Authors: Stephanie Laurens
Yrs respectfully, Molly
The note looked genuine. The words were carefully inked; it was easy to imagine a seamstress laboring over its composition.
Lucifer waited for his panic to recede. It didn’t. Some primitive part of him was on full alert, prodding like some diabolical demon with a fiery prong for him to move—fast. His body was tensed, tight with the need to fly into action.
He swore and juggled the notes.
Was it intuition that urged that she wasn’t safe, that she was, in fact, walking into danger? Or was it instinct, elemental, primal, that insisted she was not truly safe except when in his care?
Or was it simply panic, the black fear that, at any time she was out of his sight, she might be taken from him?
He thrust the questions aside and tried to make sense of Phyllida’s directions. The old Drayton cottage stood some way north of the fields bordering the lane to Dottswood and Highgate. He’d heard it described as abandoned. While his logical mind reiterated that all would be well, that the murderer could not know that Phyllida was out walking alone that way, even his logical mind had to admit the Drayton cottage sounded an odd rendezvous for some woman walking from Ballyclose to suggest.
Who knew what went on in the minds of women?
His own words uttered earlier in relation to Phyllida. He thrust the notes into his pocket. “I’ll follow Miss Tallent.”
Dodswell nodded. “Aye. I’ll wait here and keep an eye out.”
The way was clear to the point where the narrow ridge lane met the village lane. Thereafter, Lucifer checked Phyllida’s instructions frequently as he strode along walking paths, over fields, across stiles, past copses. The sun rode the sky and beat down on his shoulders. It would have been a pleasant walk if he hadn’t been so tense, if he hadn’t been striding so fast.
Rounding a copse, he paused to consult Phyllida’s note. The breeze shifted—he smelled smoke.
Head up, he sniffed—and caught the scent again. He glanced at the note, then stuffed it into his pocket and started to run.
He had one more field to cross; the abandoned cottage supposedly lay in a clearing beyond. He broke through the hedge and ran full tilt through the knee-high crops. Trees screened what lay ahead, but the smoke was more definite on the breeze. He vaulted the gate and plunged into the trees. A greedy crackling reached his ears.
Bursting from the trees, he saw the cottage standing on a low crest above him, already well alight. The front door stood open; as he raced up the flags of an old garden path, he registered the fact that the door was propped open. Windows were open, too.
The roof was old thatch, brittle and dry; flames were already thrusting through it. The open windows and door fed the inferno.
Smoke billowed out at him as if trying to drive him from the door. He coughed, turned away, dragged in a breath, then dove in.
His eyes watered; even ignoring that, he could barely see. Smoke curled and eddied, a tangible shroud growing thicker by the minute. He felt walls to his right and left. A corridor. Head down, hand outstretched, his handkerchief held to his nose and mouth, he felt along it.
Wood—a doorframe. He went to turn into the room. His feet struck something; he lurched and fell to his knees.
Flames raced across the room’s ceiling with a whooshing roar. They licked over the top of the doorframe, voraciously reaching for the sustaining air outside.
On his hands and knees, Lucifer coughed. He’d lost his handkerchief; he could barely breathe. His lungs already felt raw.
What had he tumbled over? He reached out blindly; he could have wept with relief when his hands closed over a leg—a female leg. Phyllida—or the seamstress? He reached further, going quicker and quicker, tracing the body, until he got to her head. Her hair.
Phyllida. The feel of the silken fall under his palm was a remembered delight. The shape of her skull cradled in his hand was imprinted on his brain.
Phyllida.
The relief was so great, for an instant he stopped, head down, and struggled to take it in. She lay facedown, still breathing, but barely.
He could barely breathe himself; he couldn’t concentrate, could hardly think.
A long, groaning creak sounded overhead; a sharp crack like a pistol shot echoed. Another gout of whooshing flames seared the air above them, eating it up. The heat intensified, beating down on them, scorching, shriveling.
He could no longer expand his chest. Taking shallow little breaths, he staggered to his feet, not straightening. Bending over Phyllida, he grasped her waist, then struggled and shrugged and wrestled her over his shoulder.
