by Lisa Kleypas
“No, but the house—” Her throat clenched on a sob.
Cam shrugged off his coat and settled it around her, pulling the edges together at the front. The wool was permeated with warmth and a comforting masculine scent. “We’ll see what we can do.” He gestured for Christopher Frost to come with him. “Two canisters are being unloaded near the stairs. You can help me carry them inside.”
Amelia’s eyes turned round at the sight of the two large metallic vessels. “What are they?”
“An invention of Captain Swansea’s. They’re filled with pearl ash solution. We’re going to use it to keep the fire from spreading until they’ve primed the water pump.” Rohan slid a glance toward Christopher Frost. “Since Swansea is too old to carry the containers, I’ll take one and you’ll take the other.”
Amelia knew Christopher well enough to sense his dislike of taking orders, especially from a man he considered his inferior. But he surprised her by acceding without protest, and followed Cam Rohan to the burning house.
Chapter Fourteen
Amelia watched as Cam Rohan and Christopher Frost lifted the ungainly copper containers, which had been fitted with leather hosing, and hauled them past the front door. Captain Swansea remained on the steps, shouting instructions after them.
The windows were shot with lurid flashes as fire began to digest the interior of the house. Soon, Amelia thought bleakly, nothing would be left but a blackened skeleton.
Making her way back to her sisters, Amelia stood beside Win, who was cradling Leo’s head in her lap. “How is he?”
“He’s ill from the smoke.” Win ran a gentle hand over her brother’s disheveled head. “But I think he’ll be all right.”
Glancing down at Leo, Amelia muttered, “The next time you try to kill yourself, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t take the rest of us with you.”
He gave no indication of having heard, but Win, Beatrix, and Poppy glanced at her in surprise.
“Not now, dear,” Win said in gentle reproof.
Amelia stifled the hot words that rose to her lips and stared stonily at the house.
More people were arriving, some forming a line to pass water buckets back and forth from the river to the handpump. There was no sign of activity from within the building. She wondered what Rohan and Frost were doing.
Win seemed to read her mind. “It seems Captain Swansea finally has an opportunity to test his invention,” she said.
“What invention?” Amelia asked. “And how do you know about it?”
“I sat next to him at supper, at Stony Cross Manor,” Win replied. “He told me that during his experiments with rocketry design, he had the idea for a device that would extinguish fires by spraying them with pearl ash solution. When the copper canister is upended, a vial of acid mixes with the solution, and it creates enough pressure to force the liquid from the canister.”
“Would that work?” Amelia asked doubtfully.
“I certainly hope so.”
They both flinched at the sound of breaking windows. The handpump crew was making an opening large enough to direct a stream of water inside the burning room.
Becoming more worried by the moment, Amelia watched intently for any sign of Rohan or Frost. She was highly skeptical about the notion of running into a burning house with an untested device that could explode in one’s face. Confronted by the chemicals, the smoke, and the heat, the men might be disoriented or overwhelmed. The idea of some harm befalling either of them was unbearable. Her muscles knotted with anxiety until streaks of pain fired through every limb.
Just as she began to consider the idea of venturing to the front threshold, Rohan and Frost emerged from the house with the emptied canisters and were immediately approached by Captain Swansea.
Amelia hurried forward with a cry of gladness, fully intending to stop once she reached them. Which was why it was a surprise when her legs insisted on carrying her forward.
Rohan dropped the canister and caught her tightly. “Easy, hummingbird.”
She had lost his coat and her shawl somewhere amid the impetuous dash. The cold night air pierced the thin layer of her gown, causing her to shiver hard. He gripped her more closely, easing her into the pungent fragrance of smoke and sweat. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear, his hand tracing warm circles on her back.
“The extinguishers were even more effective than I’d anticipated,” she heard Captain Swansea say to Christopher Frost. “Two or three more canisters, and I do believe we could have put it down by ourselves.”
Collecting herself, Amelia looked out from the circle of Rohan’s arms. Frost stared at her with patent disapproval and something that might have been jealousy. She knew she was making a spectacle of herself with Cam Rohan. Again. But she couldn’t make herself leave the comforting shelter of his arms just yet.
