Unlaced by the Outlaw (Secrets in Silk) (5 page)

Again, he worked at the door, praying to God he could force it open. Fear and energy coursed through him as he fought to save them.

“Cain?” Margaret whispered. “Are we going to die?”

“No’ if I can help it.” Over and over, he smashed his weight against the door, while the heat of the fire raged closer. The choking smoke tainted the air, and he dreaded the approaching flames.

“There’s another way,” Margaret whispered. “Below me. The fire isn’t there yet.”

“We canna fit through that,” he argued. “It’s no’ possible.”

She eased the other door open and lowered her legs. “You’re too big,” she admitted, “but I might be able to get out beneath the coach. Then I could let you out from the top.”

The space was barely large enough for her, and it was only a frail hope that she could wedge herself beneath the coach.

“Try,” he ordered. She slid her legs through the opening, and eased herself lower.

“I’m sorry.” Hysteria edged her voice, and she struggled to force herself through. “It’s smaller than I thought. I can get through the coach door, but it’s too narrow beneath the coach to get out.”

Her idea made him consider another possibility. “Stay there, lass. There’s something else we could try.”

She obeyed, and he slipped his legs through the doorway. Although the door provided only a narrow opening, he believed he could use his strength to help get her out. Gingerly, he bent his knees and tried to see underneath the coach. It seemed that one of the wheels had broken off and was balancing part of the weight. Though it was unlikely he had the strength to lift the vehicle, he could try to raise it enough for her to escape.

He gripped the edges of the door frame. “I’m going to ask you to get underneath the coach as far as you can. When I tell you to go, I’m going to lift it up, and you’ll get out.”

God, let him have the strength to do this.
If she didn’t move fast enough, or if his grip slipped, the weight of the vehicle would crush her skull.

He shut the thought down, for at least that was a better fate than burning to death.

“When I get out, what shall I do next?” Her voice revealed terror, and she reached out to him. “How can I get the door open?”

“Try to climb to the top of the coach and force the handle with whate’er you can find.”

“And if I can’t get it open?”

He gave no answer to that, for both of them knew what would happen. The fire was spreading quickly, and there was little time left. Already the air was hot, the smoke searing his eyes. “Get out and try.”

He wouldn’t blame her if she was incapable of saving him. The chances of him surviving this were slim. But if he could save her, at least his soul could rest easy.

It was strange, knowing that death was staring him in the eyes. He reached out to touch her face. “Take care of Jonah, if the worst happens.”

“You’re going to get out,” she insisted. “I promise you that.” Her hand covered his, and she squeezed it gently. “I won’t let you die.”

He wanted to kiss her, to steal one last taste of the woman he wanted. But there was no time for it. Instead, he marked the memory of her fragile skin, and promised himself that he would use every last reserve of strength to save her.

She eased herself through the door, and when she had gone as far as she could, he braced his legs in the opening and grabbed the frame. “Are you ready, lass?”

“Yes.”

From deep inside, he drew upon all the strength he possessed. He seized the sides of the open doorway and bent his knees, slowly straightening while he bore half the weight of the coach. Thankfully, he was able to lift it a few inches. He could only pray that it was enough.

“Go!” he shouted. His muscles burned with exertion, the cords of his veins straining as he lifted. It was excruciating, and he felt his hands slipping.

Steady
, he urged himself. Seconds ticked by, and he fought with every last fiber of his being to keep the weight aloft.

“I’m out!” she called to him. With that, he released the weight, the jarring burden falling from his hands. He struggled to catch his breath, leaning his head against one of the seats. Relief poured over him, and he hardly cared what happened now.

Margaret would survive this, and it was enough.

His breathing was labored, his heart pounding with the exertion of lifting the weight. But strangely, he was at peace with himself.

The fire would continue its path toward him. The flames would consume the wood and metal, and Margaret might not save him. But there were no regrets. He might have made a thousand mistakes in his life, but he would never regret giving up his life for hers.

He kept his head low, waiting for death to claim him.

Margaret was horrified by the sight of the overturned coach. Fire raged where the oil lantern had struck the wood, and it was steadily overtaking the vehicle. The driver was already dead, the flames turning his body into a blackened corpse. The horses had scattered, their terrified neighs breaking the stillness.

And Cain was going to die if she didn’t get him out.

Nausea swelled up in her throat, but she couldn’t let herself become sick. She had to find a way to open the door. Cain had risked everything to save her, and she could do no less for him.

Margaret gripped her skirts and moved toward the vehicle. Flames licked at the wooden wheels, and the body of the coach was already hot. She didn’t know how much time she had to get the door open, but she hoped it would be enough.

The door was well out of her reach, but she thought she could climb up.
You’re not strong enough,
the voice of doubt taunted. Margaret gritted her teeth, ignoring her fears. Cain would die if she stood by and did nothing.

She reached up as high as she could, struggling to pull herself up the side of the coach while she avoided the fire. “Hold on, Mr. Sinclair!” she called out to him. “I’m almost there!”

She crawled on her hands and knees, gasping at the smoke until she reached the top. Once she reached the twisted door handle, it became clear why Cain had been unable to get it open. It was badly bent, and when she tried to turn it, the metal wouldn’t move. Through the jagged glass, she could see him holding a length of plaid across his nose to avoid the choking smoke. Her eyes burned, and she found a handkerchief in one pocket to cover her own nose.

Her mind blurred with panic while she tried to find something to use as a lever. Anything.

