"Andrew!"
Whether dead or merely unconscious, his brother didn't answer him. Cursing, Charles grasped Andrew around the shoulders and began dragging him across the floor toward where the windows must surely be.
Slow, painful progress. The terrible roar of the fire, the crash of falling timbers beyond the door, sections of the floor going up in colored flames, weird, horrible, chemical smells. Chunks of burning plaster rained down from above, and his nostrils flared with the acrid stench of singed hair, smoldering clothes. His lungs contracted with the heat, refused to expand, and his eyes, his nose, his throat began to close up.
We're not going to make it.
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. Keep crawling! Dizziness made him reel. Keep crawling, damn you! His chin struck the floor as he fell, his lower teeth clipping the tip of his tongue. Blood filled his mouth. He dragged his head up, dragged himself up, kept going, keep going!, one elbow locked around Andrew's chest as he pulled himself along with one hand and burning knees, unable to hear even his own cries of pain, of desperation. It's no use. A burning timber crashed down ten feet from his face, brilliant orange through the black smoke. He shoved his face into his sleeve, trying to draw breath. Keep going! But there was nowhere to go, no way out, and when he fell a second time, then a third time, he knew he was fighting a battle he could never win.
A strange, not unpleasant euphoria came drifting over him, lulling him down into darkness, calling him away from the agony against and inside him, and the horrible death that now seemed imminent. The horrible death that neither he nor Andrew would escape.
With the last of his strength, Charles fell over Andrew, trying to cover him with his body, to shield him from the flames until the very end.
And as he lay there with his arms around his brother, the fire all around them, unconsciousness beginning to draw him down, down into its seductive net, his dying brain ran desperately, frantically back through a lifetime of memories . . . and he was once again in the proud regimentals of the King's Own, galloping through a wooded field in faraway Concord, bullets raining all around him.
He was once again carrying Ensign Gillard to safety, with no thought for himself.
Once again falling against a rock — and failing everyone, most of all himself.
Pathetic wreckage . . . pathetic wreckage . . . pathetic wreckage . . .
"Charles!"
Someone was calling him, forcing him back to himself, to reality. Dazedly, he raised his head. The fire was all around them now. His arms tightened fiercely, protectively, around Andrew.
"Charles . . . get off me . . . I can't breathe."
Andrew . . . oh, God, why did you have to wake up?
"Charles? The Contraption . . . it's our only chance."
"What?"
"It'll get us out of here . . . if you can only get us up onto the roof. You can do it, Charles. I know you can. They all know you can — even Lucien. Come on, Charles, get up . . ."
"Damn you, Andrew," he croaked hoarsely, and then he was on his hands and knees, one hand locked around his brother's in a grip that even death would never break, calling on all of his strength, all of his determination, all of the things that had made him the officer he had once been — and hauling them both toward the door to the roof.
He stumbled over debris and yanked the door open. A blast of cold night air laced with rain swept in, making the fire roar all the louder, causing the tears rushing down his face to change to ones of gratitude. Andrew in tow, he dragged himself through the door, and, somehow managing to get his brother into his arms, carried him up the stairs and onto the roof.
And there it was.
Andrew's flying machine, which had never been tested, which had never been flown, which offered them their only chance of survival. It lay silent and waiting, a fragile, flimsy, winged thing poised in a huge catapult that was already cranked back and ready to hurl its occupants toward death — or the history books.
He set Andrew down.
And now flames were licking up through the roof, smoke curling and rising like little snakes beneath Charles's grimy, blackened shoes. He felt a terrible rumbling beneath him and knew the floors were falling in, and down below on the lawn, so far, far down below on the lawn, he could see hundreds of people, some holding torches, some pointing up toward the roof, all yelling, shouting, "Jump! For God's sake, Charles, jump!"
He backed up, turned, and when he looked at Andrew, he saw this his brother had dragged himself to his invention and was looking expectantly up at him.
"Come, Charles — time is running out."