Captain Swansea was smiling, pleased with the results of his efforts. “The fire’s under control now,” he told Amelia. “I should think they’ll have it out quite soon.”
“Captain, I’ll never be able to thank you enough,” she managed to say.
“I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this,” he declared. “Though of course I wouldn’t have wished for your home to serve as the testing site.” He turned to view the progress with the handpump, which was now operating at full capacity. “I’m afraid,” he said ruefully, “the water damage will be just as bad as that from the smoke.”
“Perhaps some of the upstairs rooms are still habitable,” Amelia said. “In a few minutes I should like to go up and see—”
“No,” Rohan interrupted calmly. “You and the rest of the Hathaways are going to Stony Cross Manor. They have more than enough guest rooms to accommodate you.”
Before Amelia could say a word, Christopher Frost answered for her. “I’m staying with the Shelsher family at the village tavern. Miss Hathaway and her siblings will go there with me.”
Amelia felt the change in Rohan’s hold. His hand came to her arm, and his thumb found the inside curve of her elbow, where her pulse thrummed hard beneath fragile skin. He touched her with the possessive intimacy of a lover.
“Westcliff’s residence is closer,” Rohan said. “Miss Hathaway and her sisters are standing outside in the cold, dressed in little more than their nightgowns. Their brother needs to be seen by a doctor, and if I’m not mistaken, Merripen does, too. They’re going to the manor.”
Amelia frowned as his words sank in. “Why does Merripen need a doctor? Where is he?”
Rohan turned her in his arms to face the opposite direction. “Over there, beside your sisters.”
She gasped at the sight of Merripen huddled on the ground. Win was with him, attempting to pull the thin fabric of his shirt away from his back. “Oh, no.” Amelia pulled away from Rohan and sped toward her family. She heard Christopher Frost calling out her name, but she ignored the sound.
“What happened?” she asked, dropping to the damp ground beside Win. “Has Merripen been burned?”
“Yes, on his back.” Win ripped a makeshift bandage from the hem of her own gown. “Beatrix, would you take this, please, and soak it in water?”
Without a word, Beatrix scampered to the trough at the handpump.
Win stroked Merripen’s thick black hair as he rested his head on his forearms. His breath hissed unevenly through his teeth.
“Does it hurt, or is it numb?” Amelia asked.
“Hurts like the devil,” he choked out.
“That’s a good sign. A burn is much more serious if it’s numb.”
He turned his head to give her a speaking glance.
Win kept her hand on the nape of Merripen’s neck as she spoke to Amelia. “He went too close to the eaves of the house. The heat from the fire caused the flashing on the shingles to melt and drip down. Some molten lead fell on his back.” She glanced up as Beatrix returned with a dripping cloth. “Thank you, dear.” Lifting Merripen’s shirt, she laid the wet cloth over the burn, and he let out a pained growl
. Losing all sense of pride or decorum, he let Win pillow his head on her lap while he shook uncontrollably.
Glancing at Leo, who was faring little better, Amelia realized Cam Rohan was right—she needed to take her family to the manor immediately, and send for a doctor.
She made no protest as Rohan and Captain Swansea came to load the assembled Hathaways into the carriage. Leo had to be lifted bodily into the vehicle, and Merripen, who was unsteady and disoriented, required help as well. Captain Swansea handled the ribbons deftly as he drove the family to Stony Cross Manor.
Upon their arrival, the Hathaways were greeted with considerable excitement and sympathy, servants running in all directions, houseguests volunteering extra clothes and personal items. Lady Westcliff and Lady St. Vincent took charge of the younger girls, while Amelia was dragged away by a pair of determined housemaids. It became clear they would not relent until she was bathed and fed and dressed.
An eternity had passed by the time the housemaids put Amelia into a fresh nightgown and a blue velvet robe. Another quarter hour crawled by as they painstakingly braided her damp hair into a neat plait behind each ear. When at last they were finished with her, Amelia thanked the maids and fled the guest room. She went to check on her siblings, starting with her brother.
