frightening scowled returned. “Get the hell out of here,” he growled.
“I’m sorry for trespassing,” Ian said levelly. “We don’t mean any harm, Kam. I came to talk to you. So did Lucien, here,” he said, nodding at Lucien, who looked very wary eyeing Kam’s pointed shotgun. “Lucien is our . . . brother as well,” Ian said, seeming to hesitate at saying the word.
“And her?” Gaines said, nodding in the direction behind Ian. “Is she one of us?”
“No,” Ian said harshly. Kam’s gaze lowered to where Ian palmed the side of her hip.
“I said to get the hell out,” Kam yelled suddenly, white teeth flashing in his dark beard. He cocked the gun.
“Go on,” Ian said tersely, turning and pushing Francesca in front of him. Lucien followed. Ian handed her the flashlight. “Lead the way. Hurry,” he ordered.
Francesca jogged down the dark tunnel, her heart pounding in her chest, highly aware that it wasn’t just Lucien and Ian who were behind her. Kam Reardon was bringing up the rear. She could hear his footsteps grinding in the stony dirt, but imagined she could feel his simmering anger behind them as he followed, assuring himself they well and truly left his underground territory. The dog Angus frolicked next to them, an unlikely escort to such a tense eviction.
* * *
After they returned to the manor, Ian insisted upon searching for the suspected underground entrance where Reardon entered Aurore. Francesca went with them into the gloomy, musty basement that seemed to stretch forever in each direction. Ian and Lucien did, indeed, after much searching, discover a hidden door that led to a tunnel.
“It looks like it was built fairly recently, at least in comparison to the house,” Lucien observed, running his hand over the wood timbers that enforced a different branch of the tunnel system than the one they’d been in earlier.
“I’m thinking it might have been constructed during World War II, during the German occupation. There was fighting in this vicinity. The owners might have wanted an escape route or a hideout if troops ever tried to occupy. Look at this,” Ian said, running the flashlight along a plastic tube that contained multiple electrical wires. “Bloody bastard has me paying for his electricity,” Ian said, his tone a strange mixture of annoyance, amusement, and respect.
Afterward, they all retired to the parlor. The fire was dying in the hearth, but still gave off sufficient heat to warm Francesca.
“How old do you think he is?” Lucien asked after they’d talked a while about the idiosyncratic Reardon.
“Hard to tell with that bloody beard and all the grime. Around our age, maybe younger,” Ian said. “He’s got a story to tell.”
“He’s clearly more than a wild tramp,” Lucien said, standing and stretching. “He’s organized and methodical . . . and brilliant, if I don’t miss my guess.”
“A chip off the old block,” Ian muttered.
“Didn’t the townspeople give you any idea of his background?” Lucien asked.
“I only got some of the newer residents to open up and talk,” Ian said, the low flames of the fire flickering in his eyes as he stared. “They all seemed to be of the belief that he’s a homeless, wild tramp.”
“Why wouldn’t the people who have lived here for longer talk to you?” Francesca asked.
She flinched inwardly when his gleaming eyes met hers. He’d hardly met her gaze at all since she’d arrived.
“Because I spook them,” Ian said, his mouth slanting into a mirthless smile. “They think I’m Gaines’s ghost.” Her heart seemed to jump against her breastbone. She blinked when he stood abruptly from the couch.
“I’m going to bed,” he said.
Lucien gave her a half-apologetic, half-compassionate glance when Ian stalked out of the room without another word.
* * *
Lucien indicated which room Ian slept in before he bid her good night, and opened a door at the other end of the long hallway.
She rapped on the designated door quietly before she entered, but Ian didn’t reply. He stood unmoving next to an ancient four-poster bed with a drooping canopy of dusty, faded crimson velvet. She gave him a questioning, worried look when he just stared at the bed without looking around at her.
“I don’t know where to put you to sleep,” he said starkly, surprising her.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said slowly, confused. Was he going to insist she sleep separately from him? Was he still that angry that she’d come?
“I mean I don’t know where to put you. There’s no place suitable,” he waved at the sagging mattress on the old relic. “The beds are all like this.”
She gave a soft bark of laughter when she recognized the direction of his concern. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be fine. I’ve been camping before. It can’t be much worse than . . .”
She faded off when he turned to her and she saw the utter bleakness of his expression.
“Ian,” she whispered, her throat going tight. She rushed to him, hugging him tight, her cheek pressed against his chest. “I don’t care where I sleep. I just want to be wherever you are. I just want to be with you, and know you’re okay.”
For a wretched few seconds, he didn’t return her fervent embrace. Slowly, his arms encircled her waist. Then he was pulling her tight against him, his face pressing to the top of her head.