He walked away from her.
The world became very specific, the pattern on the rug pointing almost but not quite to the door. It was agony to move his feet toward the door, but he had to. leave the room, and the anger and pain.
He saw Curry in the hall, no doubt having hurried up here when he heard the shouting. They all worried about him, Curry, Beth, Hart, Cam—so protective, hemming him in, his jailers. He passed Curry without a word and walked out.
“Where are you off to, guv?” Curry called behind him, but Ian didn’t answer.
He moved down the hall, placing his feet precisely in line with the carpet’s border. At the landing, he turned at a right angle and followed the line down the stairs.
Curry panted behind him. “I’ll just go with you, then.” Ian ignored him. He walked across the black and white marble tiles below, his feet finding only the white ones, and out the back door to the garden.
Walking, walking, to the steward’s house and inside to the case containing the guns for pheasant shoots and a brace of pistols. He knew where the key was and had two pistols out before Curry, with his shorter stride, could catch up. “Guv.”
“Load these for me.”
Curry raised his hands. “No.”
Ian turned away. He found the bullets himself, shoved the box of them into his pocket, and walked out. On his way through the garden, a young undergardener rose from pruning a rosebush, staring at Ian with his mouth open. Ian grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him along with him.
The young man dropped his shears and trotted obediently alongside Ian. Curry came after them, panting. “Leave it,” he snapped to the gardener. “Get back to work, you.” Ian had no idea to whom Curry was talking. He kept his grip firm on the young gardener’s arm. He was a wiry lad, strong as steel.
At the end of the garden, Ian handed an empty pistol to the gardener. He withdrew the box of bullets and opened it, shoving it in the young man’s open hand. The bullets were shining, their brass casings catching the sun. Ian admired the perfect shape of them, tapered at the top, blunt on the bottom, how they fit precisely into the revolver’s chamber.
“Load that one,” he told the gardener.
The boy began to obey, fingers shaking hard.
“Stop,” Curry commanded. “Don’t do it for him.” Ian guided the young man’s fingers to place the bullet in the revolver’s chamber. The revolvers were Webleys, loaded by breaking the barrel forward on a hinge. “Careful,” Ian said. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Put the pistol down, lad, or you’re for it.”
The young man sent Curry a terrified glance.
“Do as I say,” Ian said.
The young man gulped. “Yes, m’lord.”
Ian clicked the revolver back together, sighted down the barrel, and shot a small rock that had been resting on another rock fifty feet away. He shot again and again until his pistol clicked on an empty chamber.
He shoved the pistol at the gardener and took the second one. “Reload that,” he said, and sighted down the fresh weapon.
Ian shot six more times, blowing both rocks to pieces. He took the first gun and centered it on another rock, while the young man loaded the second one again.
Dimly Ian heard Curry shouting at him, then at the gardener, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. He heard others behind him. Cam. Hart.
His world narrowed to the blue steel of the pistol’s barrel, the tiny explosions of rock downrange, the burst of noise as he squeezed the trigger. He felt the solid butt of the gun against his palm, screwed up his eyes at the acrid scent of burned powder, shifted his weight to take the kick. He shot, handed off the pistol, shot again, over and over.
His hands ached, his eyes watered, and he kept shooting.
“Guv,” Curry yelled. “Stop, for the love of God.” Ian sighted, squeezed the trigger. His arm bucked, and he straightened it, shooting again.
Heavy hands grabbed his shoulder. Hart’s voice, roaring in rage. Ian shook him off and kept firing. Fire, hand over pistol, grab second pistol, aim, fire.
“Ian.”
Beth’s warm tone floated to him, and her cool hand rested on his. The world came rushing back.
It was dimmer now, twilight having taken the place of bright afternoon. The undergardener sobbed at his side, dropping the empty pistol and pressing his hands to his face.
Ian’s arms ached. He slowly unclenched the pistol that Curry eased out of his hand and found his palms blistered and raw.
Beth touched his face. “Ian.”
He loved how she said his name. She spoke the syllables gently, her voice always soft, caressing.
Hart loomed up behind her, but Ian dissolved into Beth. He slid his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck.
“When he comes back and finds you gone, ‘oo will he strangle?”
Curry bleated. “Me, that’s ‘oo.”
Beth handed Katie her valise and adjusted her gloves. “You told me that when he disappears like this, it’s often for days and days. I’ll be back before then.”
Curry’s mulish look said he didn’t believe that. Ian had slept with Beth, made love to her last night after Curry had bandaged his hurt hands. But when Beth had awakened, Ian had been gone, not only from their bedroom, but from the house and park around it. None of the horses was missing; no one had seen him go.
Hart was livid and demanded a search. Cameron and Curry had persuaded him to let Ian alone. Ian would come back when he was ready. Didn’t he always? Hart, his look told her, blamed Beth.
“You’re doing right, m’lady,” Katie whispered to her as they climbed into the carriage. “I always thought he was a nutter.”
“I’m not leaving him,” Beth said sharply, loud enough for the coachman to hear. “I’m simply taking care of business in London.”
Katie glanced at the coachman and winked at Beth.
“Right you are, m’lady.”
Beth snapped her mouth shut as the coachman started the horses. She felt a pang. She’d miss Kilmorgan. The ride to the railway station proved uneventful. As the coachman lifted out the valises, Cameron’s son, Daniel, suddenly rolled off the backboard, where he’d been crouching. “Take me with you,” he blurted.
Beth hadn’t yet made up her mind about Daniel. He was definitely a Mackenzie, with his brown-red hair and golden eyes, but the shape of his face was different. His chin and eyes were softer, making him handsome rather than hard. His mother had been a famous beauty, according to Curry, celebrated in her day.