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Mentally, she reviewed what was left to do.
Her bed.
She crossed over, rearranging the bedcovers and stuffing the pillows beneath it until it looked as if someone was not only there, but deeply asleep. That way, if her maid should check on her, all would seem normal.
With a satisfied nod, Breanna completed the final detail of her attire. She slid open the nightstand drawer and extracted the pistol, shoving it into the pocket of her coat. Now she was ready.
Twelve fifteen. Almost time.
She wandered about the room, running her fingertips over her porcelain figures and reflecting back over the cryptic war of words she'd had with her father—a war that had ended with him exploding in a manner so irrational that it made her wonder if he'd truly gone over the edge. The enmity in his eyes, the trembling fury in his voice, the frenzied way he'd thrown her out… Even now Breanna shuddered.
Maybe she'd pushed him too far. She'd sensed his surprise and his anger when she freely offered him information on Stacie and Damen's feelings for each other. Clearly, he'd expected her to lie. Which also meant he had no recollection of what he'd blurted out yesterday while in a drunken rage—the reference to Stacie as Damen's partner in bed. If he'd recalled saying it, he would have known why she'd called his bluff, given him the truth she already knew he possessed.
But the rest of what she'd said to him…
Breanna frowned, unconsciously picking up the figure of the two little girls, holding it tightly in her hands. She'd known she would provoke him with that reference to people getting what they deserve. But she hadn't been able to restrain herself. It had been a stupid thing to say—she was fully aware that she'd made him suspicious of how much she knew. Nevertheless, she couldn't regret it. She hated him for what he was doing, and in some small way, she needed him to know that.
However, his control had snapped when she mentioned fate putting the right people together. She hadn't planned on telling him she knew about Aunt Anne; that had just slipped out in the heat of anger. Still, even she had never anticipated the intensity of his rage.
Well, it was too late now for regrets. She couldn't retract her words even if she wanted to. Whatever her father believed, however furious he was, the damage was done, the die cast.
As for his reaction to her statement about life-altering events, obviously he was worried about how Stacie's future would affect his. She'd be marrying Damen, joining her life with his…
Having his children.
Breanna's head shot up, the realization accosting her. Of course. That's what her father's fears stemmed from. He knew Stacie and Damen were intimately involved. He was probably terrified that she was pregnant. In his mind, that would explain why she'd run off.
It would also explain his absolute determination to find her. To find her and rid himself of her—especially if she was also carrying a child he wanted gone, its conception undiscovered. She could almost imagine her father's thoughts: If he shipped Anastasia off to Rouge quickly enough, he could pass this child off on another man and no one would ever be the wiser. But if he waited too long…
A surge of fear shot through Breanna. Her father's panic was escalating. He stood to lose more and more with each passing day. Lord only knew what lengths he would go to to find Stacie and transport her to Rouge.
She had to stop him.
Biting her lip, Breanna replaced the porcelain figure on her bureau, pausing only long enough to caress the edge of the silver coin, which was gently nudged in its slot between the little girls and the flowers. "Help me, Grandfather," she whispered aloud. "Help me find the strength to do what I must. And please—help Stacie."
She turned away from her bureau, dashed away the moisture from her lashes.
Her glance fell on the clock.
Twelve twenty-five. Time to act.
Savoring the reassuring weight of the pistol in her coat and her grandfather's presence in her heart, Breanna went to the door, eased it open.
The hallway was deserted.
She made her way to the landing, hiding in the alcove and listening for noises below—noises that would indicate her father's departure.
Three minutes later, she heard them.
Quick, purposeful strides—her father's—walked the length of the front hall to the entranceway. The door opened, then shut, its firm click echoing through the empty hallway.
Breanna counted to ten. Then, she scooted down the staircase and darted in the opposite direction, down the corridor that led to the manor's side door, and the eastern portion of the drive.
She glanced into her father's study as she ran by, shivering as she remembered the rage on his face when he'd shoved her out.
A shiny object near the threshold caught her eye.
Without the slightest notion why, Breanna stopped long enough to bend down and pick up the object. It turned out to be a small, ornate picture frame, one that housed a tiny portrait. The portrait was of a woman, one with delicate features, fair skin, and a cloud of honey brown hair.
