He reached up to turn the doorknob, shoving the door open with his shoulder. “Mary!”
An answering cry.
He was blind now, so he felt with his hand, finding and clutching at a small foot. She was bound, lying on the floor next to the bed. She crowded against him as if she might burrow her small body into his, and he felt the wiggling fur of the cat she held. He broke apart his stick and used the sword to cut the rope about her legs and hands. Then he tucked her under one arm and dragged her toward the stairs. The flames were blasting in his face, licking down his throat, trying to set him afire from within. His lungs ached. There was a terrible roaring in his ears, and he realized, suddenly and fatefully, that the house was giving way. The cat leapt from the girl’s arms.
Temperance loved this child, even if she’d never admitted it.
He shoved Mary’s little body ahead of him. Dear God, let her at least live. “Run! Run now!”
He might’ve said more, but at that moment, hell opened up and swallowed him whole.
* * *
THE HOME WAS dying, and Caire and Mary Whitsun were still inside.
Temperance watched as a section of the roof suddenly slid and came tumbling down to the cobblestones. For a moment, two figures were silhouetted against the flames: Mother Heart’s-Ease’s cadaverous form and the quick shadow of the Ghost of St. Giles. Then they were both gone. Temperance couldn’t muster the energy to wonder what had happened to them. All her will, all her hopes and prayers, were centered on Lazarus and Mary.
Fire licked up from a broken window, the room beyond entirely golden with flame. The crowd had quieted, as if in awe, as the roar of the fire had grown louder. The bucket line was still struggling heroically, but their efforts had no visible effect on the flames.
There was a sudden shriek, and Temperance watched, detached, as the Ghost of St. Giles dragged Mother Heart’s-Ease from inside the neighboring house. It was a bizarre sight. Mother Heart’s-Ease fought like a maddened wolf, but the Ghost had his hand locked about her upper arm and easily contained her. He shoved her at Mr. St. John, pointing with a gloved finger first at the burning home and then at the screaming woman, as if any of them needed an explanation. St. John’s face hardened, and he called over two loitering footmen to help him hold the murderess.
Then the Ghost of St. Giles simply walked away into the crowd. No one gainsaid him.
Temperance didn’t care.
“I must go in,” she said to no one in particular, and started forward, only to find her arm in Winter’s firm grip.
“Let me go.” She turned her face to his, pleading.
She could see tears in his eyes. “No, sister. You must remain here.”
“But he’ll burn,” she whispered, turning back to the fire. “He’ll burn and I don’t know if I can bear it.”
Winter said no more, even when she collapsed to her knees. She was bereft, here on the muddy cobblestones, watching her love die. He was her love, she knew it now that it was far too late to tell him. Caire was both stronger and more vulnerable than any man she’d ever known before. He saw her flaws, saw her anger and sexual need, and her pretense of being someone better than she really was, and he didn’t care. It was odd; she’d always thought she’d love someone who saw only the best in her when all along it was the man who saw everything—the good and the bad—who she loved.
And now it was too late.
Her throat was raw, and Temperance realized she was screaming, trying to crawl forward, Winter’s hold on her arm preventing her.
And then a small form appeared, walking from the smoke and flames. Mary Whitsun emerged from the burning home like a miracle. She saw Temperance and ran to her. Temperance hugged her close, crying and kissing her face, squeezing her much too tight in her sorrow and joy.
Until Mary Whitsun raised her tear-streaked face. “He’s still inside, Lord Caire. He came for me, but he shoved me down the stairs. He’s still inside.”
Something crunched and then gave way, and the entire front half of the house collapsed in on itself.
Chapter Twenty
King Lockedheart was very pleased with this demonstration. To reward Meg, he offered to give her anything she asked for—anything at all.
Meg smiled. “I thank you, Your Majesty, but all I wish for is a little pony and a pack of provisions, for I long to see what the wide world is like.”
The king frowned at this, for he’d become rather fond of Meg. But no matter how he argued, Meg was quite firm: She would leave on the morrow to go exploring. This put the king into a foul mood, and he was terribly curt with her for the rest of the wonderful meal. Meg for her part was cheerful, ignoring the king’s more sarcastic comments.
And at the end of the evening, she left the king sitting all alone in his dining room….
—from King Lockedheart
The rain was gentle at first. It drifted down, as soft as a mother’s kiss on a sleeping child. Temperance didn’t notice the drops falling from above until the fire began to hiss. And then, all at once, the clouds above opened up, pouring rain down like a waterfall, the drops so hard that they ricocheted off the cobblestones, splashing back up as they hit. The fire fought back, hissing and spitting its defiance, great waves of steam rising up. But the rain was stronger, more relentless, and the flames began to fall back.
And in the midst of all this, a figure in a black, swirling cloak emerged from the clouds of steam, limping but walking steadily.
Temperance rose to her feet, a cry strangled in her throat. His silver hair was tarnished by the smoke, but it was him. It was Caire. She pulled away from Winter and ran, slipping on the wet cobblestones, blinded by the rain and her own tears, rushing toward her heart. As she neared, a black singed cat struggled from under his cloak and streaked straight to Mary Whitsun.
