A Heart Worth Stealing, page 23
“You are a fortune teller now?”
His jaw tightened. “Your housekeeper.”
“Mrs. Betts?” I furrowed my brow.
He gave a mirthless laugh and a shake of his head. “The look on her face when she saw us on the stairs yesterday.”
I bit my lip. I remembered. Mrs. Betts’s disapproval had been so strong, so immediate. She might see the necessity of Jack’s presence at Wimborne, but necessity had grown into something else entirely.
“It was the reminder I needed,” he said. “If your servant looked at us like that, how would the rest of Society?” His voice wavered. “There is no possible way I can remain at Wimborne, not without ruining you. Not without ruining any children before they are even born.”
Children. My stomach flipped even as tears pricked in my eyes, my heart fighting what I knew was true. We’d both been born of scandal, he an illegitimate son, me the result of my father’s marriage with a lowly governess. I knew that whatever my challenges had been while growing up, they would be magnified for any children we had. They would be rejected by proper society and maliciously gossiped about.
But there were other things in life that were important. Love. Happiness. Vying for Society’s approval had never brought me those. Jack had. Nothing had eased the stinging emptiness of Father’s death until Jack had. I’d spent my whole life clinging to my reputation, and now I discovered it meant nothing to me at all. Father had loved my mother. He had loved her enough to ignore what others said and reach for his future. Could I find the courage to do the same?
“Our children would have parents who love each other,” I said, throat raw. “Is that not enough?”
He looked away.
“I am fighting for you.” I could not hide the wrenching pain in my words. “Will you not fight for me?”
“I am,” he insisted. “In the only way I know how. You’ve a life full of promise. I cannot be the one to ruin it. A magistrate’s daughter does not belong with a thief-taker.”
I tried to steady my breathing. His words spun in my head.
“You must stop doing that.” My voice was the barest whisper.
He swallowed. “Doing what?”
“Trying to convince me that I shouldn’t love you.”
Jack opened his mouth, but no words escaped. He ran his hand through his dark curls, throwing them in such disarray that all I wanted to do was climb back over and smooth them out. I was already regretting not running my own hands through his hair as we kissed. Now I might never have the opportunity.
Suddenly Jack stiffened, staring over my shoulder. His mouth dropped. “Ginny,” he said hoarsely.
I spun. Just beyond the trees, I could see Wimborne’s eastern walls. I gasped. A horrid orange glow hovered about the house, like an early sunrise against a coal-black sky. It couldn’t be.
It was. Wimborne was on fire.
“No!” I did not stop to think. My hands and feet acted of their own volition, carrying me down, down, my skirt ripping on a sharp branch, my hair catching on twigs and leaves. Wimborne was on fire. My life was on fire.
“Stop, Ginny. Stop!”
I dropped to the grass, tripping and catching myself. Jack was right behind me, and as I began stumbling toward the house, he grabbed me by both shoulders.
“You can’t,” he panted.
“That is my home,” I shot, the words ripping harshly from my throat.
“Yes, and you running pell-mell toward a disaster is precisely what the vandal wants.” He gripped my shoulders tighter.
“I have to help.” My hands fisted into his waistcoat. “Do not stop me.”
His eyes blazed, reflecting the far-off fire. I thought he would refuse, insist again that I remain hidden. But then he groaned. He grabbed my hand and we ran toward the flames.
Chapter 22
I was crying, hot tears splashing down my cheeks. Shouts filled the air as my servants sounded the alarm. I could see tiny figures darting around the fire. They fought the flames, with buckets and bravery. Was anyone still inside? Had my household managed to escape?
We ran, faster than I’d ever run before. After only a minute, my legs burned, but I forced them onwards, Jack’s hand pulling me with him. My breaths came heavy and dry.
I was so focused on the disaster ahead that I did not see him until it was too late. Movement caught my eye. I turned—an enormous shadow rushed us. It collided with Jack, yanking his hand from mine and slamming him to the ground. A scream tore from my throat.
