by Jo Beverley
He was right, but she feared Jack and the child were dead. But as she backed away, someone burst out of the crowd carrying the sobbing boy to his screeching mother.
Then someone bellowed, “Watch out! It’s going!”
The crowd around the ladder ran, some carrying a bulky shape, as the fire poured sideways like a burning river through the rooms at the front, the rooms where Laura and Stephen had been. Behind, it ran even faster along the stables, where the upper floor was probably full of hay.
With a roar louder than any lion, the fire caught the thatch and became one enormous bonfire. Appalled silence fell on the crowd.
But then she heard Stephen. “Get those buckets moving. Wet down the buildings to either side!”
As the bucket line swung into action, a cheer greeted men running down the road with a hose and pump on wheels. Draycombe had some provision against fire after all, and she supposed it was mere minutes since the fire bell had first rung.
But no one seemed to be in command except Stephen.
And he was magnificent.
In breeches and flapping shirt, he was organizing the buckets to soak the tile-roofed house to the left. He directed the pump to soak the thatched one to the right.
Reaction was setting in, and Laura started to shake. It was partly the cold night air, but it was so many other things, as well. She’d left her wedding ring in her room, which was now a furnace, and that seemed a terrible sin.
Jack. What had become of Jack? She should stay out of his sight, but he was Hal’s brother. She moved cautiously to the huddle around someone on the ground.
She managed to push in far enough to see. Thank heavens. He wasn’t dead. He was babbling. “Sorry, so sorry. Never thought . . . Is the boy all right?”
“The boy suffered no more than a fright, thanks to you, sir.” That was Dr. Nesbitt, kneeling and feeling Jack’s leg. “But you have a badly broken leg, at the least. Stay still, if you please.”
“So sorry, so sorry,” Jack kept saying, but then he let out a scream of pain and lost consciousness.
“As well,” said the doctor. “Let’s move him to my house so I can attempt to save his leg.”
As men grasped the blanket to carry Jack away, Laura huddled into her robe. Perhaps the others would hear Jack’s babbling as meaning he was sorry the ladder had fallen, but she knew differently.
He’d started the fire, perhaps only meaning to smoke out the rats. The same plan had occurred to her once, but been instantly dismissed for exactly this reason. Fire was too dangerous to play with. Jack’s had burst out of control.
She was sorry for his pain, but to her it looked like divine justice.
Speaking of justice, where were the rats?
Over there.
She checked that Juliet and Harry were all right—they both waved—and went over to the couple who were the root and cause of all her problems. And pleasures, she must confess.
HG was sitting on the ground, Farouk on guard.
“Mr. Farouk,” Laura said, “I will take care of Captain Dyer if you wish to help fight the fire.”
The flames cast enough light for her to see the flat rejection in the man’s dark eyes. For her also to see that without his turban, he looked different. His hair was cut short. Didn’t Mahometans keep their hair long beneath their turbans?
“Captain Dyer needs my support, madam.”
He was speaking in that heavy accent again, but she wondered now if he was Arab at all.
Laura turned to a respectable-looking woman. “Do you live nearby, ma’am? Could you give refuge to this poor gentleman?”
“Of course, of course!” The woman seemed delighted to help and called for a man with one of the wheeled chairs to come over.
Laura was sure Farouk would have liked to protest, but HG said with surprising dignity, “I will be safe. You go.”
The touch they exchanged was strange—Farouk’s hand on Dyer’s shoulder and Dyer’s hand covering it. What was more, Laura would swear that Farouk was saying thank you for being allowed to help. She liked the man more for that.
He lifted HG into the wheeled chair and fussed the blankets around him, but then he strode off. Despite wearing what was, in effect, a dress, he climbed nimbly up a ladder to the thatched roof to help the men there beat out fires. The most dangerous job.
Another unexpected hero.
Laura wouldn’t have been surprised to find Stephen at the same task, but he was still on the ground, organizing. He probably wished he had a more daring role, but he was Sir Stephen Ball, MP, and thus in charge. Many here might not know who he was, and they certainly couldn’t tell from his rough appearance. They simply recognized command.