A servant in the hallway directed her to Leo’s room. The doctor, an elderly man with a neatly trimmed gray beard, was just leaving. He paused, bag in hand, as she asked about her brother’s condition.
“All in all, Lord Ramsay is doing quite well,” the doctor replied. “There is minor swelling of the throat—due to the smoke inhalation, of course—but it is mere tissue irritation rather than serious damage. His color is good, the heart is strong, and all signs are that he’ll be good as new.”
“Thank God. What about Merripen?”
“The Gypsy? His condition is a bit more worrisome. It’s a nasty burn. But I’ve treated it and applied a honey dressing, which should keep the bandage from sticking as it heals. I will return tomorrow to check on his progress.”
“Thank you. Sir, I don’t wish to trouble you—I know the hour is late—but could you spare a moment to visit one of my sisters? She has weak lungs, and even though she wasn’t exposed to the smoke, she was out in the night air—”
“You’re referring to Miss Winnifred.”
“Yes.”
“She was in the Gypsy’s room. Apparently he shared your concern over your sister’s health. Both of them were arguing quite strenuously over which one of them I should see first.”
“Oh.” A faint smile came to her lips. “Who won? Merripen, I suppose.”
He smiled back at her. “No, Miss Hathaway. Your sister may have weak lungs, but she has no end of resolve.” He bowed to her. “I wish you good evening. My sympathies on your misfortune.”
Amelia nodded in thanks and went into Leo’s room, where a lamp had been turned down low. He was lying on his side, eyes open, but he didn’t spare her a glance as she approached. Sitting on the side of the mattress with care, she reached out and smoothed his matted hair.
His voice was a soft croak. “Have you come to finish me off?”
She smiled wryly. “You seem to be doing an excellent job of that all by yourself.” Her hand shaped tenderly over his skull. “How did the fire start, dear?”
He looked at her then, his eyes so bloodshot they resembled two tiny coaching road maps. “I don’t remember. I fell asleep. I didn’t cause the fire on purpose. I hope you believe that.”
“Yes.” She leaned over and kissed his head as if he were a young boy. “Rest, Leo. Everything will be better in the morning.”
“You always say that,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. “Maybe someday it’ll be true.” And he fell asleep with startling quickness.
Hearing a noise at the door, Amelia looked up to see the housekeeper carrying a tray laden with brown glass bottles and bundles of dried herbs. The elderly woman was accompanied by Cam Rohan, who carried a small open kettle filled with steaming water.
Rohan had not yet washed the smoke from his clothes and hair and skin. Although he must have been tired from the night’s exertions, he showed no signs of it. He took Amelia in with an all-encompassing glance, his eyes glowing like brimstone in his smudged, sweat-streaked face.
“The steam will help Lord Ramsay breathe more comfortably during the night,” the housekeeper explained. She proceeded to light the candles beneath a bedside holder, onto which the kettle was placed.
As steam dispersed through the air, a strong, not unpleasant fragrance drifted to Amelia’s nostrils. “What is it?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“Chamomile, thyme, and licorice,” Rohan said, “along with slippery elm and horsetail leaves for the swelling in his throat.”
“We’ve also brought morphine to help him sleep,” the housekeeper said. “I’ll leave it by the bedside, and if he awakens later—”
“No,” Amelia said quickly. The last thing Leo needed was unsupervised access to a large bottle of morphine. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Yes, miss.” The housekeeper departed with a quiet murmur for her to ring if anything was needed.
Cam remained in the room, casually leaning a shoulder against one towering bedpost. He watched as Amelia went to investigate the contents of the steam kettle. She averted her gaze from his vibrant dark presence, the searching eyes, the quizzical cast of his mouth.
“You must be exhausted,” she said, picking up a sprig of dried leaves. She brought the crackly fragrant herbs to her nose and sniffed experimentally. “It’s very late.”
“I’ve spent most of my life in a gaming club—by now I’m more or less nocturnal.” A brief pause. “You should go to bed.”