Caire coughed. “I loathe cats.”
Temperance sobbed once.
He caught her hard, pulling her under his cloak, kissing her with a smoke-filled mouth, there in the rain in front of everyone.
“I love you,” she sobbed, rubbing her hands over his face, his hair, his chest, making sure he was solid and real. “I love you, and I thought you were dead. I couldn’t bear it. I thought I would die too.”
“I’d walk through fire for you,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and broken. “I have walked through fire for you.”
She choked on a laugh, and he kissed her again, his mouth hard, tasting of smoke and fire, and she’d never tasted anything so wonderful before, because he was alive.
He was alive.
He broke their kiss, resting his forehead against hers. “I love you, Temperance Dews, more than life itself.”
He would’ve said more, but she kissed him again, softly this time, trying to convey everything she felt with just her lips.
“Ahem.” Someone cleared their throat nearby.
Lazarus pulled back from the kiss enough to mutter, “Yes, Mother?”
Temperance blinked and turned her head. Lady Caire stood beside them, her elegant white coiffure ineffectively shielded by a coat held over her head by her shivering companion. She looked wet and cold and hurt.
“Caire,” Temperance whispered.
He lifted his head to glance at his mother. “What is it?”
“If you’re done making a public display of yourself,” Lady Caire said, “the children need to be seen to, and there’s an insane woman Godric St. John says started the fire and murdered three women.”
“Your concern is touching as always,” Caire began, but then Temperance pinched his earlobe. “Ouch.” He looked down at her.
Goodness, aristocrats were idiots at times! “Your mother was very worried for you.”
Caire lifted an eyebrow.
“I love you, Lazarus.” Lady Caire’s voice was clear and certain. But then her lower lip trembled. “You’re my son. I may not express my love effectively, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
He turned his head and stared at her in
wonder. And he probably would’ve continued to stare, dumbstruck, if Temperance hadn’t pinched him again.
“Ow.” He shot a glare at her.
She arched a brow at him pointedly.
“Mother, mine.” Caire leaned down gingerly and kissed his mother’s cheek. “A wise woman once told me that just because love isn’t expressed doesn’t mean it isn’t felt.”
Lady Caire’s eyes welled with tears. “Does that mean you love me as well?”
A corner of Lazarus’s mouth quirked up. “I think it must.”
“I didn’t think you listened to me.”
“Every word you have ever uttered,” Caire whispered, “is engraved upon my heart.”
Lady Caire closed her eyes as if she’d received a benediction.
Then her eyes snapped open. “Yes, well. What shall we do with all these children?”
Temperance glanced at the home. The fire looked nearly out, but there was not much left beyond smoldering ruins. Dear God. It only now occurred to her that they had nowhere to take seven and twenty children, and although she’d set out this morning to find a patron for the home, now she no longer even had a home.
“Perhaps they can come to my town house,” Caire started doubtfully.
His mother snorted. “The home of a bachelor gentleman? I think not. The majority will come to my town house for the moment.”
“And I can find places for some as well.” Lady Hero had approached quietly. “My brother has a house standing nearly empty. He’s in the country for the summer.”
“Oh, thank you!” Temperance hardly knew what to say to such generosity.
“I can help with the little ones,” Mary Whitsun said. Her lower lip trembled. “Until I find an apprenticeship, that is.”
Temperance laid her hand gently on Mary’s sooty hair. “How would you like to remain at the home—wherever the home might be—and help as long as you’d like?”
Mary Whitsun’s eyes shone. “I’d like that, ma’am.”
“Good.” Temperance blinked back yet more tears.
Lady Hero smiled at the two of them. Her titian hair was wet and straggling about her shoulders, and yet she still seemed dignified and every inch the sister of a duke. “When you are settled, I would like to discuss building a new home.”
“As would I,” Lady Caire said. For a moment, both ladies eyed each other.
“Larger, do you think?” Lady Hero murmured.
“Definitely.”
“And with room for the children to play?”
“Oh, quite,” Lady Caire replied decisively, and smiled at the younger woman.
They seemed to have come to some sort of unspoken pact.
“Thank you,” Temperance said, dazed.
“You’re in for it now,” Caire murmured irreverently in her ear. “With my mother and the sister of a duke attending to your affairs.”
But she ignored his teasing, hugging him in her glee. The home had not one but two patronesses!
“And if you don’t mind, I’d like to contribute something to the home as well.” His tone was oddly diffident.
She looked up at him and said, “Thank you. We’d be most honored to have you as a patron as well.”
He kissed her quickly and then Caire sighed. “I need to attend to that.” He nodded his head to where St. John held Mother Heart’s-Ease with the two footmen. “Will you stay here?”
Temperance smiled up at him. “No.”
He sighed. “If you’ll excuse us, Mother, my lady.” He made an abbreviated bow to both ladies.
“Certainly,” Lady Hero said. “I think we need to organize these children.” She raised her eyebrows at Lady Caire.
That lady nodded and as one, the women wheeled to descend on Nell and the group of children.
Caire shivered with mock apprehension. “Those two are going to be formidable.”
“And just what we need,” Temperance said with satisfaction.
