Leslie LaFoy (41 page)

Darice stamped her foot again and commanded, “Leave us, you odious man.”

“And miss an opportunity to learn from a master?” Edmund countered, laughing as he picked up a decanter. “Wild horses couldn't drag me away. I'll be so quiet, you won't even know I'm here. Ready for that next brandy yet, Devon?”

Devon held out his glass for filling while meeting
Darice's gaze squarely. “What little there ever was between us is done, Darice. We've been done for months. Accept it and stop embarrassing both of us.”

“There you go. All full up,” Edmund announced blithely as he moved away. “I'll be over here if you need more.”

Darice stepped closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don't be a fool, Devon. I have so much to offer you. Money, land, slaves. Everything you could possibly want.”

“I don't want your money.” He pointedly looked her up and down before cocking a brow and adding, “Or anything else you're offering. How many times do I have to say it?”

Snarling wordlessly through her clenched teeth, she fumbled with her wrapper. It wasn't until she found the sleeves and was ramming her arms into them that she also found her voice. “You were forced to marry Claire because you couldn't afford to pay Wyndom's debt. You don't owe her fidelity, Devon. And you certainly don't owe her a real marriage. You don't love her and you don't want her for anything more than one quick tumble. Admit it.”

Devon threw the full contents of his snifter down his throat. It seared all the way, taking his breath and filling him with a fire that momentarily burned brighter and hotter than his anger. When the sharpest edge faded, he was marginally in control of his impulses.

“What's between Claire and me is our business, not yours,” he declared. “I won't discuss it with you. Not now. Not ever.”

“I'm not the least bit interested in talking, Devon,” Darice pronounced just before she wheeled around and marched away, her shoulders squared and her nose held high.

If he'd had his head on straight, he'd have ordered her out of the house right that instant. But the idea of
going after her to issue the command now… No, it would be far more masterful to issue it in the clear, cool light of morning.

“Well,” Edmund said quietly, dryly, “that was certainly an interesting exchange.”

“I need to find Claire,” he replied, ramming his fingers through his still-damp hair. “She shouldn't be left alone. I don't trust Darice.”

“Claire got drenched going out to the kitchen. She's probably still in her room, changing into dry clothes. And speaking of the kitchen… I promised a certain lilting lass that I'd be back. I also promised a wet and indignant English girl that I'd deliver you into her protection before I did.” Edmund stepped to the door and indicated the hall leading to the foyer and the stairs. “So if you'd be so kind as to stomp this way…”

Devon brushed his shoulder as he stormed past him, saying, “I can make it to the top of the stairs and down the hall without an escort.”

“I am a man of my word,” his friend countered as he fell in behind. “And Darice could be lurking in the shadows, waiting to leap out and press her soft, nubile form against the sculpted planes of your—”

“Oh, shut up.”

Edmund's laughter was a balm, no doubt helped by the sudden impact of the brandy he'd all but inhaled. Halfway up the stairs, the tightness in his chest began to ease enough that he could fully exhale. Opening his fists, he flexed his hands, forcing the blood to flow back into his fingers.

At the top of the stairs, he slowed and then stopped, grabbing Edmund by the arm and staying him as he tried to figure out what it was that prickled the hair on the back of his neck. It had been there and then it was gone. He listened for a sound, taking slow, deep breaths so he could hear better. He'd almost given up when he tasted the acrid pall.

“Do you smell smoke?” he asked, his heart hammering as he quickly looked along both wings for the smallest signs of fire. He saw nothing. Not even the usual faint light that spilled out from under the doors this time of night.

“God, yes, now that you mention it, I do.”

Hadn't Edmund said that Claire was changing her clothes? Would she do that in the dark? Fighting back a rising tide of apprehension, he strode down the corridor that housed himself, Claire, and Wyndom, saying, “You check the rooms on the left side and I'll get those on the right.”

He went straight to Claire's bedroom door, vaguely aware of the low rumble of Edmund's voice behind him. “Claire!” he called, knocking hard enough to rattle the frame. There was no answer and he grasped the knob, turned it, and pushed. The door didn't move and dreadful certainty rammed his heart into his throat.

