Jade Lee - [Bridal Favors 03] (2 page)

Meanwhile, they climbed to the threshing floor. As expected, there was barely an inch of straw on the floor. Most of the hay was in the loft above. Grant lit a lantern. Fortunately, he knew where candles were kept. It wasn’t as safe as the torch, but it would serve well enough. He had practiced with both.

The boys arranged themselves with a variety of jeers, cheers, and drunken giggles. No one had come bellowing after them to ruin the fun, so they were getting a little bolder in their ribald comments. The only one who seemed worried was Dandy, as the dog dropped onto his haunches and stared mournfully at Grant.

“It’ll be all right, old boy,” Grant said. So long as he kept his hands steady and his wits about him. He debated taking another swig from his flask—if only to steady the thumping of his heart—but realized what he was about to do would require attention. So he chose the prudent course and tucked the real flask away. Then he made a show of picking up his fake flask. That was what he needed now: a jolly good show.

“It’s harder, you know, with candles,” he said loudly. “I might just blow them out.” True enough. “So if I do just as good a show as Harry there, I get the win because this is harder.”

“No, no!” hooted Harry’s friends. “We’re judging the beauty of the fire, old boy. Not Harry’s fault your brother soaked the torch.”

Grant grimaced. It was a delicate line handling a drunken bet. Push too hard, and the “judges” would declare Harry the winner just because they could.

“Fine. Length and beauty of the stream,” he said. “Longer fire, prettier fire.”

He gathered a fistful of candles in his hand. He’d likely burn his hand from hot wax, but he counted it a necessary sacrifice. And with every blister, he’d damn his interfering brother for the pain.

Harry stepped forward and lit the four candles Grant clutched in his fist. Good long wicks, thank God, so the flames rose high.
Time
to
burn!
he thought somewhat gleefully, despite Dandy’s whimper of anxiety.

Grant gestured for Harry to back away. The last thing he’d need was an amateur getting in his way. Then he took a big mouthful of lantern oil. Hideous taste, but he was used to it by now. Then he took a lungful of air, held the candles aloft at the right distance, and misted the oil.

Perfect! The oil fluted just right. The candle flames touched the mist and the flume of fire appeared. Glorious! He’d never done better!

Ka-boom!
whispered his madness.

No ka-boom. A steady plume of flame that kept growing and growing. And growing. What the hell?

Dust. Bloody hell, the
dust
! This was a threshing floor. The problem wasn’t the few bits of wheat left on the threshing floor. Well, that wasn’t the problem at
first
. First, it was the damned dust in the air. So fine that he hadn’t even noticed it. After all, it was a barn. That’s what barns smelled like. But it was in the air, and it was flammable.

He watched in slowly dawning horror as his plume of fire grew, sparking and firing randomly in an expanding cone that fell steadily to the floor. Oil would have extinguished in the air before chest level because he’d aimed upward. But not when the dust motes caught fire and
kept
catching fire. All the way down to the floor where a thin layer of straw sparked immediately.

He gasped and started stomping it out. Then he reached for the bucket of water that he always kept nearby. The bloody bucket of water that was still
outside
with the torch in it.

He stomped on the flames, but it was too late. Hot wax splattered on his hands as he jerked the candles out, but it was a useless act. The fire spread lightning fast. He was still uselessly stomping on the nearest bits when the whole floor burst into flame.

The boys screamed. Harry managed to strip off his jacket and beat at the flames near Grant, but the fire was too big and was rapidly growing too hot.

“Out! Out!” Grant bellowed.

Grimly, Harry nodded, the dismay clear in his red face. Then they both rushed for the door. It was only then that he heard the frightening lowing of the cattle downstairs. The cattle! His family couldn’t lose the cattle! It would ruin them for sure! Then he heard the horses scream, and he remembered all that expensive horseflesh down there as well.

He had to get the barn doors open. And then he had to herd the animals out. Harry was already ahead, slamming a smaller side door open. Grant pivoted, aiming for the main doors. Behind him he heard the roar of the flame—loud and horrifying.

It took all his strength to haul the doors open. He shoved them wide, the rush of cool air a relief even as it gave the fire more life. What had been loud became a screaming inferno.

Where were the cows? The beasts were too stupid to run out. They had to be huddling together and would have to be herded out. Bloody hell, he couldn’t see! The flames were crackling and popping everywhere, and the smoke was so thick, his every breath burned.

He stepped forward and nearly tripped—on what, he hadn’t a clue. Yes, he did. It was Dandy, the dog. The
herding
dog!