He hugged her to his side as they approached St. John and the struggling Mother Heart’s-Ease.
St. John looked at Caire. “What is this about? Why would this women set fire to the home?”
“She killed Marie,” Caire said grimly. “And Marie’s brother, too, when he tried to blackmail her. She realized that we were getting close to discovering her, and she came here to kill Mrs. Dews, I think.”
Temperance looked at the gaunt woman with loathing. “All the children were inside the home as well. She would’ve killed many more than just me.”
“Yes. She didn’t care.” Caire nodded at St. John. “If we search her gin shop, we might find evidence of the murders.”
“No need,” St. John replied. He flipped back the ragged red man’s coat that Mother Heart’s-Ease wore. Beneath, rusty stains splashed across the bosom of her dress and down the front.
“Dear God,” Temperance whispered, covering her mouth with her hand.
It was apparently too much for Mother Heart’s-Ease. She lunged, shrieking obscenities like a madwoman, which, it was quite apparent, she was. Both footmen were hauled forward at the strength of her attack. Caire swung Temperance behind him and backed several steps, putting them both well out of Mother Heart’s-Ease’s reach.
“I’ll bring her to gaol in my carriage,” St. John shouted above the woman’s ravings.
Caire nodded. “Bind her well.”
“I will,” St. John replied. “I’m taking no chance of her escaping.”
The men set about their grim task.
“Come,” Caire whispered in Temperance’s ear. “You’re wet and cold and so am I. Let’s find a carriage to take us home.”
“But Winter…” Temperance glanced about and spotted her brother helping to herd the children.
Winter caught her look and raised his hand, jogging over. “I’m to help Lady Caire and Lady Hero to settle the children, especially the boys. They’ll be staying at the Duke of Wakefield’s house, and they’ll need supervision there.”
“I must help,” Temperance began.
Winter laid his hand on her shoulder. “No need. There’s enough people between the servants and Nell and me.”
Caire nodded above her. “I’m taking her home and giving her a warm bath.”
Winter eyed Caire without speaking. And then he stuck out his hand. “Thank you.”
Caire took his hand, shaking it firmly. “No need to thank me.”
Winter looked between Caire and Temperance, his brow arched, but he merely said, “Take care of her.”
Caire nodded. “I will.”
Winter bussed Temperance on the cheek and ran back to the children.
“Now to find a carriage,” Caire muttered, then grimaced. “Damn it, I forgot to thank St. John for capturing Mother Heart’s-Ease.”
“But he didn’t,” Temperance exclaimed.
He turned to look at her.
And she couldn’t help but laugh; it was such a silly thing after all that had happened. “The Ghost of St. Giles appeared with her while you were inside the house.”
“What, in front of everyone?”
“Yes. He marched right up to St. John and gave Mother Heart’s-Ease to him. I think we were all too stunned to detain him.”
“And St. John was there at the same time?”
“Yes.” She looked at him curiously.
Caire shook his head. “I wish I’d been there. I’d enjoy very much finding out who it is that hides behind that mask.”
Temperance wrapped her arm about his side as they started for the carriages. “I think that’s a mystery that we’ll have to save for another day.”
TEMPERANCE WOULD HAVE fallen asleep on the carriage ride to Caire’s house if she weren’t so nervous with anticipation. She had told Lazarus that she loved him, but there was still something yet—she needed to show him.
So when the carriage stopped outside his town house, she took his hand and led him silently inside.
“I smell of smoke,” he protested as they climbed the grand staircas
e together.
“I don’t care,” she replied. “I nearly lost you today.”
Her heart was leaping in her chest so violently that she thought she might well faint. She had a second chance. Dear God, Caire was giving her a second chance. Whatever she did, she mustn’t mess it up. She carefully closed his bedroom door behind them and then stood before him.
“I want to… no, I need to show you how much I love you,” she murmured. “I’ve been thinking about it for the last week. How you thought I felt I was degrading myself by making love to you.”
He started to speak, but she placed her forefinger across his lips.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Let me.” She inhaled to fortify her courage and deliberately trailed her finger across his lips, over his jaw, and down his neck. “Please let me.”
He held very still, barely breathing. She knew this caused him pain, but she did it anyway. She needed to teach him that touch—especially her touch—need not bring him pain, that it could be pleasurable as well, and the only way she knew to demonstrate the lesson was to show him.
“I want to see if I can find a way”—she held his gaze as she untied his cloak—“to do this without it hurting you.”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
The cord rasped softly as it slid apart. She took the cloak from his shoulders, carefully placing it along with his hat next to the candle atop the chair. When she turned back to him, he was still standing, watching her curiously. He’d made no move to take off any more of his clothing.
“You healed me.” She swallowed and placed her hands on his shoulders. His jerk this time was softer, as if he either strove to contain the pain or it had receded a bit. She hoped it was the latter. “You made me whole again after years of suffering. I’d like to do the same for you.”
Slowly, gently, she took off his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth. When she began unbuttoning his shirt, she could feel him shivering under her fingertips. For a moment, her courage failed her. What if forcing her touch on him merely made him more sensitive to it? Gave him more pain?
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