She hauled her grandmother upright as easily as she would lift a portmanteau. Fear and youth and determination made her strong.
Bearing almost all of Lady Letty's frail weight, Jessalyn carried her to the door. The only way out of her grandmother's bedchamber was into the hall and down the stairs. The room's large double mullioned windows overlooked the courtyard, a straight two-story drop onto granite stone. She could perhaps survive such a fall with only a broken bone or two, but not Gram.
Jessalyn staggered through the flickering tongues of fire, bent over, half dragging Lady Letty toward the stairs. Her throat was raw. Every time she swallowed it felt as if she were eating the flames. The heat seared the inside of her lungs and roasted her skin. Her ears hurt from the roaring noise the fire made, louder than any wind, louder than the angriest of seas.
Snakes of flame curled up the stair banisters and slithered along the steps and risers. Jessalyn stopped and looked down, and it was like staring deep into the heart of a blast furnace. The fire was a living thing. Red and orange and yellow flames fed and consumed and went on to feed again, growing ever brighter and hotter and hungrier. The world below had taken on a red glow, as if it had been submerged in a pool of blood.
Lady Letty dug her nails into Jessalyn's arms, shaking her. "Can't get out that way, gel," she choked.
Jessalyn blinked and shuddered. She looked down and saw only death. Panic squeezed out what little air she had left in her lungs. Gram was right, they would never make it down the stairs and out the front door alive. There remained only her room. It was a short drop from the window onto the roof that sheltered the front parlor, and a longer drop to the ground, but to dirt, not stone.
They turned back. A fiery beam fell from the ceiling, barely missing Jessalyn's head. She didn't even see it. She burned her hand on the door latch again; this time she made not a sound. The old-fashioned box bed, where she had gone to sleep last night and all those nights of her childhood, was now a flaming pyre. She propped Lady Letty against the wall beside the window, the only wall not burning. Using a chair as a battering ram, she broke through the wooden casement and thick diamond panes The raucous fire drowned out the sound of shattering glass.
Jessalyn hefted Lady Letty over the ledge, out onto the roof, then turned back with some half-formed thought of trying to make it up to the attic to save Becka. Suddenly the door exploded, and flames roared into the room as if out of the mouth of a fire-breathing dragon. Searing heat buffeted her, throwing her back against the shattered window frame. Sobbing and choking, Jessalyn crawled on her hands and knees out onto the rough cedar shingles, and though she cut herself on the broken glass, she didn't feel it.
They stood together, straddling the blunted peak of the gently sloping hipped roof, sucking in drafts of sweet, cold air. The sea wind whipped at Jessalyn's hair and the ragged skirt of her night rail; it felt like ice against her blistered skin. But the fire blazed on in the parlor below, and the thin cedar strips beneath her bare feet were hot and growing hotter. She knew that it was only a matter of seconds before the shingles, too, would burst into flames.
A flutter of movement in the paddock below caught her eye, and she heard her name, snatched away by the wind.
"Becka!" she cried, shocked that it came out only a croak. "Get the ladder! In the stables!"
Becka was shouting and pointing. Jessalyn saw Prudence, the only horse still living at End Cottage, gallop out the open door of the stables, followed by a man with the ladder beneath his arm. She heard a sizzling crackle, felt a wave of heat break against her legs. The parlor roof had caught fire.
And then the man was on the burning roof with her, taking Gram from her arms. It was Duncan, the earl's manservant.
She followed him down the ladder. Her bare feet touched the earth, cool and moist, and her legs began to tremble. Her head reeled, and she swayed on her feet. "Miss Jessalyn!" Becka cried, seizing her around the waist.
"Oooh, Miss Jessalyn, don't ee faint here. Come over where 'tes safe."
Duncan carried Lady Letty to the grove of wild nut and hawthorn trees, out of harm's way of the flying cinders and choking smoke. Jessalyn, supported by Becka, followed.
He propped Lady Letty against the trunk of a tree. In the red glow cast by the fire, the old woman's face looked smeared with blood, and her gold-tasseled nightcap gave her a macabre look. Kneeling beside her, Jessalyn touched her cheek. "Are you all right, Gram?"