As if feeling her eyes on him, he looked away from his duties. She waved and saw his relieved smile, teeth white in a sooty face. Then he returned to his work and she knew she was out of his thoughts, as she should be now he knew her to be safe.
She, in turn, looked back toward Harry.
Thank heavens for Juliet.
Laura turned to see where she could be of most use, but then a group of horsemen thundered down the street, lanterns waving.
Laura heard “Mr. Kerslake!” but she also heard some people whispering, “Captain Drake.” A new spirit of confidence surged like another fire. The leader they knew and trusted was here now. What a burden it must be to carry such authority when so young.
Kerslake swung off his horse, his five men doing the same behind him. Local men hurried to speak to him, and he gave rapid orders. Stephen joined him and the two men clasped hands, accepting and acknowledging each other’s authority. They began consulting like officers on the deck of a warship and directing the action in partnership.
After consideration, Laura slipped over to join them.
Stephen’s eyes kissed hers, but he didn’t do or say anything revealing. Kerslake looked at her blankly a moment, then said, “Mrs. Penfold. I hope you’re not hurt.”
“Not at all, but I’m relieved to see you here. We need to talk when things are under control.”
His look was understanding. “Where are our mysteries?”
“Farouk’s up on the roof, and the other man’s in a cottage. My sister and child are here, however, and Stephen made some complicated arrangements that included your Crag Wyvern.”
“I received the message. That can go ahead. When things are under control here, a boat will take you all there, the two mystery men included.” He flashed her a smile. “I, too, want to know the whole story.”
Then he turned back to business, and Laura, suddenly exhausted, went over to take the wide-eyed Harry.
“He wants to get down,” Juliet said, clearly exhausted, too, “but I neglected his shoes.”
“And you’re in your petticoat and cloak. It occurs to me that none of us have a stitch other than what we’re wearing. How are we going to explain that to Father?” She kissed her son’s cheek. “Another adventure, Minnow. You’ll have a great deal to tell Nan when you get back, because soon you’re going in a boat to a castle.”
Chapter 43
It was a while, and Harry went to sleep in Laura’s arms. They were offered blankets, so Laura bundled him up. They were offered shelter, too, but she explained that they were soon to go to Crag Wyvern. A woman brought them mulled cider, and that was certainly welcome.
How were they going to explain an almost total lack of possessions? Perhaps she’d have to tell the truth. She’d prefer that, and it wouldn’t matter so much now that she and Stephen were to marry.
Despite weariness and Harry’s weight, she smiled. Poor Juliet was sitting down, huddled in a blanket, clutching a pottery beaker of cider, so Laura was deeply relieved when Stephen came over.
He took Harry from her, and that was a relief, too. “We can leave now. Squire Ryall’s arrived, and Captain Sillitoe. There’s a boat at the jetty. Kerslake’s own, apparently. The Buttercup.”
“Shouldn’t a smuggling master’s boat have a more awe-inspiring name?
”
He gave an arm to help Juliet up.
“Remember, the point is not to look significant. And besides, I doubt he brings in cargo anymore than Wellington holds the line in battle.”
They made their way to the wooden jetty and along to a fishing smack and a cheerful fellow called Ham Pisley, who helped them aboard. Laura looked back for a moment at the fire, hardly able to believe that it was so little time since she and Stephen had been making love in that inn.
It was mostly a blackened skeleton now, angry red in places, with flames still licking hungrily in search of new food. The adjacent buildings had been saved, thank God, and as far as she knew, no lives had been lost.
She went into a cabin that was small but comfortably appointed. There was a narrow bunk, and she encouraged Juliet to collapse onto it, Harry beside her, tucked against the wall.
Laura turned into Stephen’s arms and rested against him. “You must be as tired as I am.”
His arms were strong around her. “We will cope. We’re alive and betrothed, yes?”
She looked up and smiled. “Yes.”
