Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (44 page)

Bodwin had not missed that searching gaze and offered smugly, "If
you are looking for Hartwell, he's gone. He wouldn't have helped you,
anyway. He is quite totally spineless. He needed you dead but couldn't
bear to watch it. I rather fancy he is at this moment driving your
coach hell for leather toward Weymouth and the first ship he can find."

Receiving only a bored stare by way of comment, he sighed. "I really
must go. Such a lovely morning for a duel, don't you agree? Cheerio,
Whitthurst. Keep your chin up!"

The Viscount's breathless response was pithily explicit, and Damon
laughed. Bodwin shook his head reprovingly, then started for the door.
Outwardly calm, he was inwardly in a raging fury. They were being so
very stoical! He bethought himself of a detail and, smiling, turned
back to tap his cane gently against Damon's lacerated cheek. "I forgot
to tell you, old fellow. You were so very cooperative to sell your
Mama's locket. It was made to order for me! What a pity you will not
see the miniatures I commissioned—you'd have liked them. And they did
the trick so well. My timing, you know, never fails. Now I shall go to
the funerals and weep. I weep so convincingly…"

Damon's poise vanished. Struggling against the ropes, he gasped with rageful futility, "By God! If I ever get out of this!"

"But you cannot, poor lad. We shall replace the fences as we leave, and no one knows you are here. I should
so
love to stay and watch. But I shall see the fire from my coach…I mustn't be greedy, must I?"

"Cam…" Whitthurst's voice was a sob of despair. "I can't hold this damned thing… much longer!"

"You must!" gasped Damon. "I've…I've nigh…got it clear! Hang on, Whitt!"

He wrenched frantically. He'd had no intention of ever again donning
the built-up boot, but the prospect of attempting to stop the duel
while he limped about had been repugnant. Now he could only thank God
he'd worn it, for by an ironic quirk of fate his infirmity was their
one hope. Whoever had tied him had made his bonds cruelly tight. His
left foot was already numbed, the rope having bitten deep into the soft
leather. The reinforced boot, however, had not been crushed at all, and
if he could but drag his foot out and push the boot clear, the
resultant slackening of the ropes must allow his left foot to escape,
also. His efforts were agonizing, but to be trampled beneath countless
iron-shod hooves would be incalculably worse, wherefore he clenched his
teeth and pulled savagely.

"The horses!" choked Whitthurst, slanting a look at the nervous
animals. "They must…smell the…oil!" His face was streaked with sweat,
and his arm shook visibly, the lamp essaying a crazy dance on its small
shelf.

It was a miracle, thought Damon, that the poor fellow had been able
to last this long, for it seemed an eternity since Bodwin had minced
out of the barn. "You've done splendidly. Whatever… happens, it's not—"
His struggles ceased, his heart thundering as a white stallion,
plunging away from another animal, broke through the rope. The horse
trotted toward him, pranced to the side, stamped about uncertainly,
then came closer. The great head swooped down; the nostrils sniffed at
him. Damon, sick and nauseated, managed to shout, "Get back! Damn you!"
The stallion reared, the powerful hooves smashing down scant inches
from the prostrate man. It was all the impetus Damon needed; one
racking effort and his foot was free. He kicked desperately at the
still-trapped boot, shouting again so that the stallion's eyes rolled,
his ears laid back, and he moved uneasily toward the two mares who had
started after him.

"Cam…old sportsman…" Whitthurst's voice was a sob of despair. "I… I
can't hold my… dashed arm up… any longer! Cam, I… can't… I—Oh, God!"

The club fell from his hand. His arm dropped helplessly. Damon's
throat constricted with horror as the lamp seemed almost to float down.
For an instant it did not catch, but then one flicker exploded into a
column of fire. Whitthurst shrank away as the blaze licked up beside
him. Fighting madly to free himself, Damon succeeded in pushing the
boot through the ropes and tore his left foot clear. The stallion
jumped away from the fire and he and the mares ran back towards the
other animals. A line of fire was streaking to the bales, and the
terrified horses screamed as another great pillar of flame shot up
amongst them. They raced for the doors, collided with the stallion and
his mares, and milled in a plunging, rearing panic. Damon, twisting his
body frantically, had one brief second before that frenzied confusion
became a ravening stampede for freedom… over him! His wrists were still
hopelessly tied, but his fingers gripped the rail, and with a strength
born of desperation, he half scrambled, half flung himself to the side.

