She saw flame, a thin, sneaking lick of it, dart out from the far end of the open stable doors.
Disbelief came first. She stepped forward to press against the glass and craned her neck for a clearer view of the side lawn. Surely she’d imagined it. It was a trick of the light, an illusion created by the setting sun.
But the flames came again—thick, grasping fingers that curled over and gripped the eaves.
For a few seconds, she simply stared as twin sensations of horror and relief washed over her. There was nothing of true value inside. All the staff had been moved to the house, the horses were pastured, and Isis, the stable cat, had elected to have her kittens in the carriage house. Everyone and everything was safe.
She opened her mouth to shout for Owen, but the breath whooshed out of her at the sight of Esther’s slight form racing across the side lawn, straight for the stable.
Lottie’s hand flew to the glass as if it could reach through and grab her sister back.
“No!”
Shoving away from the window, she bolted out of the room and down the hall, then threw open the side door.
Her mind found the pattern she needed without looking. Run past the trio of young birch trees, keep low behind the line of bushes and the stone bench, veer to the left to reach the half wall, and then make a straight dash to the stable doors.
She darted from the door, feet pounding against stone and dirt as she followed her course. She was faster than Esther. Taller, longer of leg. She could still catch…
Esther’s blond locks flashed into view, then disappeared into the stable.
Lottie was only moments behind, running into a haze of smoke but no flame. The fire was still confined to the back half of the stable, its greedy claws crawling slowly up the wooden walls and into the rafters.
“Esther!”
“Mr. Nips!”
A few more strides and Lottie was on her, grabbing hold with both hands. “He’s in the pasture! Right outside! Damn it—!”
“He’s here!” Esther strained against her and pointed farther into the stable. “Here! I saw him!”
Lottie saw it then too, the blur of movement in the fourth stall. Just a flash of chestnut ears and mane as the frantic pony reared and kicked at the door.
Disbelief warred with terror. He shouldn’t be there. He’d been pastured. And the fourth stall hadn’t been used in weeks; the bottom half of the exterior door was warped, making it impossible to open.
Lottie shoved Esther toward the stable doors. “Get out!”
Esther stumbled, shook her head, and spun around for the stall. She charged ahead, throwing her arm out behind her. “Go! Go! Leave!”
They reached Mr. Nips at the same time. Esther threw open the latch and pulled the door. It didn’t budge.
Lottie ran frantic hands and eyes over the wood and discovered a small chunk of wood wedged in between the top of the half door and the post.
“Wedged! It’s wedged shut! Pull!”
They grabbed and yanked and strained as the fire grew around them. Lottie could feel the heat build and smoke thicken as the flames drew closer.
It was no good. She knew it was no good. If Mr. Nips’s panicked kicks couldn’t budge the wedge, the struggles of two women didn’t stand a chance.
“We have to pry it loose!” Esther shouted. She grabbed a hoof pick from a nearby hook.
Lottie snatched it out of her hands, shoved it against the exposed lip of the wedge, and bore down.
The fire was a roar in her ears now. But she could still breathe, and the path to the stable doors was still clear. They had time.
The pick slipped free twice and sent her tumbling back. But on the third try, the wedge splintered and popped free.
Lottie jumped back as Esther threw open the stall door and Mr. Nips took off like a shot, charging for the open doors just as the fire caught hold of a thick layer of straw spread across the floor. It flashed over the stable aisle as if caught on a wind. Lottie had a brief glimpse of the pony’s rear end on the other side of the doors as he gave a last indignant backward kick at the stable, and then there was nothing but flame.
It surrounded them, closed in like a fist. Lottie turned a panicked circle. The fire had caught hold of the bedding in the stalls, jumping from one enclosure to the next with terrifying speed. Those exterior doors were lost to them now.
Her eyes darted to the tack room. If they soaked a horse blanket in the aisle trough, they could throw it over their heads and…
The tack room was already in flames.
There was no way out.
She had waited too long.
Smoke and fumes filled her lungs. Heat curled around her, burning her cheeks and eyes. She turned another circle, searching for something, anything that might help, but there was nothing but the large water trough butted up against the aisle wall. Grabbing hold of Esther, she dragged her over and shoved her down and into the water. It was a clumsy and desperate move. Esther’s head smacked against the wall. The wooden sides of the trough jammed into Lottie’s legs, knocking her to her knees.
She pulled up Esther’s sodden skirts and held them to her sister’s face, then slammed an arm over the trough when Esther tried to rise. Using her free arm, she dunked the hem of her own skirts and breathed through the wet layers.
Lottie would never be able to sort out how she managed to keep Esther in the trough. She could hear her sister scream, struggle, and fight against the restraining arm, but the noise and movement was a dim echo in the roar and heat of the fire.
It would give Esther time. Maybe Owen would find a way in. Maybe a section of the fire would burn itself out in time for them to escape. Straw went up bright and fast, but it didn’t burn for long. There was a chance. Esther had a better chance in the trough.
Squeezing her eyes shut against the stinging pain of hot smoke, she curled into herself as the inferno grew and Esther’s struggles slowly weakened into wrenching coughs.