“So this is perfect.”
“No,” she said with a chuckle, “but it will do for now.”
“You lost your wig somewhere.”
She put her hand to her head. “Perish it. Ah, well. I’m too tired to try to piece together a story to cover all this.”
“As am I.” He kissed her. “I have to get Farouk and HG, then we’ll be off.”
“You’re a hero. I’m not sure I can keep my eyes open.”
“You gave up the bed, which makes you a heroine.” He opened some cupboards and found an extra mattress. It was thin, but Laura gratefully sank down onto it.
“Definitely a hero,” she said, her eyes closing even as she felt him tuck an extra blanket around her.
“Jack started the fire,” she managed to mumble.
“I suspected as much. He was here under a false name—Mr. John Dyer, if you can believe it—so we might be able to slither through it all without connection to the Gardeynes.”
She probably should discuss it, come up with plans, consider what all this meant to Harry’s future, but instead she surrendered to sleep.
Laura was only blearily aware of landing and being carried to some sort of vehicle for a rather rough ride. Then she was carried again to a bed, and knew no more until opening her eyes to daylight.
She, Harry, and Juliet were in a large bed in a large bedchamber that seemed to be decorated in a pale, classical style. One wall was taken up by a mural of St. George and the dragon. Strange, but not as peculiar as she’d been led to fear. A fire burned in the massive hearth, but the room still had a chilly feel and perhaps even a touch of moldy disuse.
Laura sat up, careful not to wake the others, and smiled. Clothing! There was a small pile of boy’s garments, and spread over the backs of two chairs, ladies’ garments. She slipped out of the bed to inspect the treasure. Juliet would not be thrilled. Both dresses were of a severe gray and plain cut, and the shifts, stockings, and corsets, while white, matched. The housekeeper’s clothes? Or was there a Puritan in the house? Laura didn’t mind. She was used to mourning dullness, anyway, and any decent clothing was a treasure.
In fact, dull might be excellent today, as her father would arrive demanding explanations. What could she tell him that would make sense of all this?
Then she remembered last night deciding to tell him the truth, or almost all of it, and her heart eased. Her dislike of lying made her a very poor conspirator, but Stephen had agreed.
And they were to marry.
She went to the window and looked down on an enclosed garden. From the season, and perhaps from neglect, it was not a thing of beauty, but it could be made pleasant. Some sort of fountain stood in the center, dry and unused.
They were to marry.
Memories of the night, of the earlier part of the night and their lovemaking, swept over her, making her smile and hug herself. She rubbed her hands up and down a body whose appetites had been stimulated rather than sated even by those intense hours of pleasure.
It had been a kind of madness to go to him. She’d known it at the time. And a kind of wickedness. But she’d lost the will to resist, the will to be restrained and sensible. Apart from any need of Harry’s, she’d realized that she wanted Stephen more desperately than she’d wanted anything in her life and could not bear to part in case she might lose him.
But she’d had to warn him. After that last kiss, she’d thought she knew him, knew him to be passionate, but she’d also known that they would make a sour marriage if he preferred modest propriety in a wife, even in private. She simply couldn’t do it. She’d enjoyed a lusty marriage, and the fires of desire burned fiercely in her.
She smiled, and perhaps she blushed. No doubt now that he was an equally lusty man, and skilled. More skilled than Hal in ways, because he had more control and patience. Perhaps even because he was more clever. She’d never before appreciated the wonders of a brilliant lover. . . .
She shook herself. She couldn’t spend the day mooning over Stephen, and much more of this and she’d be hunting him down to leap on him in passion!
And their life would not be totally smooth. She brought trouble as her dowry. She turned to look at Harry, sleeping so innocently, sprawled on his back. Wicked to wish Jack dead of his wounds, but she did. It would make everything so much simpler.
There was no clock here, and the Crag Wyvern walls made it difficult to judge the hour from the sun, but it was not particularly early. Time to be up and about and find out what was happening. The first requirement was washing water. They were all grubby and smelt slightly of smoke.