“Jack!”
They wrestled on the grass, their shapes melding in the darkness. The stranger pinned Jack, slamming his great fists into his face again and again. Jack yelled, throwing his arms up to shield himself.
“Stop!” I ran at the man and pounded my fists against his broad back. I might have been a gnat for all I did. One of his hands lashed out and caught mine, leaving Jack on the ground, moaning and bloody in the moonlight. Jack.
The man turned to me, face dark against the light of the fire in the distance. All I saw were two glittering eyes, full of twisted malice. I opened my mouth to scream again. He was on me in an instant, covering my mouth and wrapping a thick arm around my waist.
“Quiet, now,” came his raspy voice. “Can’t have you alerting the magistrate.”
Panic and bile filled my throat as the man dragged me away. I screamed against his hand. I fought, struggling and kicking and thrashing. It did nothing—the man was huge. Shoulders of an elephant, arms as thick as the branches I’d just been climbing.
“Come nicely,” he hissed. “No need to fight.”
Where was he taking me? My mind scattered like a broken vase. But I could not allow myself to go to pieces. Focus, I told myself. Everyone has a weakness. Find his weakness.
Fortunately for me, every man had the same one.
I stopped struggling. I did not move one muscle. Such was my abductor’s surprise that his arms loosened. I took my chance, turning in his arms and driving my knee upwards as hard as I could.
Right between his legs.
He unleashed an unearthly howl and dropped. I landed hard, my face smashing into the ground. But I had no time for pain. I scrambled to my feet, skirts tangling in my legs, and stumbled away, back toward Jack. Where was he?
A hand caught my ankle and I fell again, catching myself as I hit the ground. Then I was yanked back through the grass, the hand on my ankle twisting, burning against my skin. I kicked at him, grasping handfuls of grass only to be ripped away from them. He was unrelenting. I couldn’t escape him, couldn’t fight.
“Jack!” I screamed. “Jack!”
Then he was there, a blur in the dark. He tackled my assailant, drove him to the ground. Hot, uncontrollable relief poured through me. He was alive. He was here. I came to my feet, gasping.
Jack got in two quick jabs right to the man’s face before he even had a chance to react. The stranger roared and threw out his arms, shoving Jack away. They were both on their feet in an instant. Jack snatched his pistol and raised it, flashing in the moonlight. But the man knocked the weapon aside. It spun into the grass.
The man stalked forward, swinging those massive arms with unbelievable speed. Jack was even quicker. He dodged and danced, his fists raised before him. He landed a resounding hit to the man’s chest that made him wheeze and draw back.
My mouth opened in a soundless scream as the two men circled each other. Jack was hurt, bleeding from a cut over his eye. How could he win this? My fault, my fault. I’d made him careless, running to Wimborne. The fire raged beyond—even if I screamed, who would hear me above the shouts and roar of the flames?
My eyes caught a sliver of metal on the ground just beyond the flying limbs and grunts. Jack’s pistol.
I snatched the pistol from the grass, the cold metal biting my skin. Was it loaded? Would it even fire if I pulled the trigger?
I did not have time to think. The man landed a fist in Jack’s stomach. Jack staggered back, nearly going to the ground again. The stranger closed in.
I raised the pistol with shaking hands and cocked it, but the tip of the barrel dipped and wavered. I was just as likely to hit Jack.
The man drew back his fist to land another bone-shattering hit, and I made a choice. I jerked the barrel up toward the endless nothingness of night and pulled the trigger. The pistol roared, letting loose a blinding flare. My ears rang. I coughed in the smoke.
The man spun toward me, eyes wide. Jack moved—so fast I nearly missed it. The brass-tipped baton flashed in his hands, and before the man could react, Jack drove the baton into the back of his head.
He collapsed, and I swore I felt the ground shudder.
Jack did not hesitate. He scrambled to kneel on the man’s back, bringing his hands together as he drew out two pairs of iron fetters.