He whistled twice—two long, sharp notes—all he could manage in the thickening smoke. It meant it was time to get the cows to pasture. Dandy was off in a wink with Grant stumbling after him. Inside. Into the roaring flame.

He wasn’t thinking about dying. He was thinking of his brother’s face when Will found out he’d burned down the barn. It was manageable if it was just the barn. But they couldn’t lose the cattle. They couldn’t!

So he stumbled inside, coughing and gasping as he tried to find the cows. But the horses were nearest. He ran to the closest stall and slapped the thing to get it moving. Not as dumb as a cow, he decided, because the thing reared, but then ran.

He kept going, one stall after another. Then he found the cows. He didn’t so much find them as fall on top of one. Thankfully, the dog had started to do the work, barking and biting to get the stupid things moving. With Dandy’s help, Grant cursed and kicked and shoved until every one of the dumb creatures ran out through the flames.

Was that six? Had he gotten them all? What about the horses? Were there more? Grant couldn’t tell. He couldn’t breathe, and he sure as hell couldn’t see. His skin felt like it was crackling, and he stumbled forward. Everything was ablaze. Where was the door?

All that straw in the hayloft, all the wood, everything was ablaze and falling down around him. He picked a direction and rushed forward, but he couldn’t make it. He tripped again and dropped to his knees. He had to crawl. Which way?

Something grabbed his wrist. He blinked, sweat and soot in his eyes. Dandy? It was the dog, tugging him forward. That way? Must be.

Trust
the
dog. When all else fails, trust the dog. He’s much smarter than you.

He did. With Dandy leading the way, Grant crawled out of the barn. He was safe. The cows were safe.

The barn collapsed behind him.

I
stand
corrected,
his madness drawled.
Lots
of
luck
here
tonight. And all of it bad.

Wakey, wakey! Your luck isn’t done with you yet.

Unwilling to listen to his inner madness, Grant focused on the externals. He heard the sound of buzzing and felt a heavy hand shaking him awake. He murmured, tasted something hideous in his mouth, and cracked an eye to find someplace to spit. What he saw, however, made no sense whatsoever.

He was in the woods? Couldn’t be. He hadn’t slept outdoors since he’d been a child. A very young child. A gentleman slept indoors and on a bed. And with a willing woman curled around him.

Could
be
your
understanding
of
yourself—as a gentleman or otherwise—is rather flawed.

Grant blinked, but the vision remained the same. He was in the woods and not even in a clearing. The buzzing came from some dratted insect—a bee, he now saw—among the leaves and dirt. He tried to shift, just to see better, but the ache in his muscles had him groaning aloud. What the hell had he slept on?

“You might as well face it. It’s not going away,” the voice said. A man’s voice, deep and clearly aggravated. He recognized it, though it took a moment for his brain to come up with a name. Robert Percy, Lord Redhill, and once his good friend at school.

Then before Grant could process more, the man squatted in front of him and held out a flask. Grant moved for it out of reflex, his hand gripping the thing and bringing it to his mouth, even as his brain tried to talk him out of it. More alcohol was not what he needed just then. A bath and a strong coffee, yes. Brandy—

“Gah!” It was water. He choked on the taste then spit it out. But a second later, he realized he needed it more than he hated it. So he took another swig then emptied the flask. “Thanks,” he rasped.

“I didn’t do it out of charity. I need you clearheaded.”

Grant sighed. That didn’t sound good. In fact, that sounded very, very bad. With a groan, he slowly, carefully, rolled to a sitting position, while letting fly with his most colorful curses. God in heaven, he hurt. Everything hurt. And even worse, his memory was returning.

Oh
yes! Let’s review your lucky evening, shall we?

The bet, the barn, the fire.

He’d rescued the cattle. He remembered that. But the barn. Hell, the barn was gone. He remembered it collapsing. He remembered dropping to the ground and seeing the disaster fill his vision.

There had been shouts. People had come to help. But he hadn’t the voice to direct them. He’d tried, but—

Then his brother had appeared. Will had run up and bellowed orders. Guests and servants alike had helped with buckets of water. But there was nothing to do to save the barn. Their efforts had been to simply contain the disaster. The last thing anyone wanted was for the fire to leap to the woods or the house.

Grant had helped as best he could, but he hadn’t the breath and… He looked at his hands. He hadn’t even noticed, given the general agony of his body, but now he saw the burned patches, blisters, and oozing spots all over his arms. And he was covered in soot.

“How did I get out here?” he rasped.

Robert shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably just crawled here after the worst of the fire was contained.”