The thundering mass of horseflesh was upon him as his knees struck
the fence. He hooked one foot over the bottom rail, but there was not
sufficient space to squeeze through, and he could only flatten himself
against the rough wood and pray. Sound was deafening; the floor shook;
smoke and dust choked him. His heart all but jumped through his chest
as something smashed against his back, beating the breath from his
lungs. Splinters drove into his cheek as he was rammed against the
rails. A hoof whipped through his hair, missing his scalp by a whisper;
another stunning impact seemed to crush in his ribs, and his senses
swam, his grip weakening. Sagging helplessly, he knew this was death
and begged it might be quick. A terrified screaming… a tremendous crash…

"
Cam
!" The agonized scream sliced through the mists in his
brain. Whitt! He peered about disbelievingly. He had slumped down from
his desperate hold on the rails and was sprawled on the floor, yet his
body was not being sliced to pieces under those plunging hooves. The
horses had gone! Contrary to Bodwin's plans, they'd beaten the doors
down with their first thundering charge. He was still alive! Through
clouds of acrid smoke the Viscount was barely visible, cringing away
from the flames, coughing, his streaming eyes fearfully riveted to what
he had obviously thought the lifeless body of his "uncle."

"I'm… all right!" Damon howled, and began to fight the ropes about
his wrists. The heat was incredible. When the flames reached the stores
of paint and varnish, they were done! His hands were very strong. With
all his might he wrenched and tore at his bonds. Had his wrists been
bound together, he may have succeeded; as it was, however he struggled,
he could neither reach the knots nor loosen the rope; even the slippage
that blood provided failed to allow him to pull free. His heart sank;
it was taking too long. The fire was closing in on Whitt. Another
minute or two and he'd be enveloped. Abandoning the useless effort,
Damon twisted until his knees were under him, and, gripping the bottom
rail, fought to drag it from the end post. With his wrists bound he
could not get a proper hold. The smoke was blinding him, and he coughed
and spluttered, his eyes streaming. The end post was heavier than the
regular supports, and the rails rested there in deep sockets. Reversing
his tactics, Damon used the rail as a battering ram, and pounded
savagely at the post. He thought his wrists must break, but—had the
post shifted a little, or was that the shimmering heat distortion? He
rammed the rail home again and this time the post definitely tilted.
Another slam. He swore in anguish, but the end of the rail slipped from
the socket.

Hope flaring, he heaved desperately. If he could pull the entire
length of the rail through the other posts, he would be able to get to
Whitt. He succeeded briefly, but then the rail refused to budge. He
could not see through the smoke, but whatever impeded it was quite
immovable. Cursing with frustration, he threw himself back, striving
with all his might to break the rail off short, but for all he
achieved, it might have been cast of iron. His last alternative was to
drag his hands along to the end, but in this he was foiled by the ropes
catching on the rough wood. It was his only hope, however. Ignoring the
pain of torn flesh, he strove with all his strength. Slowly, jerkily,
the ropes began to move. He'd been secured not too far from the end
post and the rail narrowed where it had been shaped to fit into the
socket. The last foot was easy. He slid the ropes over the end,
clambered to his feet, and tottered toward Whitthurst.

Coughing incessantly, blinded by the dense smoke, he flung an arm
across his eyes, fear that the flames had won making him lurch into a
run, only to trip over a sprawled shape and fall heavily. Whitthurst,
lying beside him, gasped, "Ropes… burnt… through!"

Damon sat up, peering at him. His jacket was charred and his
eyebrows and hair singed, but a quivering grin and a wink attested to
his indomitable courage. A can of paint exploded with a boom like a
cannon, and Damon bent protectively over Whitthurst as blazing sprays
shot through the smoke. "Come… on!" he wheezed, and on hands and knees
they started to where he prayed the doors were. They had gone only a
few yards, however, when the Viscount crumpled in a paroxysm of
coughing. Half smothered, Damon turned back, slipped an arm about him,
and pulled insistently.

"No… use," croaked the Viscount. "I'm… finished. Get out, Cam! Must think… of Sophia!"

"I
am
thinking of her!
Move
! You damned… lazy sluggard!"