A shower of cinders rained down as he turned to where he knew the door was. He staggered two steps and fetched up against the doorframe. Phyllida hung down behind him, her head bumping on his lower back. He kept his hold on her legs and shuffled into the corridor. Step by shuffling step, he headed for the front door. No point looking up—the ceiling glowed red behind the blanket of smoke that lay thick and heavy all about them.
He bounced off the corridor wall, then half tripped and fell. He put a hand out—and grasped the edge of the front door. His head was swimming. For an instant, he remained, dazed, sick, reeling. Above, something popped, then snapped. Burning wood rained down. A piece struck his hand; more bits hit Phyllida’s skirts. He gasped, but caught no air, then frantically brushed the burning fragments from Phyllida. Her skirt was scorched, but hadn’t caught alight.
A draft of cool air wafted to him. The flames above and behind them roared.
Lucifer dragged the taste of survival deep, held it in, and struggled to his feet.
He stumbled across the threshold and got three steps along the path before he collapsed again. They were out of the worst, but not free. They were still too close.
Coughing, almost retching, he looked back, blinking his stinging eyes. The front doorway was haloed in flame, bright and hungry. The open windows were belching smoke; behind their sills, flames danced.
If Molly the seamstress was in there, he could do nothing to save her.
He looked down at Phyllida. She’d slipped from his shoulder when he’d fallen and now lay unconsious beside him. He hauled in a breath and felt it score its way into his lungs. Gasping, he rose—to his knees. He couldn’t manage his feet.
Head whirling, he wrapped an arm around Phyllida and locked her to his side, dragging her with him as he crawled off the path, onto the lawn, taking the most direct route away from the house. He reached a point where the lawn sloped down toward the trees. He lay down, pulled Phyllida’s unconscious form to him, cradling her face into his chest, protecting her head and shoulders with his arms—then he rolled.
Their momentum carried them most of the way down; they fetched up on a shallow shelf of mossy grass, well away from the burning cottage.
Lucifer lifted his head and looked back at the cottage. Flames shot through every window, greedily licking up the outside walls. It was the ultimate death trap.
Phyllida lay unconscious, barely breathing beside him. Still alive.
He exhaled, closed his eyes, and flopped back on the grass.
The wind shifted, carrying the taint of smoke as far as the common. A fire in the country at this time of year triggered an immediate response. Men came running with pitchforks, sacks—anything they could lay their hands on.
The Thompson brothers were the first to come thundering up. Others arrived on foot, still others on horses, some saddled, some not. Grooms, stable lads, footmen, and their employers all turned out. Lucifer glimpsed Basil stalking the scene, shouting orders. Coat off, Cedric wielded a pitchfork, breaking up thatch as it fell away, dispersing it so those with sacks could beat the flames to death.
Focused on the cottage, no one saw them. Lucifer lay still, head pounding, too weak to move, and listened to the almost indiscernible huff of Phyllida’s breathing. The sound held him to consciousness, to some degree of lucidity.
Then the flames started to falter, running out of fuel. The cottage had burned more or less to the ground. Thompson retreated into the garden to catch his breath, and saw them. He let out a surprised “Oy!” and came lumbering down the slope.
Others turned, saw, and followed. Lucifer braced. He waved Thompson to him; with the big man’s help, he managed to sit. The backs of his hands were scorched, as were the pads of his fingers. His hair had largely escaped, but his coat was ruined, shoulders and back pocked with burns and scorch marks. A crowd gathered about them—Oscar, Filing, Cedric, Basil, Henry Grisby, and more. Every face was shocked, deeply and utterly shocked. Clearing his throat, Lucifer managed to say, “I found her unconscious in the cottage. It was already well alight.”
Filing pushed through and went to his knee beside Phyllida. She lay on her stomach, her face to the side. Gripping gently, Filing raised her shoulder just enough to confirm she still lived, still breathed. He eased her back to the cushioning moss. “We’ll have to get you both out of here—Phyllida needs to be back at the Grange.”
Lucifer closed his eyes. The world was still swaying. “Sir Jasper?”
“The Grange household left the church before the alarm was raised.”
Lucifer wasn’t sure if that was good or not. Sir Jasper would have been shaken, but he could still have counted on the older man to take charge. He himself was not up to it at present.
