she guessed the shots had come from outside, just to the west of the house. “Master Rafe, don’t move.”
He grabbed her hand and would not let go. “Is someone shooting? Are they hurting my papa?”
She didn’t know and did not wish to lie to the boy by making up a story. “I’m not sure who is doing the shooting. Sit right here. I’m going to peek out the window.”
But he would not let go of her hand. “No, they’ll hurt you, too.”
She gave him a hug, overcome that he was sincerely concerned about her. What she would not give to have such a sweet child of her own. But this was a dream for the future, one that would not include him or his father. “It’s gotten quiet now, Master Rafe. I’ll tell you what, you and I are going to crawl to the window. But only I must peek out of it because I’ve been trained to do it very sneakily so that no one knows I’m looking.”
He agreed to that.
As with everything, she made a game out of it. But the boy, despite his young age, understood that matters were not all right. She placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder in part to comfort him and in part to gently hold him down so that he did not stick his head up and give that villain a clear shot.
Not that she believed it was likely, but caution was best. If this villain felt his hunters were closing in on him, he would do something desperate.
She peered out and her heart leaped into her throat. A man lay motionless on the ground in a pool of blood, the dark red liquid quite stark against the pristine white snow. Then she recognized Mr. Barrow’s waddle as he ran toward the man, and recognized Mr. Barrow’s most trusted investigator, Mick, running at his side. But the first to reach the prone man was the marquis. There was no mistaking his powerful build and long, graceful strides. “Your papa and Mr. Barrow are fine, Master Rafe. They are taking care of a man who is hurt.”
“May I see?”
“Very well,” she said, once the three men had gathered around the body and little could be seen of it but the dead man’s legs. “There, you’ve had your peek. Do you see your papa?”
The boy nodded.
“He is unharmed, Master Rafe. He will tell us what happened when he returns. But for now, let’s continue with our story.”
“Is the man sleeping? Is he not cold to be sleeping in the snow?”
“I think he fell down and is hurt. We will learn more when your father returns.”
The boy accepted her explanation, and after a bit of coaxing, they returned to their pirate adventure. Taffy tried to keep her mind off the scene outdoors and concentrate on attending to Rafe. She hoped the boy had not seen the pool of blood.
“We’re in for a squall, the pirate captain told Rafe, and had him run below to help the cook secure the pots and pans in the galley.” She read on, but it was very hard to will herself to remain calm and ignore what had happened outside. After about twenty minutes, there was a sharp rap at the door. “Taffy, it’s me. Lord Falkirk. Mr. Barrow is with me. Let us in.”
She heard Mr. Barrow’s voice as well assuring her they were unharmed.
“Thank goodness!” She threw the bolt, never more happy to see the pair. “Is it over?”
“We believe so,” Mr. Barrow said, and Taffy immediately knew it wasn’t quite done with yet. Mr. Barrow was a precise man and would not declare an end to an assignment until all the loose ends were neatly tied up in a bow.
“I saw a man…” She dared not say too much within Rafe’s hearing.
“Papa?”
The marquis went to Rafe and picked him up to hug him. He kept the boy in his arms, for the lad was clearly in need of reassurance and sought his father’s comfort. “I am well, Rafe. Were you a good boy while I was gone?”
He curled his arms around his father’s neck. “Taffy read me the pirate story. And Rafe saw seaweed and silver eels. Then he went on the island because the treasure was there.”
“That sounds like quite an adventure. I’m sorry I missed it.”
“Taffy will read it to you at bedtime, if you like. I don’t mind. I like the story. But the boy is Rafe. You can be the pirate captain.