Whitthurst gave a faint, weary smile, struggled up, and collapsed.

"Blast your…miserable…hide!" groaned Damon. He dragged the
Viscount's arm across his shoulders and crawled on, choking, through
the inferno. Sparks rained down. Another boom outroared the flames, and
the glare and heat intensified. His lungs were on fire… he was near
blinded… his knees were giving out, his strength too far gone for him
to be able to carry Whitthurst's dead weight. He sprawled helplessly
but, refusing to give up, tugged at him, cursing him in faint, sobbing
gasps.

A large boot rammed into his side, and he uttered a cry of mingled
pain and shock. Startled hazel eyes peered down at him. A mighty arm
came to aid him. Ariel! The tears that filled his eyes had little to do
with smoke. He shoved the big hands away and gestured to the inanimate
figure of the Viscount. Ariel bent. Whitthurst was swung up and over
his shoulder. His other hand slipped under Damon's arm. The Marquis
leaned on him gratefully and somehow found the strength to stumble
along. The billowing smoke was suffocating… he was vaguely aware of
scorching heat and the deafening voice of the sheeting flames; and
ever, that blessed, supporting arm.

He was outside, under lowering, cloud-heavy skies. It was cold, and
with a dull sense of incredulity, he saw that the sun was not yet
risen, although the skies were lightening to the touch of dawn. Had it
then been only a very short interval? Was that possible? It had seemed
a lifetime! Rain was falling, and he could have kissed each drop. Ariel
left him, and he sat thankfully in the rain, coughing and spluttering,
drawing in great gulps of the beautiful, cool air. Whitthurst lay close
by, coughing hoarsely, and Damon was astounded to see Marcus Clay
kneeling beside him but with his gaze riveted to the holocaust of the
barn.

Following that gaze, he saw Ariel silhouetted against the pulsing
glare, Trask's limp body in his arms. Even as he watched, a section of
the loft collapsed. Ariel ducked but failed to straighten up. He was
only a few yards from safety, but his shaggy head lifted, the glare
illuminating an expression of agonized helplessness on his broad
features.

"Christ!" Damon struggled to his feet. "His back!" He tottered
forward while Clay sprinted madly for the barn. But they could never be
in time. Another section of the loft came down; clouds of fire roared
round the big man. Damon groaned aloud as a blazing board plummeted
down. It slammed across those broad shoulders.

"That's the dandy!" roared Ariel and with one mighty leap was clear.

"Esther and I were at Parapine for Yolande's Ball," said Clay,
gingerly cutting away the ropes that still encircled Damon's wrists.
"When I heard about the duel, I rode like fury to get here in time to
warn you. Thompson told me you were already on your way, and I decided
to follow and see what happened. Fond of 'em both, y'know. Gad! What a
mess you've made here! We'd best—"

"Never mind that," said Damon urgently. "How did you find us?"

"Met Hartwell driving your carriage and looking deuced rum. I give
him a hail, and he come down on me like a load of bricks. Poor fellow
had a beast of a hole in his arm. I bound it for him, and when he woke
up, he started yowling that Bodwin had gone off his upper works and
intended to put a period to you two. He kept screaming that I must
hurry or I'd be too late. Tell you the truth, if it hadn't been for
that arm, I'd have thought his intellect had become disordered!"

"Amory…" breathed Damon, a twisted smile lighting his smoke-blackened face.

"What? Oh—quite. Well, at all events, I rode here at the gallop and
met Ariel coming home from his bachelor party, very well foxed. When I
told him what Hartwell had said, he sobered up in a hurry and ran along
behind. We got to the spa in time to see smoke begin pouring out of the
barn. We were about to tear the fence down when what looked like all
the remounts for the Household Brigade come roaring out of that barn!
They took down the fence for us, but my Rajah spooked, and by the time
I'd managed to bring him back to earth, Ariel was already inside and
hauling you and Whitt— Cam! Good Lord! I
must
get you home. These wrists are—"

"No time!" Damon stood and peered through the rain. "Where the devil is Whitt?"

"Rest easy. If there are any hacks about, he'll spot 'em. I'll tell
you frankly, when I saw Luke haul him out of the barn, I thought he was
done for! Remarkable that he could have come that close to being fried
and escape with just a few burns."