"But Andrew, it's only designed to carry one person . . . you calculated it could reach the moat if something went wrong but that was for one, not two people . . . there's twice the weight between the two of us, we'll never make it!"
But Andrew only shut his eyes on a tired little smile. "Go on, Charles, buckle us in," he whispered. "I had faith in you . . . now have a little faith in me."
I had faith in you . . . now have a little faith in me.
His knees quaking like the roof beneath him, Charles squatted down and buckled the harness around himself, his fingers shaking so badly that Andrew had to do up the last catches. Around him, the flames were roaring up through the roof now. Sweat pouring from his face, he wrapped his arms around Andrew, who in turn reached up to grasp the leather handholds sewn beneath the Contraption's wings, glowing eerily now as the fire punched through the roof all around and behind it.
"Oh, God," said Charles, squeezing his eyes shut. "Oh, God help us . . ."
"You ready, Charles?"
At that moment, the roof began to cave in, flames shot up into the black sky —
And Andrew pulled the lever.
Chapter 30
It was a demonstration that the king, standing outside with two hundred people and staring up at the roof, would never forget.
At the very moment that the building began to cave in, something that looked like a giant bat shot out from the top of the duke of Blackheath's roof, blazing across the sky like a comet. Two hundred voices rose in a single horrified scream. Ladies fainted and horses bolted and hearts stopped in frozen chests.
The Contraption was coming down.
Coming down in a graceful, gliding arc.
Coming down from a height of nearly a hundred feet — straight toward Lucien's lawn.
If the hand of God intervened that night, and everyone there would swear that it did, it was apparent not once, but twice.
The first miracle was the rain that suddenly came pouring out of the sky, aiding the bucket brigade in their eventually successful attempt to contain the fire to the ballroom and thus save Blackheath Castle.
The second was the fact that at the very moment the flying machine began to dip its nose toward the lawn, carrying Lord Charles and Lord Andrew to their certain deaths, an immense, roaring fireball roiled up and out of the collapsing building behind them, lighting up the night and creating a violent blast of turbulence that rocked the air for several hundred feet around.
Fortunately for Charles and Andrew, that same blast of turbulence was enough to propel the Contraption another sixty feet. Its wings afire and trailing ribbons of smoke, it sailed straight over everyone's heads, straight over the waiting carriages, and down into the moat.
"Bravo!" cried the king, clapping. "Bravo!"
Charles and Andrew, of course, were not clapping. Death by drowning was only marginally better than death by fire. As everyone ran toward the moat, it was Lord Gareth who dived into the ice-cold water, swam to the rescue of the stunned victims, and pulled them out of the wreckage. Swimming back to shore, he gave Andrew into the care of a relieved Lucien, and Charles into the arms of his Indian princess.
Around them, everyone was cheering.
"Never have I seen such selfless courage!" cried the king, his voice hoarse from the smoke as he rushed over to where Charles lay, pale, drenched and shivering, in Amy's arms. "Not only did you save m
y life, you saved your brother's, you saved everyone in the ballroom, and you saved the duke's home. Bravo, Charles! Or should I say Major de Montforte, now?"
Charles dragged open his eyes. "I . . . beg your pardon?"
"Major de Montforte! From now on I want you here in England, not wasted off across the ocean fighting those damned rebels! An appointment at Horse Guards is just the thing, and a hefty cash grant from the privy purse as well, what? Fine show you put on tonight, Major! Fine show!"
He went to Andrew and congratulated him as well. "Keep up the good work, Andrew — glad I didn't have to try it myself!" Then, after a private word with Lucien, who managed to look unruffled and unscathed by the near-catastrophe, the king departed for his waiting coach, his party of attendants trailing in his wake.
The excitement over, the rain beating down, the guests also put the sizzling wreckage behind them and began to leave for their carriages.
Affecting a heavy sigh, Lucien accepted a blanket from a servant, walked up to where Charles lay, and draped it over him. Then, folding his arms across his chest, he tilted his head back, and thoughtfully regarded the blazing ruins of his ballroom.
