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clearly for the first time—the hard, implacable English bedrock beneath the honeyed skin and dazzling smile. And despite the fact that she wanted to think she might see the last of him, Catriona didn’t doubt him in the least.

 
    Chapter Four
     
 
    The moment he was forced by the demands of good breeding and his obligation to his family to let Catriona go, Thomas’s fingers ached for the loss. And without her to hold, to actively keep safe, he immediately felt the enormous lack of a weapon in his hands. Nearly fifteen years in hostile, dangerous lands and he had not spent a moment without a knife and a gun tucked into his waistband. Two days back in peaceful England and he was unarmed, and unable to prevent a shooting at a garden party.
    Bloody, bloody hell. Thomas watched Catriona hurry into the house and away behind the baize door to the servants’ corridors with a feeling close to panic. Every instinct told him not to let her out of his sight, to keep her safe by his side, not to let another moment go by without prying the truth out of her. There was still too much to say, too much that needed explaining.
    But there was also much to do. The estate had to be made secure, and Thomas doubted James, for all his typical efficiency and legions of staff, could be as experienced in such nefarious matters as he. If his bloody double life had cost such a high price, Thomas wanted to at least know he’d gotten value for his ill-spent money.
    The gun room, located within the northeast portion of the house, its windowless walls furnished with dark oak cabinets, was a hive of activity. Shuttered safety lamps revealed James and their father, the Earl Sanderson, together at a central table, poring over a map with a man who was either the steward, the gamekeeper, or possibly the groundskeeper—Thomas’s recollection of the hierarchy of English outdoor servants was sketchy. Nearly fifteen years of being thought little better than a servant himself by his fellow Englishmen had left him with a skewed perception of both his betters and his equals.
    They stopped speaking as he entered.
    Thomas asserted himself into the silence. “Have you secured the perimeter of the estate from the walls outward? The shots came from over the manor wall to the west and—”
    The look James gave him was nearly a glare, so sharp and probing it could have cut glass, though his voice was brittle with calm. “Thank you, Thomas. I’ve already sent my men out. Thank you, Peters,” he said to his steward. “You’ll see to it? Have Foster from the home farm come up to see me as well. You may go, all of you, while I have a word with my brother.”
    James saw his steward out of the room, and returned to his maps with impeccable self-discipline. But Thomas could see his brother’s knuckles were white where his hands clenched the edge of the table in an effort to remain calm and in control.
    For the first time in a very, very long time, Thomas felt the need to explain himself. “James, I have experience—”
    “No doubt.” His brother’s tone grew sharper as his fright for his family overtook his good manners. “I could see that by the experienced way you tossed poor Miss Cates about like a sack of grain. Tell me what the hell is going on, Thomas. Tell me your experience hasn’t followed you here, to my home, to threaten my children and family.” James’s voice rose, raw with suppressed fear. “Tell me.”
    It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Thomas that in the course of fifteen years of clandestine service, he might have acquired an enemy or two. He had spent years in careful consideration of such a possibility, always on the watch for trouble. But he hadn’t expected such trouble to follow him home, to soft, sweet England, to his brother’s manor of all places, a house he had never set eyes upon until a scant half hour ago.
    No. The gunshots had not been fired at him. Nor, as far as he could tell, at the rest of the party. “My apologies, James.