A searing pain stabbed at her calf and her eyes flew open on a scream. A thin ribbon of flame had followed a trail of loose straw across the floor and taken hold of her dry petticoat. She kicked out wildly and slapped her wet skirt over the small flame while her lungs seized up from the excruciating intake of boiling air.
She was burning alive. She was going to burn alive.
She heard her own screams, and wondered in a daze of pain and terror where she found the air. Her frantic efforts succeeded in snuffing the fire, but there was more straw. Everywhere she looked there was more straw. It was all around her. It would succumb to the flame at any second, and so would she.
Knowing it was futile, she kicked out at the straw nearest to her and the trough.
She didn’t see the dark figure moving through the flames until it was almost upon her. Then something heavy and wet was thrown over her head, and she was being lifted from the ground. “I have you. I have you.”
Owen. His voice was rough in her ear and terrifyingly muted by the raging fire, but his hold was strong and the damp material of his coat was cool against her cheek.
Relief, hope, and fear flowed through her in equal measure. She couldn’t leave Esther behind. She tried to call for her sister, but the words came out on an excruciating cough. Blindly, she reached toward the trough.
Owen tucked her closer. “Samuel has her.”
She wanted to see for herself, but there wasn’t time. Owen shifted the blanket, wrapping it around them both, and then they were moving. For one awful second, a scorching heat exploded around her, and then, in a flash, it was gone. The blanket was thrown off and fresh air, blessedly cool and clean, washed over her face and into her lungs.
They were out of the stables.
She tried to shift in Owen’s hold and struggled to open her eyes and find her sister, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. Her lids were too heavy. Her a
rms felt clumsy and half-numb, oddly detached from the rest of her. They loosened from around his neck even as her fingers dug involuntarily into the back of his coat as a wave of heaving, shuddering coughs hit her. Her thoughts, racing and scattered like shot only a moment ago, slowed to a sluggish crawl.
She heard Owen barking orders, but the sound was distant and tinny in her ears, scarcely audible over the sound of her own struggle for air.
“Gabriel!”
“No shots! No movement!”
“Everyone inside! Where’s the boy?”
“Footman’s still holding him!”
“Staff?”
“Mrs. Lewis is taking count!”
“Physician?” Samuel called out.
“Now!” Owen snapped.
“No.” Gabriel again. Closer this time. “We met him in Wayton. He is eighty, if he is a day. He can’t—”
“I don’t bloody care how old he is. Put him on the floor of the carriage if you have to. Just get him here.”
“Think, man. It is too great a risk. Wait and see—”
The rest of the argument was lost to her. A door opened and slammed shut and she was surrounded by noise and movement. There was Peter’s frantic voice. Mrs. Lewis’s brisk tones. Esther’s wracking coughs. Her own painful struggle for air. Owen shouting more orders. The pounding of running feet.
Safe. All of them safe, she thought, and she let the waiting darkness and the painless oblivion it promised swallow her up.
* * *
Lottie’s eyes didn’t open as Owen settled her on her bed, but he was certain some part of her faded in and out of consciousness. She couldn’t possibly remain under while her body heaved and shuddered, trying to expel the smoke from her lungs.
With every wrenching cough, he expected to see blood, some sign that he’d been too late, that there was too much damage.
Mrs. Lewis nudged him aside with competent hands and a brisk voice. “It is time for you to leave, my lord. She needs out of her corset. It will help her breathe. Mary, your assistance, please.”
Owen backed away but stayed in the room, his eyes trained on Lottie. “Hurry.”
A young maid brushed past him and assisted Mrs. Lewis in turning Lottie onto her side.
He watched in mounting frustration as they struggled with the buttons of her bodice for what seemed an eternity while Lottie coughed, hiccuped, and gasped.
“Hurry.”
“The material is damp, my lord. We are doing our best—”
“Move,” he bit off, and he pulled a knife from his boot with hands that shook.
The maid’s eyes grew round. “What do you think—?”
He pushed her aside and, forcing his hands steady, took hold of Lottie’s gown. He sliced the back of it to the waist, then he took hold of the corset beneath and slit it clean through. “There. Get it off her.”
Mary hesitated. “I believe you should—”
“Now!” For Christ’s sake, she was hurting. Couldn’t they bloody see she was hurting?
In contrast to his furious tones, Mrs. Lewis’s voice was calm and soothing. “You need to wait outside, my lord.”
“No.” Hell, no.
“It would be best.”
“I’ll not leave her.” He needed to be there, where he could see with his own eyes that Lottie was still breathing.
“There is nothing more for you to do here.” Taking his arm, she pulled him away from the bed with a gentle but persistent pressure. “You are frightening Mary.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do. I need her calm and collected if she is to be of use. Do you understand?”
No, he didn’t. Lottie was hurt; she was suffering. How could he leave her? How could they ask it of him?
“I can help.” There had to be some way he could help her, something he could do to ease her pain. He couldn’t stand it.
“The best thing you can do for her now is leave.”