"Pity," he said, with a rueful little smile, still gazing at the conflagration. "But I suppose that part of the house was due for renovation anyhow. I think I shall have it redone in the new classical style . . . what do you think, Major?"
"I think that's the last ball of yours I will ever attend."
"Now really, Charles. You wound me." He knelt down, and, lifting one of Charles's hands, turned it palm upward, shaking his head as he examined the blistered red flesh through the burned-out glove. "And you have wounded yourself. How fortunate that you have someone to take such good care of you." His black eyes, which gave away nothing, found Amy's as he stood up. "You will take care of him, won't you, my dear?"
"Oh, I'll take care of him, Your Grace," she vowed, tenderly smoothing Charles's singed wet hair from his face. "After all, I've done it before, haven't I, Charles?"
"You certainly have." He shut his eyes, pulled her head down to his, and found her lips in a deep, searching kiss. And when he finally broke it and looked up, there was everyone gazing down at him, grinning so fiercely he thought their faces would split. Lucien, one brow raised, but otherwise as composed as ever. Gareth and Juliet, standing arm and arm, their eyes shining. A battered Andrew, Nerissa, Perry, Chilcot, the villagers, and everyone else whom Lucien must have used — either directly or indirectly, knowingly or unknowingly — to prove to Charles that he was not only forgiven, but loved, respected and admired. They were all there, too.
And at that moment Charles's thoughts raced back to the time he'd lain blind and helpless in Sylvanus Leighton's house, with only Amy to look after him in his days of darkest despair. He recalled how many moments they'd shared together, how much they'd come to mean to each other, and a huge knot of emotion closed the back of his throat as the full magnitude of his love for this woman nearly crushed him beneath its weight. He could never live without her. Ever. And this time, of course, he had no guilt over Juliet, no feelings of self-doubt, and absolutely no reason this side of heaven not to give in to his most fervent desire: to be with Amy, always.
He had come full circle, then.
He was the man he had always been.
The Beloved One.
Charles tilted his head back within Amy's arms and, looking up into her eyes, saw such a wealth of love for him there that he thought his heart was going to come bursting right out of his chest.
He lifted her hand to his lips. "Amy. My dearest, precious Amy. I love you. Will you marry me?"
Her eyes suddenly misty, she looked up at Lucien.
He only smiled. "I believe, my dear, that the traditional reply is 'I will."
Epilogue
Lucien's wedding gift to the bride and groom was nothing short of magnificent.
Built of honey-colored stone and commanding several hundred acres of fields and pastures, Lynmouth Park, just ten miles southwest of London, was all that a promising young major and his lovely wife could have wanted. Now, in September, the air smelled spicy, the sun was hanging lower in the sky, and the willows ringing the ornamental pond dropped leaves that lay curled and yellow in the grasses and floated upon the still, cold water below. Geese gathered and began to migrate; hawthorn shed vibrant red berries; the air grew cooler and thistledown drifted in the wind, floating lazily over fields of wheat long since harvested.
And in an upstairs bedroom of the elegant house, the newest de Montforte was being born.
Charles was as distraught as Lucien had ever seen him, pacing back and forth in the drawing room while above, Amy screamed in pain as another contraction seized her.
Charles blanched. Droplets of sweat beaded his brow.
"Do sit down, Charles," Lucien murmured, not looking up from where he sat calmly writing a letter. The duke, along with his siblings and Juliet — whose presence Amy had specifically requested — had arrived a fortnight ago so they could all be together for the grand event. "I daresay you're expending as much effort on delivering this child as Amy is."
"Yes, I wonder which one will be more exhausted when it's over?" teased Gareth, lounging on a nearby sofa and bouncing a leg over one bent knee.
Charles kept pacing. "I won't sit down, I can't sit down, I can't rest, I can't eat, I can't think until I know that both of them are all right!"
Gareth, with his new son Gabriel in his arms and Charlotte playing on the floor nearby, fought hard to contain his laughter. Having recently gone through the same hell as Charles was currently experiencing — and behaving just as abominably — he considered himself quite the expert on such matters. He looked at Charles and grinned.