He raced for his own door, throwing it wide and dashing to the door that connected his room to Claire's. The bolt had been thrown and a strip of something lumpy and white had been stuffed into the crack along the lower edge. He kicked the latter aside as he fumbled to push the lock open, his hands shaking and his breathing ragged with burgeoning panic.

The door gave way only a bit, and a dense cloud of bitter smoke rolled over him. He put his shoulder and all of his might into the door, shoving his way into the blackened, roiling room. He froze, holding his arm over his nose and mouth, desperately trying to see, desperately straining to hear anything above the popping and crackling of the fire in the hearth.

“Claire!”

The sound came from his left, small and distant and weak. “Claire!” he called again, moving in the direction of the noise. He heard it more clearly the second time, and hope surged through his veins. Scrambling to the
armoire, he kicked aside a wicker basket and yanked open the door. A cry of relief strangled in his throat as Claire, naked and gasping weakly, fell out into his arms. His eyes tearing, his throat tight and raw, he cradled her close and blindly raced for the patch of thinner smoke that marked the entrance to his room and the relatively cleaner air beyond it.

“I'll get the damper and the windows!” he heard Edmund call from somewhere in the blackness.

He didn't care what anyone got, what anyone did. He had Claire and she was alive and that was all that mattered. For now, he amended, carrying her to the window and carefully setting her on her feet. She clung to him weakly, her cheeks stained with smoke and tears, her breathing shallow.

“Devon,” she whispered brokenly, sagging into him, a fresh wave of tears washing over her cheeks.

“I'm here. I won't let you go,” he promised, holding her steady and close in the circle of one arm as he quickly undid the lock and flung the window open.

“Breathe,” he gently commanded, guiding her, holding her, so that they both leaned over the sill and out into the clean, cool air of the night. The rain poured down and the wind whipped her hair, and her tortured gasping turned to silent sobs that wracked her body and battered his heart.

“Deep, deep breaths, sweetheart,” he instructed soothingly, trying to hold her hair out of her face. “I know it hurts, but you have to clear your lungs.”

Behind him he heard the connecting door slam shut, and with a start he realized both that Edmund was there and that Claire was still as naked as he'd found her. “I'm going to leave you for just a second,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before pushing himself from her side.

Through the haze, he could see that Edmund was diligently shoving the cloth back along the bottom of the
door. As Devon tore the coverlet off his bed and wrapped it around Claire's lower half in a single smooth motion, his friend quietly observed, “There's a petticoat just like this one stuffed along the lower inside edge of her door. I left it in place to contain the smoke. Which is dissipating rather quickly now that the damper and the windows are open.”

“Thank you.”

Edmund said something else, but Devon was already leaning out the window again, gathering Claire back into his arms. She was drenched and shivering, whether from the cold or from the aftereffects of fear, he couldn't tell. He smoothed the wet hair off her forehead and tucked her head under his chin. She snuggled into him and he closed his eyes, thankful for the gift of her survival.

The next window over slid open and Edmund leaned out. “The smoke's almost gone in here. How is she?”

Devon eased back and she smiled up at him. Was there a more dauntless woman on earth? he wondered as he asked, “Better?”

“Yes, much.” Her voice quavered, but it was infinitely, blessedly stronger than before. She arched a brow and her voice was stronger still when she added, “All things considered, of course. May I come inside now? I'm beginning to prune.”

He planted a quick kiss in the center of her forehead and then loosened his hold on her, saying, “I'll go first so I can manage the coverlet for you. We don't want to offend Edmund's tender sensibilities.”

She started and tried to look back over her shoulder. “Oh, God. Did he see—”

“No,” Devon quickly assured her, not knowing whether it was true, but certain that it was what she needed and wanted to hear. “The smoke was too thick. And I covered you while he was busy securing the door.”

She visibly relaxed and he smiled, drawing the coverlet up around her as she moved back from the sill. How interesting that she didn't seem concerned about
him
having seen her unclothed. And how badly he wanted to throw away the coverlet, wrap her in his arms, and warm her with passion. Reluctantly, mindful of Edmund's presence, he bundled her to her chin, offering a silent promise to kiss her senseless the minute they were alone.