My lungs heaved, desperate for air, and my legs felt like jelly. Jack was quick. Within half a minute, the man was restrained, his form still.
“He isn’t . . . ?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
“He’s not dead.” Jack was breathing hard. “Unfortunately.”
He rose and looked at me. The pistol hung heavy at my side.
“Are you all right?” He took one step toward me.
I was not all right. My entire body ached from fighting, my throat was sore from screaming, and I knew a wicked bruise was already forming on my cheek.
But I was alive. I was alive because of Jack.
I dropped the pistol and ran to him. He caught me, his arms reassuring me that he was there. My sobs came wild and unrestrained.
“I thought he would kill you,” I cried into his chest. “I cannot—”
But the tears took over and my words were lost. He pulled back and pressed kisses to my lips, my eyes, my cheeks.
“He won’t hurt you again,” he said in that rough voice of his. “I swear it.”
I took a shuddering breath and swiped at my eyes, looking up at him. He cupped my face in his hands, caught me in his eyes. He kissed me again, the action somehow both fierce and gentle. When he drew back, I had to take a few more gulping breaths, my lungs far past their limit.
Then my thoughts swept me up again. “Wimborne,” I gasped.
Leaving the assailant unconscious in the grass, we ran together back toward the house. Halfway there, two shapes emerged from the shadows, heading in our direction. Mr. Northcott and Mr. Crouth.
“Miss Wilde?” Mr. Northcott was breathing hard, pistol in hand. I’d never seen him with a weapon before. “What are you—”
He took us in, Jack’s bloodied face, my dirty dress and tear-streaked cheeks, and changed his question. “What happened? We heard a shot.”
“We caught him,” Jack said grimly. “Back there. I restrained him.”
Mr. Northcott stared at him in clear disbelief. He shook his head. “Go up to the house,” he ordered. “We’ll take him from here.”
I did not wait for him to change his mind. We ran again through the sweeping blackness until the hellish light of the fire broke before us.
I gaped at the scene. The eastern wall was ablaze. All that remained of the conservatory were the blackened frames of the windows, the remaining shards of glass like glittering teeth. A line of desperate faces stretched to the nearby stream, handing bucket after bucket up to the house. But it made no difference. The fire raged, breaking and smashing the only place I’d ever called home.
I didn’t realize I was stumbling forward until Jack grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop.
“I need to help,” I said, my voice echoing in my head. Every event from tonight seemed so absurd—Jack’s kiss, the fight, the fire—that surely this could not be reality. But the blasting heat of the flames and the shouts and cries of my staff convinced me otherwise.
“I know,” he said. “Come.”
He tugged me toward the bucket line, where Marchant stood yelling instructions. I pulled away from Jack and ran to my butler, and his relief at seeing me made me want to throw my arms around him.
“Miss Wilde,” he gasped, his face striped with sweat. “You’re all right. We couldn’t find you.”
“Never mind me.” I grasped his arms. “Is everyone out? Safe?”
“Yes,” he said, pulling me further from the blistering heat. “Now that you’re here, everyone is accounted for. I tried to send them away, but they insisted on helping.”
My eyes blurred once again. I should never have doubted my household.
“What can we do?” Jack asked.
Marchant waved at the line. “This is all we can do.”
I knew he was right. Perhaps in London we might have had a chance with the organized fire brigades and engine pumps. But here in the country?
I would have to watch my home burn.
I stepped backward, overwhelmed, black crowding the edges of my vision. Then Jack was before me, his features blocking out the hungry flames, the heat and noise and smoke.
“We won’t give up,” he said, taking my hands. “We’ll fight.”
I stared at him. I was exhausted beyond belief, my emotions frayed. But his words fastened to something deep inside me, a place only he could reach.
I pulled my shoulders back and nodded firmly. “We’ll fight.”
Chapter 23
We joined the bucket brigade, between a stable hand and a kitchen maid. We passed bucket after bucket, the sloshing water soaking my skirts and clinging like ice to my legs.
