Page 24 of To Love a Beast

Good heavens. She must banish such ridiculous romanticism at once. She was no Jane Eyre or Lucy Snowe. She was here to complete a job and save the Rosenfelds' floundering bindery. Thoughts of love and flirtation had no place in—

Crack!

Callista flinched. The sound echoed faintly, as if from a great distance, but she recognized it with ominous clarity. A gunshot.

Spartacus recognized it too, for he let out a deep woof then bounded away in pursuit of whoever threatened the manor. Callista raced toward the front of the house, heart pounding in dread over what she might find.

The front door flew open as she rounded the corner. A wide-eyed Timens ran from the house, calling Lightfoot's name.

That's when she saw him. Dear Mr. Lightfoot crumpled across the walkway.

No, God. Please. No.

Tears filmed her eyes as she sprinted toward him. Timens reached him first and fell to his knees beside the valet.

"Ray! Can you hear me?" Timens grabbed Lightfoot's shoulder and gently rolled him onto his back. He pressed an ear to the fallen man's chest.

A quiet groan vibrated the air.

"Thank God."

Callista's soul echoed Timens's heartfelt gratitude. Mr. Lightfoot was alive!

Coming alongside, she looked to the butler for direction. "How can I help?"

Timens reared back as if he'd been completely oblivious to her presence. Then, just as quickly, he narrowed his eyes. "Get in the house, woman! There's a shooter about."

"Surely he's gone by now. There've been no more—"

"I'm taking no chances. In the house. Now!"

Callista ignored his directive, more concerned with aiding Mr. Lightfoot than preserving her personal safety. "But I can help." She crouched down and slid a hand beneath his right shoulder. "You can't carry him inside on your own."

Timens batted her hand away, a sure signal of the seriousness of his distress. "If you want to help, fetch Mr. Griffin."

Mr. Griffin. Yes. He'd want to know about his friend. Armed with a task to complete, Callista forfeited the argument and ran for the house.

Hiking up her skirt, she sped up the stairs. She didn't hesitate for even a heartbeat when she reached the forbidden attic steps, but she did call out Mr. Griffin's name to give him notice of what was about to happen. Apparently, it wasn't notice enough, however, for when she threw open the door and stumbled inside, she found him paintbrush in hand and missing his eye patch.

The sight of him with both eyes staring at her in horror slowed her just long enough for a familiar thundercloud to fall over his stunned face. A thundercloud they didn't have time to indulge. Before he could rage at her, she dodged forward, grabbed the hand without the paintbrush, and started dragging him toward the door.

"Yell at me later. Mr. Lightfoot's been shot."

Her dumping a bucket of water over his head would have shocked Everett less.

"What?"

His mortified anger vanished in an instant as all self-focused thoughts fled. Lightfoot shot? How? By whom? Where?

A thousand questions bounced around in his brain as he dropped his brush and stumbled after Miss Rosenfeld, but the largest rose to the surface.

"Is he . . .?"

"Alive." She paused at the doorway, the anguish she'd hidden beneath her air of command finally breaking through. Her voice cracked. "Mr. Timens wouldn't let me stay. I have no idea how bad it is. Please, hurry. Timens will need your help to bring him inside."

Her distress amplified the fearful ache in his own chest and stirred the ill-timed desire to take her in his arms and whisper words of comfort. Instead, he briefly cupped her arm and met her watery gaze. "I'll see to him," he vowed.

Then he turned and charged down two flights of stairs, her voice ringing out behind him with instructions to head to the front door.