Sharper than he'd expected, particularly since he knew he was putting up a good front. All gangling limbs and innocent smile and curly red hair. He could even have managed to drum up a few freckles for her if they'd let him out into the sunshine sooner. "Why not?"
"Your face," she said. "And there's something about your eyes. Something almost…ageless. Ancient. Dangerous." She gave herself a little shake, and he was reminded of a silky cocker spaniel shaking water from its thick coat. "I think I've had too much whiskey. Sorry."
She'd only had three drinks. If she finished that glass she would be flat on her bum, and while that would solve the problem of where she slept, he wasn't in the mood to haul her dead weight around the huge old house. Assuming he had enough strength left after the last few harrowing hours.
"It must be the young hellions I'm in charge of," he said easily. "They age a man before his time."
She laughed at that, as she was supposed to, and he hoped she'd forgotten her sudden astuteness. He knew the expression that lurked in the depths of his blue eyes. It wasn't ancient. It was dead.
Most people didn't look that closely. He wondered whether Frances Neeley was particularly intuitive. Or whether she had reason to doubt.
She was yawning, and he knew he was going to have to work fast, before she shunted him off to the wrong bedroom. "Where were you planning to put me?" he asked, wishing he dared ask for another Scotch, knowing it wouldn't be a wise idea. In his weakened condition he couldn't drink as much as usual, and he'd already learned he had to keep his wits about him.
"There's a nice bedroom at the east end of the house, with stairs leading down to the beach. I thought that would be perfect for you."
He shook his head. He'd guessed she would try to put him there. He could wind up with his throat cut by dawn, and the tide would wash away any trace of footprints in the sand. "Would it be too much trouble if I slept on the west side of the house? That is, if there are bedrooms there? I have a thing about sunsets."
He could see the doubt in her eyes, but she was unfailingly polite. "Of course. The rooms there aren't as nice, and you can't get to the beach very easily, but the balconies overlook the water. I'll just make up the bed…"
He reached out and caught her wrist just as she was about to dash away. It was a slender wrist, with its own strength. He had enough strength to hold her, but he did so lightly, deceptively. He didn't want her realizing that his limits weren't that overwhelming. "I'll take care of it," he said.
She made one faint, futile tug on her wrist, and then let it rest in his hand. "You're dead on your feet."
"So are you. I can manage. Where are you sleeping?"
That startled her, and he let her go, not wanting to encourage any conclusion jumping. "In the back of the house."
Right again, he thought. He summoned up his sweetest, most self-deprecating smile. "I don't suppose you could hear me if I happened to call you?"
"It's too far away," she said, her doubt immediately replaced by concern. "Do you think you might need help in the night?"
He shrugged with just the right amount of rueful unconcern. "I'm certain the attacks have passed. During the past few months I sometimes got a breathing spasm, and I wouldn't be able to get to my respirator. But I haven't had one in quite some time, and I'm sure I'd be able to manage."
"What's quite some time?"
"Five days," he said blithely. "What about an intercom system? A telephone…?"
"There are three bedrooms on that side. I'll move down," she said firmly.
He almost batted his eyes at her, but decided that would be carrying it too far. "I couldn't ask you to do that."
"You haven't. I've offered. And I insist. Let me get you some warm milk and a touch more whiskey, and then we'll get you settled for the night."
He came up with a wan smile. She was a very motherly soul, was Frances Neeley. He didn't like to be mothered.
If she wasn't involved in this mess, except as a victim, he had the sudden fantasy of finding her once he'd regained his full strength and showing her just how little he needed a mother. Except that he knew he couldn't do that. Couldn't jeopardize his cover. She'd swallowed it completely, and he would be a fool to let his ego shatter that.
An hour later she had him tucked up in bed, wearing a pair of Daniel Travers's silk pajamas. He hated pajamas. The glass of warm milk was beside his bed, and he wondered if she would have the nerve to give him a maternal kiss on the brow before leaving him.
She didn't. "I'll leave my door open a crack in case you need me," she said, looking down at him with an anxious, doting expression. The problem was, she looked even worse than he did by now. The night's activities had taken their toll—she was pale, limp and swaying slightly, and the sooner she fell into bed, the better off they'd all be.