Lady Letty looked once at the blazing house, then turned her head aside. "Die..." She choked, her chest shuddering and jerking as she gasped for air. "Should have left me to die."
Fresh tears spilled from Jessalyn's burning eyes. She sat back on her heels, rocking, as the tears streamed down her cheeks. "Oh, Gram..."
Lady Letty's chest convulsed with another bout of racking coughs.
"The auld lady's swallowed a lot of smoke," Duncan said to Jessalyn, but she didn't seem to hear; she just kept rocking and weeping in a terrible silence. He straightened, and his big hands settled on Becka Poole's shoulders, pulling her around to face him. "Can ye run fast, lass?"
Becka swallowed hard and nodded.
"Run then and fetch the doctor."
Her eyes wide on his face, Becka nodded again. Duncan bent his head and planted a kiss that was hard and rough on her lips before he spun her around, giving her a little shove. "Off wi' ye then, my wee one."
Becka took off, running along the cliffs, just as a horse came galloping down the lane from the direction of Caerhays Hall. For a moment it seemed he would not stop, that the earl of Caerhays would send his horse plunging into the flames. Terrified by the fire, the animal reared so far back on his haunches his hind legs shot out from beneath him. The earl rolled off the horse's bare back and got to his feet, shouting. He threw back his head and bellowed like a man gone mad, "Jessalyn!"
Duncan reached him in time to stop him from dashing into the flaming house. He grasped Caerhays by the shoulders much as he had held Becka only moments ago. The earl wore only breeches and boots, and the manservant's fingers dug deep into hard flesh that was hot and slick with sweat.
"She's out, man. She's safe."
Dark eyes stared back at Duncan, crazed eyes that reflected the flames. The earl's head fell back, his lids squeezing shut, and his chest jerked once, hard, as if he were repressing a sob. Or a scream.
Something was screaming. Duncan flung his head back and looked up. A small orange cat paced the peak of the highest roof, yowling in fear and fury.
"Napoleon!"
Jessalyn Letty came flying out of the trees. By the time they understood what she was about, she was already halfway up the ladder. Duncan got to her first, hauling her back down. She flailed, sobbing hysterically. He wrapped his arms around her, trying to still her. The cat screeched.
Caerhays started up the ladder.
"Sir, no!" Duncan thrust Jessalyn away from him and grabbed the earl's boot. Caerhays kicked him in the chest and sent him staggering backward. "For mercy's sake, sir," Duncan shouted as the earl went over the top of the head step, "'tis only a cat."
Lord Caerhays swung around, and his mouth twisted into a crooked smile, a smile that was young and full of reckless bravado, and to Duncan's shock he felt himself smiling back. "What the hell, she loves the bloody thing," Caerhays said, and he ran up the slope of the flaming roof, the leather soles of his boots scrabbling for purchase on the burned and cracked shingles.
Bending at the knees, McCady swung his arms back and jumped up. He grabbed the edge of the cornice with his fingertips and hung there a moment, then jackknifed his legs and pulled himself onto the steep slope of the higher roof.
Flames and smoke swirled around him; it seemed impossible that he would not catch on fire. Something snapped inside Jessalyn then, and she came to herself. Horror widened her eyes as she understood the danger the man she loved had put himself into for her sake. "McCady, no!" she screamed. "Come back!"
It was unlikely he even heard her. He craw
led up the burning roof, arms and legs splayed like a crab's. He hefted himself onto the peak, lying across the pointed edge. He stretched out a hand toward Napoleon, but the frightened cat scurried out of his reach. Balancing precariously, he stood up and walked along the peak, and his tall, broad-shouldered body was silhouetted against a sky that glowed orange like a sunrise. Napoleon crouched, gathering himself, preparing to leap onto the tall ornamented chimney stack. McCady lunged, seizing the cat by the scruff of its neck just as the ridgepole and rafters collapsed beneath him in a billow of fire.
"McCady!" Jessalyn screamed as he was swallowed by flames that shot into the sky like rockets. An arm wrapped around her waist, and she clawed at it. "McCady!" she screamed again, and it felt as if she were tearing her lungs out along with his name. She wanted to throw herself in the fire, to die with him. A pain gripped her, so intense she couldn't bear it. She turned her head, as if not seeing would make the pain go away, burying her face in the rough linen of Duncan's shirt.