Claire looked up at him, her heart achingly full, her soul begging to be enveloped again in the comfort and strength of his embrace. She wanted to be rid of the coverlet, to twine her arms around his neck and press her body against the warmth of his. She wanted him to kiss her, to touch her and love her until all the horrible memories were gone forever.
Go away, Edmund
, she silently, desperately pleaded.
Please go away
.

As though he'd heard her mention his name, the solicitor quietly asked, “Are you sure you're all right, Claire?”

She nodded and held her breath, waiting and hoping he'd say something about returning to Meg and then excuse himself.

“Good,” Devon declared, his jaw slowly turning to granite. “Now, tell me what happened.”

No. This wasn't what she wanted. The magic was already slipping away; she could feel it ebbing with every frantic beat of her heart. She closed her eyes, willing the enchantment back and Devon's arms around her.

“Claire.” He gently took her chin in hand and tilted her face up. “Open your eyes and tell me what happened.”

It was too late to hope; she could hear the distance in his voice, the resolve. She obeyed, her heart heavy. “I was getting my breeches from the drawer when someone came up behind me, pushed me inside the armoire, and closed the door. I heard thumping in the room and then
a hard bang, but it wasn't until I began to smell the smoke that I realized that they'd fed the fire and closed the damper. There wasn't anything I could do except beat on the door and scream and hope someone would hear me.”

Someone tried to kill me
. The words were unspoken but there nonetheless, reverberating softly, clearly audible above the sounds of wind and rain.

His eyes went cold. And as she had known he would, he turned and left her to stand alone. “Stay with her, Edmund,” he snapped as he strode out of the room. “Don't let her out of your sight.”

She stared into the darkness of the hall, numbly fighting back tears.

Edmund was suddenly at her side, his arm around her shoulders and a measure of quiet urgency in his voice as he said, “Do tell me that you're capable of stumbling along in his wake. Please. If we don't go after him, there won't be anyone to keep him from killing her.”

She nodded, realization slowly plowing through the tumult of her emotions. Darice. Devon was on his way to Darice's room. “Go,” she instructed, already working to ease the restrictions of the coverlet. “I'll be there as soon as I can move.”

He was gone as the sound of splintering wood echoed down the hall. With trembling hands and pounding heart, Claire hastily fashioned a makeshift toga and, at Darice's high-pitched scream, hiked its skirt above her ankles and scrambled out the door.

Wyndom was ahead of her, making his torturously slow way down the center of the hall. She didn't slacken her pace, didn't ask for him to move out of her way. There wasn't time. She could hear Edmund and Devon bellowing. And then the chaos deepened with Elsbeth and Mother Rivard bolting from their rooms, their cries of alarm punctuating Darice's hysterical screams.

Turning sideways, Claire tried to shoot through the narrow space between Wyndom and the wall. He moved toward her in the last second, and despite her yelp of warning and effort to twist out of his way, their shoulders connected. With a cry of pain, he went reeling back.

“Apologies,” she shouted, continuing her course, watching Devon's mother and her sister rush into Darice's room as the screaming and bellowing abruptly ceased.

Her lungs and throat burning, her sides aching, Claire reached the shattered doorway and clung to what was left of the jamb as she desperately surveyed the dark shadows of the room. Devon was against the far wall, pinned there by Edmund's shoulder and the full weight of his body and determination. Darice sat in a heap on the floor, sobbing, her hands wrapped loosely around her neck as Elsbeth sat down beside her and gathered her into her arms.

Claire slumped with relief, grateful that Edmund had been there and able to avert disaster. She glanced down the hall to check on Wyndom's condition and found him hobbling along. She recalled how he'd been moving before they'd collided and decided that he was none the worse for the unfortunate encounter. The compress didn't seem to have done any good for him, though; if anything, his limp was more pronounced tonight than it had been this morning.

“I hate you,” Darice sobbed. “I hate you all.”

Devon, his blood still boiling and his heart trying to hammer itself out of his chest, attempted to push Edmund's weight away.