"Yes, Luce is quite right, Charles. All you're doing is wearing a hole in the carpet. Amy'll be just fine."
"But those screams! I cannot bear to hear them!"
Lucien dipped his quill in the ink bottle. "Then go outside, my dear Charles, so that you do not have to hear them."
For answer, Charles only threw himself down in the nearest chair. Raked a hand through his hair. Jumped to his feet, poured himself a drink, and continued his pacing.
Moments later, a particularly harsh scream came from above, followed by the thin, lusty wail of a child. Charles dropped his glass and bolted for the stairs, taking them three at a time as he sprinted to his wife's aid.
In his wake, Gareth and Lucien merely exchanged amused glances.
"A girl," said Gareth. "I'll bet you ten pounds on it."
"No, no, Gareth. It will be a boy. It has to be a boy. I hope to God it's a boy, since it seems that the next heir to Blackheath is going to have to come down through Charles, not me."
"Come now, Luce, you have plenty of time to marry and get an heir of your own."
Lucien arched a brow. "What, and put myself through the hell that you two go through every time you become a father? I think not . . ."
Upstairs, Charles was running headlong down the corridor toward the closed door of Amy's room. Nerissa stood just outside, arms folded, barring his way. She saw his panicked face, his wild eyes, as from behind the door, the baby's wailing intensified. "Really, Charles. Are you all right?"
"Never mind me, are they all right?!"
His sister smiled with infuriating sweetness. "Why don't you go in and see for yourself?"
He lunged for the door.
Nerissa grabbed the handle, laughing. "Ah! Sedately, brother dear!"
He willed himself to calm down, his hands, his body, his very nerves, shaking. His throat felt dry and he feared his knees were going to give out and he had to take several gulping breaths to get himself under control.
Nerissa, smiling, opened the door.
And there was Amy, propped up on pillows, her face pale, wan, exhausted — radiant. Juliet stood beside the bed, sponging her brow and grinning as the midwife wrapped the tiny, squalling bundle in a blanket and placed it on Amy's chest. The old woman raised her head
as she saw the lord of Lynmouth standing there, looking as though the gods had just struck him to stone with a bolt of lightning.
"Congratulations, m'lord. You 'ave a little girl."
Charles stood frozen, afraid to come any closer. Amy turned her head on the pillow and smiled at him, her eyes suddenly misty beneath their fan of thick black lashes. For a long moment the two gazed at each other; then Charles moved forward, toward the bed, toward the crying child. He never noticed that Juliet and the midwife stole from the room.
"Amy," he breathed, staring down at the tiny, wailing bundle that their love had made. "Oh, Amy . . ."
"Want to hold her?"
Charles paled, unable to forget when Gareth had asked him much the same thing before placing Charlotte in his arms. He remembered the terrible awkwardness of that moment, the crushing love he'd thought to feel for the toddler but hadn't, the mixed hurt and relief when Charlotte had suddenly started crying and reached for Gareth. Now, he stood frozen and uncertain, desperately wanting to hold the baby, desperately afraid to for fear that it would be a repeat of the last time he'd held his own flesh-and-blood. Especially as this one was a red-faced, black-haired, puckered bundle of screaming misery.
"Go ahead," Amy prompted. "She won't bite."
Swallowing hard, Charles reached down.
Put his hands around his tiny daughter.
And gingerly picking her up, cradled her tiny body to his chest.
Instantly, the baby stopped crying — and Charles felt as though the mallet of the gods had just smote him across the heart. A wall of emotion nearly cracked his chest and closed his throat, and for a moment he could do nothing but gulp back the huge lump there as he cupped the baby's head in his palm and stared reverently down at her. With a shaking hand, he touched one curled, tiny fist. Smoothed the downy-soft hair. Kissed the red and wrinkled brow and then, moisture sparkling on his own gold lashes, he looked over at Amy, whose eyes were dark with love as she watched the two of them together.
The Beloved One Page 31