Grant grimaced. Obviously, the fire hadn’t hit the woods. Thank God. “The house?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine, except for the barn, of course.”

Damned
lucky, wouldn’t you say?
His madness’s voice was thick with irony.

“You got the animals out, even the cows. Though the tack is gone. And that dog has seen better days.”

He blinked, suddenly alarmed. “Dandy? Dandy’s hurt?”

“Singed. Not so pretty anymore, though how could you tell? But all the ladies are pampering him, feeding him treats, and calling him a hero, so I guess he’s come out ahead.” Robert’s head tilted as his expression hardened. “Your family is worried sick. They have a search party looking for you.”

Grant blinked, startled. Then his groggy brain adjusted, and he shook his head. “Mother is worried. Will…” His voice broke. Now he remembered the last of it. The reason why he’d crawled out here, hoping to die. His brother. His little brother Will, who had once worshipped him, had found him after the worst of the fire had died.

Grant had been half sitting, half lying against a tree, watching the last of the barn fade to ashes. Will had come over, had looked him up and down, and spit. A hard, dark, greasy glob of spittle had landed in the dirt near Grant’s hand. That was it. No words, no questions, just that black glob landing with a splat.

Grant had looked up at him, trying to find the words. There weren’t any, even if he had the voice to say them. He’d created a disaster, and the shame was crippling. Or so he thought, until his brother simply turned and walked away—the cut direct from his own brother.

That’s when true shame hit. When self-disgust overwhelmed him, and he wished with all his heart to die. Right there, right then.

But he didn’t. And he hadn’t the strength to find his own horse and leave. So he’d simply crawled away as deep into the woods as he could manage before he collapsed right here. His last conscious thought was for God to take him in his sleep. A fervent prayer to die and put an end to the miserable folly that was his life.

Sorry, lad, but God isn’t that merciful.

No surprise there. If God were in the habit of listening to any of the Crowles, their lives would be vastly different.

“My brother isn’t worried,” he finally managed. “It’s probably just Mama.”

“And she’s not important?”

Grant cursed. “Of course she is!” He thought night and day of little else but what poverty his mother survived. He sent everything he could back to her and Will, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

Robert grimaced and shifted until he sat on a convenient rock. “Well, I’ve sent a message back that I’ve found you. That you’re safe. I need to talk to you before you face that lot.”

Grant shook his head. He knew from the look on his friend’s face that it was serious. That it was terrible, in fact, and he wasn’t ready. But Robert didn’t give him the luxury of hiding. Instead, he said words that struck terror into his heart.

“Our fathers had a right good time of it yesterday.”

Grant bit back a groan. Drinking buddies with titles. That’s what their fathers were. Drinking buddies with grand ideas and the belief that everything they touched was gold. How many afternoons had he spent cleaning up after his father had enjoyed a “right good time”? And he knew that Robert was just the same. Though there was more money to back his title, Robert had easily spent just as much time quietly managing his father’s disasters. That was, in fact, one of the things that had drawn them together as boys: the solid belief that their fathers were idiots.

“No,” he murmured. He couldn’t face it. “Not yet.”

Remember
that
luck
you
said
was
surrounding
you
last
night? It’s come home to roost,
said his madness.
Listen
to
it.

Meanwhile, Robert waited a bare thirty seconds. Grant took the time to listen to the buzz of the bee, feel the whisper of a breeze across his chilled body, even absorb the ache in his muscles. All were miserable sensations, but they effectively blocked the disaster to come. For thirty seconds. Then Richard spoke.

“They bought a mill.”

Grant snapped his head up, but then immediately regretted it. “A—they—what?”

“A mill. A couple hours’ ride from here. A factory that makes cloth. They bought it.”

“The devil they did! With what money?”

“Your father sold every inch of your land to Lord Lawton. You know that Welsh nabob just back from the Orient? Buried in money, that one. Gave your father a good price for the land.”

“That’s Crowle land!”

Not
anymore, it isn’t.

Grant shook his head, heedless of the pain it caused. “No, no, no, no!” The one word grew louder and more painful with every utterance. And still it echoed in his head. No, he couldn’t possibly have burned down the barn. No, his father couldn’t possibly have sold all their land. It was the one thing sheltering the animals that
fed
his mother over the winter. No, he wasn’t covered in soot, disowned by his brother, and
still
had to manage his father. And no, he wasn’t allowed to kill his bloody idiot of a sire and just be done with the disasters! “No!”

Robert waited out his bellow. They both knew from long experience that one had to get through the fury first before facing what came next. For Grant, it faded out all too fast. He hadn’t the strength to spend in anger, and he didn’t have the tears to shed in self-pity. All he had was a looming, overwhelming sense of shame.