He watched, never so helpless or frustrated in his life, as Mary’s nervous eyes darted to his and she fumbled with the wash basin in her hands.
“Milord,” Mrs. Lewis whispered. “Please.”
She was right. He knew she was right.
He bit back a long and particularly foul string of expletives.
“I’ll be in the hall.”
Thirteen
He could still hear her coughing.
Leaning against the wall next to Lottie’s door, Owen bowed his head and curled his hands into fists. He struggled to find the calm so necessary for control. He’d had it earlier. When he’d first spotted the flames from his upstairs window, he’d been calm.
His heart had performed one long, sick roll when the maid came tearing down the hall sobbing that Miss Bales and Miss Esther were nowhere to be found, then it had settled into place—or, rather, it had become cemented in place, cold and bloodless, as unyielding determination took over. His hands had been steady when he grabbed two blankets off the bed and tossed one to Samuel in the hall. His voice had been strong when he ordered a footman to keep Peter inside and strong still when he’d spotted Gabriel running out from the woods and had shouted at him to watch the tree line.
He’d crossed the lawn at a dead run, but he’d been in control. Until he’d heard the screams. Lottie’s screams. And a terror unlike any he’d known had grabbed him by the throat.
He’d fought it back. He’d chained it down so he could do what needed to be done, shoving his blanket in a trough outside the stable, throwing it around him before charging into the flames. There had been a wall of them. He hadn’t stopped to think how thick the wall might be, how deep the flames might go. How useless his efforts might be.
The relief he’d felt when he’d found her, kicking out weakly at the straw, had nearly brought him to his knees.
She was alive and conscious. He wasn’t too late.
He’d scooped her up, carried her out, and made the mistake of letting his control slip.
Sometime during the trip from the stable to the house, the fear had seeped back in, and with it came a viscous rage. He couldn’t separate the two now, the sick panic of seeing Lottie in danger and pain and the fury for the man responsible for both. The need to hit something, to swing and pound until he saw blood, tore at him. He wanted aching fists and swollen knuckles. He wanted the satisfaction of hearing bone crunch beneath his blows.
But more than that, more than anything, he wanted back in Lottie’s room.
With neither option available to him, Owen blew out a shaky breath, let his head drop back against the wall, and resigned himself to his third, final, and most difficult choice of action.
He waited.
* * *
The physician came and went, leaving behind a small measure of real relief. The ladies would recover. He recommended bed rest, cooled tea with plenty of honey for the throat, and laudanum for pain once the coughing eased. A close eye would need to be kept on Miss Bales’s leg. The injury was not severe, but the possibility of infection could not be ruled out. Any sign of the wound turning septic, and he should be fetched immediately. Preferably by someone other than Sir Samuel Brass—the man drove like a lunatic.
It had been a risk, taking to the open road atop a carriage, but even Gabriel had been forced to admit there was little choice but to send for help once he’d taken a look at Lottie’s leg.
From his chair next to her bedside where he’d taken up vigil for the night, Owen studied the wound. The burn was no larger than his palm and showed only minimal blistering. But he knew it had to be acutely painful.
His chest tightened, and a new wave of anger washed over him. There seemed to be nothing he could do about the former, but the latter he acknowledged and set aside before it could settle and take hold. It had taken him hours to regain his calm. Hours of waiting, pacing, snapping at the st
aff and physician, and otherwise making a general nuisance of himself.
It wasn’t a nuisance Lottie needed.
For what he was sure was the hundredth time, he leaned over to brush a damp lock from Lottie’s forehead. “What were you thinking?” he whispered. “Why didn’t you call for me?”
She stirred, moaned, and then woke with a suddenness that startled him.
“I won’t die like that.” Her voice was scratchy and panicked. Her gaze darted wildly about the room, latching on to nothing. “I don’t want to die like that.”
“No. Here now.” He stroked her hair gently. “You’re safe.”
“I won’t.”
“No, you won’t. I promise you won’t. Look. Look at me, Lottie.” He took her face in his hands. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
Glassy, reddened eyes focused on his, then fluttered shut.
* * *
Lottie drifted in and out of a fretful sleep.
She was aware of movement around her, of soft voices, dim light, and the ever-present pain. She tried to pull herself completely free of sleep. If she could wake up, then she might be able to do something about the pain. She could tell someone about it, at the very least. But she just couldn’t manage it, any more than she could ignore the pain and slip fully back into sleep.
It was like suffering from a terrible thirst brought on by a raging fever. She was thirsty because she was sick, she was too sick to do anything about the thirst, and she was too thirsty to let the sickness drag her into the painless dark. She was trapped and frustrated, struggling between awake and asleep while pain radiated from her leg and throat…and, damn it, now she was thirsty.
“Thirsty.”
That wasn’t what she meant to say. She wanted to tell someone about the pain in her leg, but the act of speaking alone propelled her that last laborious step into the conscious world.
With a groan, she pried lids away from eyes that felt like hot, dry coals.
Owen’s face loomed over hers in the dim light. “There you are.”
“Esther?” Was that really her voice? It was so weak and ragged.
A Talent for Trickery Page 17