She inspected the room. There was a door in one wall, but it was locked. Another opened into the corridor, and that did startle her.
The corridor was gloomy because the only light came from the arrow slits Stephen had mentioned. The walls appeared to be rough stone with green spots that indicated damp. When she touched one, however, she realized it was all paint. Trompe l’oeil.
Kerslake had said the previous earl was mad. If this was his work, he’d certainly been eccentric. There were even weapons hanging at regular intervals along the wall, and they weren’t a trick of paint.
She retreated back to the classical setting. She’d have to keep a close eye on Harry. This place might frighten him, and heaven knows what other peculiarities it contained.
She found the bellpull and tugged on it, wondering about Stephen’s complex plans. Hadn’t Kerslake implied that they’d been put into effect? Could the Delaneys already be here? That would mean she could spin the story they’d prepared. . . .
She pushed the temptation aside.
A bone-thin maid with wide, pale eyes came in carrying a large, steaming jug of water. She put it on the washstand and curtsied nervously. “Will there be anything else, mum?”
She looked like a scared, emaciated sheep.
“Do you know what other guests are in the house?” Laura asked. “And where breakfast will be available?”
The young woman blinked. “Mr. Kerslake’s here, mum, and Mr. Delaney, and a Sir Stephen Ball, and two other gentlemen what I don’t know the names of, mum. And you, mum, and the lady and the lad in the bed there. I think that’s it, and breakfast’s in the breakfast room, mum!”
The maid came to the end of her recitation, looking as if she’d just attempted a test. Then she gasped, dug into a pocket, and produced a folded piece of paper.
“Mr. Kerslake said to give you this, mum! It’s a map, on account of there’s short ways and long ways here, see, and you’d probably better not take the short ways. And he said to say sorry if the skeleton scares your little boy.”
Laura was struggling with laughter and perplexity, but she managed a sober “Thank you,” and the maid left.
Shaking her head, she unfolded the paper to find a hand-drawn map of two levels of Crag Wyvern. The place was a square with the garden in the middle. The r
ooms all looked into the garden and corridors ran around the outside wall. A cross marked the George and the Dragon Room on the upper floor. Another marked a drawing room on the ground floor. That sounded pleasantly normal, but she’d believe it when she saw it.
Not far from the drawing room was the breakfast parlor, which also sounded normal. Perhaps the peculiarities were kept for the upper, more private floor.
There were circular staircases in each corner of the building, but she was directed by arrows past one of those to a wide, straight staircase down to the hall.
Lady Skylark stirred, suggesting that the inadvisable spiral staircase might be fun, but responsible Laura shooed her away.
“What’s that?” Juliet asked sleepily. “And where are we?”
“Crag Wyvern, for which we apparently need a map.” She handed over the paper.
Juliet sat up, rubbing her eyes, and took it. She chuckled. “Extraordinary and intriguing.”
“You can explore later. For now, we’d best be up and dressed—we have clothing—and meet the others to sort all this out.” She faced her sister. “I’m going to tell the truth, Ju.”
“Oh, good. I don’t see how I could keep a story straight that would cover all of this.”
They shared a smile, then washed and helped each other to dress. Juliet, as expected, grumbled about the plain gowns, but she was only teasing. Laura realized that though she’d be dressed again in plain clothes, she didn’t have to wear a disguise. Tidying her hair in the mirror around her familiar features was a delight. No hairpins had been provided, however, so she had to leave her hair loose, as did Juliet.
“We look like girls again.”
“From a very severe school.”
Harry woke up, wide-eyed. “Where are we, Mama?”
She went to lift him out of the bed. “In the castle I told you about. It’s called Crag Wyvern, and it might be a little bit frightening, but there’s nothing here that can hurt you.”
As she said that, she remembered the weapons. Yes, Harry would have to be under someone’s eye all the time.
When she put him down, he ran over to the picture. “That’s a scary dragon,” he said, looking not at all alarmed. “Roar!”