The fire was unrelenting. We sent runners to every home nearby for help. Dozens came, hastily dressed and bleary eyed, and we formed a second line, then a third. It seemed our efforts did nothing. The fire was hungry, and it consumed both the study and the parlor on the ground floor, and two spare bedrooms above. I could not let myself think about what I’d already lost. I focused on what I could still save, what I could do with my two hands. Jack and I said nothing as we worked. We did not have the energy. But I felt a jolt of determination every time our eyes met. He hadn’t given up, and neither would I.
My hands soon wore down, blisters taking the place of the smooth, soft skin beneath my gloves. But I pressed on, not speaking a word of complaint. When I felt the first drop of rain, I thought it was simply sweat dripping down my forehead. But then I heard a shout, and I pulled myself from my focused stupor.
It was raining. I tilted my face up to the clouds, my skin hot and itchy from the fevered pace. The raindrops against my cheeks felt like cooling kisses sent by angels—an answer to the countless prayers we’d all been whispering as we passed our buckets. The small sprinkles quickened until the rain fell in a thick sheet, drenching me within seconds. Cheers sprang up from our ragged group of volunteers.
“Keep going!” Jack shouted, passing me a bucket. I took it without hesitation. “We’re not through it yet.”
He was right. We continued on, bucket after bucket. A quarter hour passed before the flames choked, drowned by the relentless rain and our unyielding efforts. The light from the fire faded, leaving only the flickering light of the few torches and lanterns my neighbors had brought. Within a half hour, we were tossing buckets onto embers and ashes, a muddy gray mess that soon coated us all.
I reached back to take another bucket from Jack. Instead, I found my hand wrapped in his.
“That’s it,” he said quietly. “It’s over.”
I stared up at him. Rain slid down his face, tracing his nose and jaw, dripping from his chin. It had washed away most of the blood, leaving raw skin around his eye. His dark hair was always mussed, but now it was matted, thick with ash. I knew I looked equally disheveled, but I did not care in the least. I threw my arms around his neck. He brought me close, his breath warm on my neck, his fingers curling into my back. My face pressed into the drenched linen of his shirt, the scents of smoke and soap filling my nose. I wanted nothing more than to remain forever in his arms. Safe. Loved.
But forever was impossible.
I pulled back, Jack’s arms slower to release me. I’d forgotten for a moment that we were surrounded by my entire household, my neighbors. It was good I hadn’t followed my embrace with a kiss, or they’d all have more to talk about besides a fire. Thankfully, everyone was far too busy patting each other on the shoulder and collecting buckets.
Only Mr. Northcott was watching, and as I met his eyes, he turned quickly to shake hands with a neighbor. I sighed. I’d never wanted to hurt him. He’d only ever been kind to me. But I wanted more from marriage than kindness. I wanted love. Unfortunately, I was learning horrible, heartbreaking lessons about love.
I took a deep breath. I could feel the cold now, my soaked clothing clinging to my skin, but it was nothing compared to the ice in my chest. I faced Wimborne, taking in the damage all at once. Nearly a third of my home was gone. Destroyed. The roof collapsed and windows blown out from the heat. The parlor, the conservatory, the kitchen. I clutched my stomach, a hard knot within me. My home.
The worst loss of all was the study. I could barely bring myself to look at it. Nothing remained but twisted, charred beams, black and ugly. If I stood in the center of the room and looked up, I would have stared right into the rain-driven sky. It was clear this fire was no accident. Had it been started in the study? Had the arsonist known how deeply it would hurt to lose the place where I felt closest to my father? Everything was lost—his desk, his collection of books, Wimborne’s ledgers and records. A small relief came at the remembrance that I’d sent Father’s portrait to Catherine. At least that was safe.
“Do you want to look closer?”
Jack moved to stand beside me, hands in his pockets. Did he want to reach for me as badly as my arms ached for him? I was so tired. But this night was far from over.