The spokes of a wheel might work. She climbed back down, trying to break one free, but it held fast. From inside the coach, she heard the sound of Cain trying to smash the remaining glass. But even then, she didn’t know if he could fit through the window.

He would die if she didn’t work quickly. The fire was burning faster, and soon enough, it would destroy the coach. She couldn’t let that happen.

Determination drove out the fear. Using her foot, she kicked at the wheel spokes, until the wood cracked. At last, she was able to wrench one of them free.

Her muscles burned with pain, but she ignored the vicious ache as she climbed back to the top. Right now all that mattered was getting him out alive. Margaret wedged the spoke against the twisted door handle and leaned back. Beneath her feet, the coach was growing hotter, as if she were trying to stand upon a wood stove.

“Hold on!” she called out to Cain. “I’m trying to pry open the door.”

He said something in reply, but his words were muffled amid his coughing. She pulled as hard as she could, struggling to straighten the bent metal.

It wasn’t enough.

Frustration and fear consumed her as she leaned her body weight against the handle. Giving up wasn’t an option. The aching fear intensified as she twisted the wood, trying in vain to pull the door open. With every second that passed, her fears taunted her.

You’re too weak. He lifted this coach to save you, and you’re not strong enough to help him.

No. She couldn’t give up so soon. Somehow, she had to get this door open, no matter how much it hurt.

Her arms ached as she bent her knees and pulled with all her strength. Cain rammed his shoulder against the door once again, and the sudden momentum sent her flying backward. She tried to grab something to catch herself from falling, but she hit the ground hard, her head striking the grass. The coach door swung open, and Cain hoisted himself up. Dizziness made her vision swim, and Margaret couldn’t understand the words he was shouting at her.

She blacked out for a few moments, and when she regained consciousness, she saw that Cain’s clothing had caught fire. His own roar of pain mingled with her scream, but he dropped to the ground and rolled. Within moments, it was out.

He was curled up on his side, trembling, while his clothes were blackened and burned.

“W-we have to get out of here,” she stammered, but he wasn’t moving. Oh dear God. He had to get up. Why was he still lying there?

Her head was pounding as she got to her hands and knees, moving toward him. The scent of burned flesh was enough to make her stomach twist. It had happened all too fast. She couldn’t understand how it was possible.

“Are you all right?” she asked him. But although his shoulders revealed that he was indeed breathing, his eyes were tightly closed, as if he were holding back the agony. Blood soaked the back of his head—he must have struck it when he hit the ground.

“Can you get up?” she asked him, but he gave no answer.

The shaking came over her then, with the terror of being alone. She had to find a doctor, to get help for Cain . . . but they were stranded in the middle of nowhere. His earlier claim, that there was nothing along these roads, had proven to be correct.

A faint lavender and rose color edged the horizon, revealing the coming dawn. Her first instinct was to sit down and weep, but she knew it would do no good. And if she left him here to seek help, he might die in the meantime. Her hands were trembling, but she reached out to touch him. Beneath the shirt, his skin was angry red and blistered, blood covering his back.

“You must get up, Mr. Sinclair,” she told him. “We can’t stay here.” She reached beneath his arms and tried to pull him. The moment she touched him, he let out an unholy shout of pain. She dropped Sinclair immediately, realizing that he was worse off than she’d imagined.

Think, Margaret,
her brain urged. He needed someone to help with his injuries. But how could she move him? She stared out into the darkness where one of the horses was standing back from the fires. Though she needed two, with Cain wounded, she could only handle one.

She knew next to nothing about animals, but if she could get him on the mare, it was their best hope. Slowly, she rose to her feet, and when she tried to take a deep breath, she coughed against the smoke.

Her composure was hanging by a single thread, and she was afraid if she allowed one teardrop to fall, she would become a sobbing mess. She walked slowly toward the horse, hoping the animal would not rear up or panic. The mare let out a whinny, moving away as she approached.

“Hush now,” Margaret murmured. “I’m going to need your help. And if you do as I ask, I’ll try to find carrots or an apple for you.”

Although the animal couldn’t understand a word of her conversation, it was the best she could do. She moved sideways, trying to reach the reins. The leather was burned, and there was no saddle, since the mare had been harnessed to the coach. Thankfully the bridle was intact, and Margaret seized it, leading the animal toward Cain. Though she had no idea how she would get him on top of the horse, she had to try.

Her brain turned over the problem, and although she thought of a way to get him on the animal, it still might not work. And if she did secure him to the mare’s back, it meant she would have to walk.

Sinclair was a tall man, and in this instance, it was a godsend. One of the wooden crates containing food had been thrown from the coach before the fire had started. It was tall enough to stand upon, and she picked it up along the way.

When she reached Sinclair, she set the crate down and placed the mare’s reins atop it, which would let her step upon them to prevent the animal from moving. All she had to do was lift Sinclair high enough to push him onto the animal’s back.

Inwardly, she worried that she wasn’t strong enough. Cain Sinclair was a heavily muscled Highlander, and she doubted if she could manage his weight.

He still had not regained consciousness, except for the time she’d touched him. Undoubtedly, she would hurt him again, and she braced herself for the prospect.

You must lift him,
she reminded herself.
You have no choice.
No matter how heavy he was, no matter how weak she was, she had to save him.

This time, she braced herself for his reaction. She seized him under the arms and lifted him quickly over her shoulder, struggling to stand up. He didn’t respond at all, which frightened her even more. His head was still bleeding, and she knew she had to bind the wound.

Margaret shoved back her rising panic, her muscles burning as she held him and stepped atop the crate. He was slipping down, his knees buckling.