Amelia shook her head. Somewhere beneath the clamor of her pulse and the raffle of worries in her mind, there was a great ache of weariness. But any attempt to sleep would be useless—she would simply lie there and stare at the ceiling. “My head is spinning like a carousel. The thought of sleep…” She shook her head.
“Would it help,” he asked gently, “to have a shoulder to cry on?”
She fought to conceal how much the question unnerved her. “Thank you, but no.” Carefully she dropped the herbs into the kettle. “Crying is a waste of time.”
“‘To weep is to make less the depth of grief.’”
“Is that a Romany saying?”
“Shakespeare.” He studied her, seeing too much, reading what simmered beneath the forced calm. “You have friends to help you through this, Amelia. And I’m one of them.”
Amelia was terrified that he might see her as an object of pity. She would avoid that at all cost. She couldn’t lean on him, or anyone. If she did, she might never be able to stand on her own again. She moved away from him, around him, her hands fluttering as if to bat away any attempt to reach her. “You mustn’t trouble yourself about the Hathaways. We’ll manage. We always have.”
“Not this time.” Rohan watched her steadily. “Your brother is beyond helping anyone, including himself. Your sisters are too young, except for Winnifred. And now even Merripen is bedridden.”
“I’ll take care of them. I don’t need help.” She reached for a length of toweling draped at the foot of the bed, and folded it neatly. “You’re leaving for London in the morning, aren’t you? You should probably take your own advice and go to bed.”
The light eyes turned flinty. “Damn it, why do you have to be so stubborn?”
“I’m not being stubborn. It’s just that I don’t want anything from you. And you deserve to find the freedom you’ve been deprived of for so long.”
“Are you concerned about my freedom, or are you terrified of admitting you need someone?”
He was right—but she would rather have died than admit it. “I don’t need anyone, least of all you.”
His voice was no less blistering for being soft. “You don’t know how easy it would be to prove you wrong.” He began to reach for her, checked the movement, and looked
at her as if he wanted to throttle her, kiss her, or both.
“Maybe next lifetime,” she whispered, somehow managing a crooked smile. “Please go. Please, Cam.”
She waited until he had left the room, and her shoulders sagged with relief.
* * *
Needing to escape the smothering confines of the house, Cam went outside. The night threaded weak moonlight through a weft of infinite darkness. He wandered to the ironstone wall that edged a bluff overlooking the river. Hoisting himself easily to the top of the wall, he sat with his feet dangling over the edge, and listened to the water and the night sounds. Smoke hung in the air, mingling with the scents of earth and forest.
Cam tried to sort through a tangle of emotions.
He had never known jealousy before, but when he had seen Amelia and Christopher Frost embracing earlier, Cam had experienced a violent urge to strangle the bastard. Every instinct raged that Amelia was his, his alone to protect and comfort. But he had no rights to her.
If Frost decided to pursue her, it was best that Cam not interfere. Amelia would be better off with her own kind, rather than a half-bred Roma. Cam would be better off, too. Good God, was he actually contemplating spending the rest of his life as a gadjo, bound in domesticity?
He should leave Hampshire, he thought. Amelia would make her own decision about Frost, and Cam would follow his destiny. No compromises or sacrifices on either side. He would never be anything more to Amelia than a brief, vaguely remembered episode in her life.
Lowering his head, he scrubbed his hands through his unruly hair. His chest ached in the way it always had when he yearned for freedom. But for the first time, he wondered if he was right about what he wanted. Because it didn’t seem as if the pain would be cured when he left. In fact, it threatened to become a good deal worse.
The future spread before him in a great lifeless void. Thousands of nights without Amelia. He would hold and make love to other women, but none of them would ever be the one he truly wanted.
He thought of Amelia living as a spinster. Or worse, reconciling with Frost, perhaps marrying him, but always living with the knowledge that Frost had betrayed her once and might again. She deserved so much more than that. She deserved passionate, heart-scalding, overwhelming, consuming love. She deserved …