His father, his grandfather, and yes, even Grant—all were useless, pathetic disasters of men. The only one worth anything was his prig of a brother, Will.

Oh
lucky
day. At last you understand.

“Are you done?” inserted Robert.

No, he’d never be done. Not until his father was in the grave. “Yes. Have the papers been signed?”

“The mill purchase, yes. The land sale, no.”

Grant sighed. “Well, that’s something. At least I can stop that.”

“So you have enough cash on hand to pay for his half of the mill?”

Grant winced. No. They didn’t have enough to pay for the wedding they’d just celebrated. Or the tack from all those expensive horses. Saddles were deuced expensive! Not to mention rebuilding a barn that was now nothing but charred stumps.

“We can’t afford the mill, Robert. We haven’t got that kind of money.”

Robert didn’t answer at first. He just sat there and looked hard and cold at his one-time friend. Grant noticed it and winced. He knew that expression, and he knew he didn’t want to hear what was coming next.

In all their time as boys at school, in all the years of friendship that they’d shared, over ale and girls and paternal disasters, there had been only one thing they disagreed on. One particular thought that separated the two boys from being of one mind.

Robert believed that a real man worked. The man found a secret pleasure in laboring day and night, in coming home exhausted and sweaty. In turning down the invitations from friends in order to study ledgers and tallies. In truth, Robert probably lived to make money like the lowest, crassest bootblack. It was his greatest failing as an aristocrat and was the one thing that would keep Robert from the highest levels of society. This focus on money was just too plebeian, and everyone with breeding could sense it.

Grant, on the other hand, believed a gentleman had certain standards to uphold. The peasants needed to see something better in their leaders. And that sweat was the most ungentlemanly affect, unless it appeared in the boxing ring or during a horse race. And even then, of course, it needed to be washed away immediately.

Grant believed in standards. Robert believed in money. That was the core of their difference, and the source of hours of endless debate at school. But they weren’t at school now. And Robert had that look on his face. The one that said Grant was in the soup, and there was no avoiding it.

You’re a worm on a hook, my boy. Best get it over with quick.

“Just say it,” Grant finally spit out. Because suddenly, Robert’s greatest failing was going to be Grant’s salvation. If anyone could figure out a way for the Crowles to come out of this disaster, it would be Robert. His moneymaking mind would have the answer, even if Grant would hate every second of it.

“Sell the land. Fix the mill.”

Grant reared forward. “We can’t sell it! It’s the only support we have!”

“And it needs more repairs. It needs investment that you can’t do. Lawton can. You’re always talking about the obligation of the titled. Well, your people have been suffering, and you haven’t the wherewithal to help them.”

“Will works hard. He’s been trying—”

“He’s only one man, and he needs capital.”

Grant looked at the trees. “And how does Mama survive through the winter?” Will would work. He was a damn good steward. Grant could survive on his own just on gambling. Always had. It was just his parents who were the problem: his father’s gambling and his mother’s life as a titled woman. At least she pinched every penny she could. Had to, given the excesses of her husband. But there were certain standards to be maintained, or so he’d always been told.

Meanwhile, Robert leaned closer. “I’ve been to the mill. For once our fathers weren’t completely hoodwinked. There’s something there. Something that can be built on.”

Grant looked up. “Can you turn it around?”

“No, I can’t.”

What little hope he’d been feeling was crushed flat, and Grant slumped backward. “Well then, how do we sell it to some bigger fools?”

“We don’t sell it. You run it.”

Grant choked on a laugh. “I don’t know a bloody thing about mills.”

“So learn. You’re smart. You’ve got this amazing focus. I’ve never seen you fail when you set your mind to it.” Then he folded his arms. “You knew how to breathe fire, didn’t you? You learned how.”

Grant looked away. “I might have spent some time with a gypsy or two.”

“A month, I’d wager. Learning the skill.” Robert grimaced. “Why do you feel the need to hide hard work? A man shouldn’t be ashamed of honest labor.”

This was an old argument between them, and Grant answered automatically. “Because a gentleman doesn’t
labor
. He
thinks
. That’s the benefit of an education.”

“And maybe he should think
and
work. Like at a mill making cloth.” Then he flashed a rueful smile. “You’ve always had an eye for clothing. Assuming you don’t burn it off.”

Grant snorted. “I’ve got an eye for pretty girls too. Doesn’t mean I know how to make one.”

Robert’s eyebrows shot up, and Grant had to remember his words to understand his friend’s expression. When he did, he grunted in disgust.