Page 29 of To Love a Beast

Callista couldn't look away from him. He was opening himself to her, and she couldn't bear the idea of that door closing again. So she gave a gentle push to the invisible boundary between them, and delved into personal territory. "That's what the rose represents, isn't it?"

She'd caught a glimpse of a couple of his paintings when she'd fetched him from the attic, but the rose . . . the rose had arrested her.

He nodded slowly. No anger evident on his face.

Dare she ask? She longed to learn more of his heart, to see it reflected in his art. To share that piece of him that he kept locked away. Grasping a surge of impulsive courage, she found her voice. "Would you show me someday?"

His throat worked up and down as his gaze locked on hers. She saw the struggle reflected in his gaze, ingrained caution battling a burgeoning trust.

Let me in, she silently pleaded.

Chapter 13

"The doctor's here, Mr. Griffin." Mrs. Potter's breathless announcement from the library doorway saved Everett from having to give an answer.

He followed his housekeeper from the room, leaving Callista behind with nothing more substantial than a murmured apology. Her image, however, clung to his mind with the same tenacity as buffalo burs clung to Spartacus's fur. Especially those expressive eyes of hers. Their dark fathoms had peered into him as if she saw his soul, and for some inexplicable reason, she acted as if she wanted to see more. And, heaven help him, he wanted to show her. To experience a level of human connection that had been closed to him for years. Lightfoot had seen his art, but they'd never discussed it. Probably because the one time Lightfoot had asked about a painting, Everett had snapped at him, his emotions too raw back then to put into words.

Yet, in the few minutes Callista had been in his studio, she'd discerned his struggle. The pain, the loss, and the search for hope. He'd seen it in her expression. Heard it in her voice. What amazed him even more, though, was the fact that she didn't ask him about her portrait. She could have accused him of using her image without permission and been perfectly justified in doing so. She could have coyly preened about being his muse. She could have simply assuaged her curiosity by asking about it. Heaven knew, if he'd found a likeness of himself in someone's studio, he would have noticed little else. But not Callista. She'd noticed the rose.

The Last Petal Falls. He'd completed the painting two years ago and should have sent it to the gallery by now. It was one of his better pieces and would likely fetch a good price. Yet he hadn't been able to part with it. Each of his paintings carried a piece of his soul, but that one . . . that one still had a grip on him. Just as that final petal hung suspended for all time in the painting, unable to fall, he couldn't escape the feeling that something held him back as well. A pain he wasn't quite ready to lay down. A pain that pricked anew when the doctor met him in the entry hall and drew up short at the sight of Everett's face.

The man recovered more quickly than most, probably due to his exposure to all manner of grotesque injuries, but the reaction still stung.

More concerned about Lightfoot's healing than his own at the moment, though, Everett pretended he hadn't noticed the doctor's startlement and offered his hand.

"Thank you for coming."

The man shook his hand with a reassuring firmness and peered at him through a pair of round spectacles. "Glad to help. Where's my patient?"

Mrs. Potter stepped forward. "If you'll follow me, sir? Mr. Lightfoot is in the kitchen."

Everett brought up the rear, happy to let his housekeeper take the lead. He remained in the background as the doctor conducted his examination, only stepping in when the physician needed assistance moving Lightfoot from the chair to the table. Mrs. Potter created a pillow from some folded towels, and Everett did his best to keep Lightfoot talking while his friend faced the indignity of being sprawled upon a table like a half-dressed Christmas goose.

After the doctor poked and prodded, his examination turning Lightfoot quite pale, he reached for a bottle of ether and poured a liberal amount into a handkerchief.

"We're going to put you to sleep now, so I can dig out that bullet and sew you up. All right?"

Lightfoot clenched his jaw and offered a nod, but a second later, he grabbed Everett's arm with his good hand, his eyes wide with something Everett thought never to see—fear.

"You'll stay with me?"

Everett nodded, his throat clogging as memories surged of all the times Lightfoot had stayed with him. By his bedside in his darkest hours, a beacon of hope that things would get better.

"Every moment, my friend."

Lightfoot nodded and laid his head back to accept the ether. Thankfully, the doctor worked quickly and with skilled precision. Within an hour, he had removed the bullet, cleaned and stitched the wound, and bandaged Lightfoot's shoulder. Everett and Timens worked together to carefully carry the valet to his room, so he could rest in a bed instead of the unforgiving kitchen table.

The doctor followed and gave some final instructions. "He's not to exert himself for at least three weeks." He handed Everett several packets of medicinal powders. "Add these to his tea or water to help with the pain. When he feels strong enough to be out of bed, he will need to wear a sling for additional protection and support. It's good for him to exercise the fingers and hand of his injured arm, but the shoulder itself should be kept as immobile as possible during the early stages of healing. In the meantime, watch him for signs of infection, and fetch me right away if the wound putrefies."

"Thank you, doctor." Everett shook the man's hand again. "We'll keep a close eye on him." He glanced at the bed where Lightfoot dozed. He'd awakened from the ether when the men had carried him to his room, but the medicine had left him groggy. Everett figured some rest would do him good. He collected the chair from the desk in Lightfoot's room and moved it to the side of the bed. Everett had made a promise, and he intended to stay by his valet's side until he awakened fully.

Timens, having regained his usual aplomb after seeing that Lightfoot would indeed recover, gestured for the doctor to precede him into the hall. "I'll see you out, sir."

The doctor raised a brow. "I'll make you a deal, Mr. Timens. I'll see myself to my horse if you see to that giant hound of yours. Had your housekeeper not been watching for my arrival and called the hound to heel, I doubt I would have made it to the front door."

"If Timens is with you, Spartacus will leave you alone," Everett said.

"In that case, I'll gladly accept your escort, Mr. Timens."