Basil hunkered down beside Phyllida. He stretched out a hand and lifted a fallen lock of her hair back from her face. His face was set, blank with shock. Phyllida’s hair was scorched here and there; her blue gown had fared worse, even worse than Lucifer’s coat. Thankfully, she’d worn a cambric walking dress, not one of her thin muslin gowns. With luck, she would escape any major burns. Basil’s hand shook as he drew it back; he had paled.
So, too, had the others. Henry Grisby caught his breath and volunteered, “Dottswood’s closest. I’ve a farm cart I can bring up the old lane. It’ll still be a way away, but . . .” His voice trailed away.
Filing nodded. “Yes, Henry. That’s the best suggestion. Go, now.”
Henry nodded. He drew back, his gaze on Phyllida. Then he turned and started climbing the slope, slowly, then more quickly. At the top, he broke into a run.
“Terrible, terrible.” As shaken as the rest, Cedric straightened; the effort he made to regain his composure was visible. He looked at Lucifer. “Was it about that hat?”
Lucifer looked at him, then glanced at the smoldering cottage. “I believe she had the hat with her.”
Phyllida regained consciousness on the journey back to the Grange. The gentle rocking of the cart, the freshening breeze, tugged her back to reality. She opened her eyes and was immediately beset by a paroxysm of coughing.
A large hand closed over hers.
“It’s all right. You’re safe.”
She looked up; through stinging tears, she saw the face that, in the moment she’d thought would be her last, had been the only face in her mind. Her last instant of lucidity had been filled with regret—regret for what they wouldn’t have a chance to share. Closing her eyes, she let her head slump and gave silent thanks. Fate had been kind—they still had their chance.
Sliding her fingers in his, she clung. “Who saved me?” His coat was burned, an unsalvageable wreck.
“Hush—don’t talk.”
She heard a rustle on the cart’s seat; then Henry Grisby’s voice reached her.
“Lucifer saved you—thank God.”
His tone was fervent. Lucifer had, it seemed, been elevated from demon to god, at least in Henry’s eyes.
Not only in Henry’s eyes. Phyllida squeezed Lucifer’s fingers, inexpressibly relieved to feel them firm and strong around hers.
The hours that followed were a confusion of sounds perceived through a haze—her lungs felt tight, dizziness threatened, she couldn’t stand or speak, she could barely move, not even her head. Her eyes burned, but at least she could see—at least she was still alive.
Every time her mind touched on that, she wept—tears of joy, of relief, of emotion too overwhelming to contain.
Her father was shocked, shaken. She tried to reassure him but had no idea if what she said was even coherent. Jonas carried her upstairs, but it was Lucifer who lingered, leaning over her bed, stroking her hair back from her face. Behind him, Sweetie, Gladys, and her aunt rushed and fussed and spoke in whispers. Lucifer leaned close, his face soot-streaked, his expression softer than she’d ever known it.
He touched his lips to hers. “Rest. I’ll be here when you wake. Then we’ll talk.”
Her lids drifted closed of their own accord. She thought she nodded.
Evening shadows were playing across her room when she awoke. For long minutes, she simply lay there, thrilled by the fact of being alive.
With the help of Sweetie and her aunt, she’d stripped off her ruined clothes, then bathed. She’d had Sweetie snip the scorched locks from her hair. Gladys had produced a salve. After annointing every minor burn and scorched spot, she’d donned a fine cotton robe and lain down on her bed.
They’d left her and she’d slept. It had been like falling into a deep well, black, soundless, undisturbed.
She felt a great deal better. Gingerly, she eased up to sit, then, encouraged, swung her legs over the side of the bed. Holding onto the bed, she stood. Her limbs seemed in working order. A twinge here and there, the scorches and bruises, too, but nothing incapacitating.
A cough caught her; rasping pain gripped her lungs. She clung to the bed, struggling to master her breathing. Her throat felt scorched; it hurt to breathe other than shallowly. If she drew a deeper breath, coughing threatened.
Once the paroxysm faded, she straightened and walked, carefully, to the bellpull.
Her little maid, Becky, came up. Twenty minutes later, Phyllida felt human again—resurrected. In a gown of soft lavender trimmed with a flounce and a narrow band of darker ribbon, with a gauzy scarf around her throat and perfume dabbed liberally, hair neat and sleek once more, she felt ready to face what lay beyond her door.
The maid opened it for her. Before she could cross the threshold, Lucifer was there.