It seemed an eternity of hell passed; then she felt Duncan shudder and heard the rumble of his voice echo within his chest. "Praise God."
She looked up. McCady Trelawny emerged out of the flames like a fallen angel passing through the gateway of hell, walking through what was left of her bedroom window, and struggling to hold on to a clawing, biting, yowling ball of singed orange fur.
She waited for him, laughing and crying, as he climbed down the ladder. He went to put the cat into her arms, like a trophy he had won in a joust, but Napoleon was having none of that. Scratching and hissing, he launched himself into the air and bolted for the trees.
Jessalyn ran her scorched palms over McCady's bare chest and arms, noting the bloody gouges left by Napoleon's claws and the raw blisters from the fire. "You silly pea goose, look at what you've done to yourself."
He gathered her to him, and they turned together to watch the fire consume what was left of End Cottage. The pretty yellow and red brick walls collapsed inward, sending a final flaming tower roaring into the sky. The faded purple settee where Gram always sat to take her afternoon tea, the beehive chair where Peaches once nursed her kittens before the kitchen hearth, a girl's straw bonnet decorated with a posy yellow primroses—all were gone now, reduced to ashes and memories.
She leaned against the hard wall of his chest and drew her strength from his. Later she would think this was wrong, to be in his arms, touching him. But in that moment there was no room for lust or passion, only for comfort.
This he gave her, while she stood within the circle made by his body and watched her childhood die.
Jessalyn's voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper. "Set? But who would want to set fire to End—"
A violent fit of coughing racked her chest, and she smothered her mouth with a wet handkerchief. Gentle fingers pushed the hair out of her face. "Here, drink this," McCady said.
Cupped in a strong, lean hand that was blistered as hers were from the fire, a glass of brandy appeared before her. She took the glass from him without meeting his eyes.
Their fingers touched. She drew back from his nearness, which was suddenly too overwhelming.
She took a huge swallow of the brandy and nearly choked again. The alcohol seared her raw throat but seemed to loosen some of the tightness in her chest. She took another swallow. "The Lettys have lived here for generations in peace with everyone," she croaked. "No one has a reason to burn down our house."
"Duncan believes he saw a man skulking about the kitchen wing at the time he noticed the fire. A big, shaggy-haired man dressed like a tinner."
Jessalyn repressed a shudder, hugging the wool blanket that she wore around her shoulders like a cloak. Beneath the blanket she had on only a tattered night rail, ripped and scorched. She had to remind herself that she was safe now, safe within the newly renovated library at Caerhays Hall. The room was chilly, but the grate remained empty; the earl had not called for a fire to be lit.
She could still smell smoke; it was in her hair, in her skin. Every inch of her body throbbed with pain, but her hands hurt the worst. She went to one of the tall French windows that looked north, toward End Cottage. Where End Cottage used to be. Columns of black smoke mushroomed against the bottom of clouds that were heavy and gray in the dawn sky. The wind sent water slashing against the panes, and the view before Jessalyn's eyes wavered. Too late it had started to rain.
She turned away from the window. She poured herself more brandy from the cut-glass decanter. As she returned the decanter to its place on a satinwood console table, the faceted crystal caught and reflected the candelabra flames, and she flinched. Her legs began to tremble, and she subsided into a nearby chair. Her hand shook as she brought the glass up to her lips, slopping brandy onto the blanket and just missing the chair's citron-striped chintz.
Dear life, I mustn't stain Emily's pretty new furniture,
Jessalyn thought wildly, barely suppressing a hysterical giggle.
The room had grown so silent she could hear the tick of the ormolu mantel clock and the rain beating against the windows. McCady Trelawny, wearing only his breeches and boots, had come riding like a demon out of the night to save her. He stood beside her now, half naked, and she could feel his seductive heat. He was like fire, she thought. Dangerous, destructive, beautiful. Tension thrummed through her like a high-pitched scream.
"Jessalyn." He touched her shoulder, and she flinched again.
Her singed hair fell back into her eyes, and she brushed it out of the way. She could not make her hands stop shaking. Her distracted gaze wandered around the room. "What was Duncan doing at End Cottage anyway?"
