Mine Till Midnight (The Hathaways #1)(73)

Considering the problem of his soon-to-be brother-in-law, Cam bid the driver to wait, and went into the ramshackle house, heedless of the rain that dampened his hair and coat. It didn't especially matter to him if Leo lived or died, but Amelia's feelings mattered very much indeed. Cam would do whatever was necessary to spare her grief or worry. If that meant helping to preserve her brother's worthless life, so be it.

The interior of the house was smoke-filmed and sagging like a once-jaunty creature that had been beaten into submission. He wondered what a builder would make of the place, and how much of the structure could be preserved. Cam imagined what it might look like when it was fully restored and painted. Bright, charming, a touch eccentric. Like his Hathaways.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips at the thought of Amelia's sisters. He could easily become fond of them. Strange, how the idea of settling on this land, becoming part of a family, had become attractive. He was feeling rather... clannish. Perhaps Westcliff had been right—he couldn't ignore his Irish half forever.

Cam stopped at the side of the entrance hall as he heard a noise from upstairs. A thump, a tapping, as if someone were hammering at wood. The nape of his neck crawled. Who the hell could be here? Superstition struggled with reason as he wondered if the intruder were mortal or spectral. He made his way up the stairs with extreme care, his feet swift and silent.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, he listened intently. The sound came again, from one of the bedrooms. He made his way to a half-open door and looked inside.

The presence in the room was most definitely human. Cam's eyes narrowed as he recognized Christopher Frost.

It appeared Frost was trying to pry a piece of paneling from the wall, using an iron pry bar. The wood defied his efforts, and after a few seconds of exertion, Frost dropped the pry bar and swore.

"Need some help?" Cam asked.

Frost nearly leaped out of his shoes. "What the devil? He whirled around, his eyes huge. ''Damnation! What are you doing there?"

"I was going to ask you the same question." Leaning against the doorjamb, Cam folded his arms and stared at the other man speculatively. "I decided to stop here on my way to London. What's behind the panel?"

"Nothing," the architect snapped.

"Then why are you trying to remove it?"

Collecting himself, Frost bent to retrieve the pry bar. He held it casually, but with the slightest change in his grip, the iron bar could easily be turned into a weapon. Cam kept his posture relaxed, not taking his eyes from Frost's face.

"How much do you know about construction and design?" Frost asked.

"Not much. I've done some woodworking now and then."

"Yes. Your people sometimes work as tinkers and bodgers. Perhaps even roofing. But never building. You would never stay long enough to complete the project, would you?"

Cam kept his tone immaculately polite. "Are you asking about me specifically, or the Rom in general?"

Frost approached him, the pry bar firmly in his grasp. "It doesn't matter. To answer your previous question—I am inspecting the house to make an estimate of the damage, and to develop ideas for the new design. On behalf of Miss Hathaway."

"Did she ask you to inspect the house?"

"As an old friend of the family—and particularly Miss Hathaway—I've taken it upon myself to help them."

The phrase "particularly Miss Hathaway" uttered with just a hint of ownership, nearly shattered Cam's self-control. He, who had always congratulated himself on his equanimity, was instantly overrun with hostility. "Perhaps," he said, "you should have asked first. As it turns out, your services aren't needed."

Frost's face darkened. "What gives you the right to speak for Miss Hathaway and her family?"

Cam saw no reason to be discreet. "I'm going to marry her."

Frost nearly dropped the iron bar. "Don't be absurd. Amelia would never marry you."

"Why not?"

"Good God," Frost exclaimed incredulously, "how can you ask that? You're not a gentleman of her class, and... hell and damnation, you're not even a real Gypsy. You're a mongrel."

"All the same, I'm going to marry her."

"I'll see you in hell first!" Frost cried, taking a step toward him.

"Either drop that bar," Cam said quietly, "or I'll dislocate your arm." He sincerely hoped Frost would take a swing at him. To his disappointment, Frost set the bar on the ground.

The architect glared at him. "After I talk to her, she'll want nothing more to do with you. I'll make certain she understands what people would say about a lady who beds down with a Gypsy. She'd be better off with a peasant. A dog. A?

"Point taken," Cam said. He gave Frost a bland smile designed to infuriate. "But it's interesting, isn't it, that Miss Hathaway's previous experience with a gentleman of her own class has now disposed her to look favorably on a Roma? It hardly reflects well on you."

"You selfish bastard," Frost muttered. "You'll ruin her. You think nothing of bringing her down to your level. If you cared for her at all, you would disappear for good."

He brushed by Cam without another word. Soon his footsteps could be heard as he descended the stairs.

And Cam stayed in the empty doorway for a long time, seething with anger, concern for Amelia, and even worse, guilt. He couldn't change the fact of what he was, nor would he be able to shield Amelia from all the arrows that would be aimed at the wife of a Gypsy.