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Breanna complied without question, although her reasons for doing so were different than Royce's. He was protecting her. She was protecting him.
The tension at Medford was becoming unbearable.
Royce spent long, concentrated hours reviewing the guest list, then comparing his updated facts to the reports that arrived daily from his contacts, after which he'd amend the list accordingly. Some of the guests' names were struck, others were labeled with a question mark as Royce went through the laborious process of verifying and eliminating in order to deter-rune the assassin's identity.
The rest of the household was beginning to crumble.
Stacie had dark circles beneath her eyes, and Damen looked like death. Wells was haggard from lack of rest. Even Mahoney and his guards were testy, beginning to wonder if the intruder they were being said to stop would ever come out of hiding so he could be captured.
The overall effect was maddening.
Each day the assassin didn't strike heightened everyone ' s sense of terror. Each of them silently wondered where he was, what he was thinking, what he was planning.
At the same time, they dreaded their answers.
Breanna prayed Hibbert would return soon, bearing something that would lead them in the right (direction.
Most of all, she prayed Royce would get the killer before the killer got to him.
Sighing, she crossed the bedchamber, seeking her greatest tangible source of comfort.
Her porcelain figure.
Not just any figure, but her most prized one—the statue of the two girls picking flowers.
The one that held her silver coin.
Breanna lifted the statue and touched the coin, r e-living the moments when her grandfather had gifted it to her, and its mate, the gold coin, to Stacie.
He'd wanted so much for them. He'd wanted their future.
Dear God, how she wanted to give that to him. “Breanna?” Royce hovered in the doorway, his tone gentle. “It's almost time for dinner. I'll walk you downstairs.” A pause. “Are you all right?”
“Of course.” She forced a smile to her lips before turning to face him. “I was just thinking.”
He didn't look one bit fooled by her pretense. He walked deeper into the room, then spied what she was holding. “We have a few minutes. Would you like to tell me whatever it is you're conveying to your statues?”
“Not all my statues,” she corrected softly. “Just one in particular.”
“Ah.” He walked over, studied the porcelain girls amid the flower bed. “Does that figure have special meaning?”
“Yes. Very special.” This time her smile was genuine. “Do you remember the coins I told you about? The ones Grandfather gave Stacie and me when we were six?”
He nodded. “Silver for you, gold for Anastasia.”
“With Medford Manor engraved on both, so we'd someday find our way back home forever—obstacles or not. It was Grandfather's way of reminding us what was important. And that something is family.” She worked the coin free. “I keep it here, in this statue. The girls remind me of Stacie and me.” She held out her hand. “Would you like to see it?”
“I'd be honored.” Royce took the coin, turned it over in his palm. “It's the perfect symbol for you and Anastasia. Your grandfather was a very wise man.”
“Wise and loving. I always wished he'd been my father instead of my grandfather.” She swallowed, stared down at the floor. “I never want to disappoint him. In a way, I feel that by endangering Stacie and me—and most especially his future great-grandchild—I ha
ve.”
“That's ridiculous.” Royce glanced about the shadowy room, then over at the window. Convinced it was dark enough so they couldn't be seen, he reached for her, took her in his arms. “Your grandfather could be nothing but proud. You're a remarkable woman.”
“Extraordinarily special,” Breanna murmured, ribbons of memory drifting through her mind. “That’s how Grandfather always referred to Stacie and me.”
“I couldn't agree more.”