"He was visiting with your serving girl and—"
Her head snapped up. "Visiting Becka? At midnight? I will not allow this, my lord. Becka is a good girl, a decent girl, not some trollop to be taken advantage of by your valet, who is much too handsome to be allowed to run loose around the countryside—"
"Dammit, Jessalyn. Will you gather your scattered wits together and attend to what I'm saying?"
He turned abruptly away from her and threw himself into the leather chair that sat behind a heavy pedestal library table. He stretched his legs out, lacing his fingers behind his head, elbows spread wide, exposing the dark shadow of the hair beneath his arms, mysterious, erotic. Candlelight glinted off the sheen of sweat on his chest. Someone ought to tell him that earls do not have such chests, Jessalyn thought, muscled and brawny like a Billingsgate porter's. Her gaze jerked up to his dark angel's face, with its flaring cheekbones and arrogant mouth. His face that haunted her days and her nights.
Dizziness overwhelmed her, and she blinked. The brandy had gone straight to her head. She jerked her gaze away from his, as if appearing to be suddenly fascinated with the blue-patterned tobacco jar that sat at the far end of the tabletop. The room seemed too small.
"I hear what you are saying, my lord. The man who set the fire was Jacky Stout. It has to be he. He was caught poaching about two years back. He was going to be transported, but that prison hulk up in Plymouth is like a sieve. Ever since that day we found Little Jessie in the mine, he's blamed me for all his misfortunes. He is convinced I peached on him to the squire's gamekeepers."
Jessalyn thought of Jacky Stout running loose about the countryside, setting murderous fires. "She'll get hers!" he had bellowed as the gaolers led him away. "She'll get hers, that Letty bitch!" She hadn't paid much attention to the threat at the time. She still found it hard to believe the man had come back to Cornwall to wreak such destruction.
McCady got up and circled the table, coming toward her, and her whole body tensed. She could barely breathe from the pressure in her chest.
"You could be right about Stout," he said. "I'll look into it. In the meantime, you ought to be in bed. You've had a shock and—"
She thrust herself so hard out of the chair that it teetered, bringing herself up right next to him. So close their chests almost touched. "I cannot possibly stay here!" she cried, choking on the last w
ord.
He breathed an impatient sigh, and she felt his chest move. "You heard what the doctor said. Your grandmother has congestion of the lungs from the smoke she inhaled. She is to remain in bed for at least a fortnight."
Jessalyn had heard, but she hadn't wanted to think about the consequences of the doctor's diagnosis. She tried to imagine herself here in this house, where she was liable to come upon him at any time. This house, an earl's great hall. She looked around the tastefully furnished room. Beneath the decay had been beautiful oak floors, covered now with a red and buff carpet. The broken windowpanes had been replaced and framed with curtains of rich cream silk paduasoy. The fireplace had been furnished with a modern steel grate. Emily was making a pleasant home for him, Jessalyn thought, and he had never really had a home. Emily was making him a good wife.
Jessalyn felt weighted with a deep, dark sadness. What she felt for him was never going to go away, but it was wrong now, immoral and wicked. She was wishing for, waiting for something she could never have, ought not to have, and she was making herself miserable with the wanting.
He saw the fear in her eyes, but he misunderstood the reason for it. "Nothing more is going to happen to you, Jessalyn. I won't allow it." His arm started to come up, as if he were going to reach for her, to draw her close, but then he let it fall without touching her. "It will be easier for me to protect you if you are here at the hall."
She drew in a deep breath, trying to relieve some of the tightness in her chest. "I haven't any clothes," she said suddenly. The immensity of what she had lost struck her then, and a great sob welled up in her throat.
His hand settled on the small of her back to propel her forward. His touch was worse than fire. She couldn't bear it. "Come," he said. "Emily is having a bedchamber prepared for you and a bath drawn. And she'll find you some clothes. Later, after you are rested, we will make plans for what you are to do."
"I seem to have little choice, do I?" Jessalyn said, her voice brittle. At the door she stopped, moving out of his light embrace. "Order your manservant to stay away from Becka."
Once in a Blue Moon Page 30
