Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (36 page)

She gasped and turned, pushing away from him as the voice came again.

"There is a fire, but do not be afraid." A hand reached toward her, severed from its body in the dark. "I'm here to save you."

A dream. It must be a dream. She'd dreamt of fire so many times after her uncle's death. The smoke thickened suddenly, making her cough. She wanted to go back to sleep.

"Come, Emily. We must go. I will take you home."

Her eyes stung from the biting smoke. And her ears were playing tricks on her. She'd heard this before. Matthew had uttered those words after her uncle's death.
Come, I will take you home.

"This is a dream," she said.

"The smoke will make you sick."

And it was making her sick. She couldn't think past it, so Emma scooted forward toward the voice, toward the hand and the body it was now attached to. The hand closed around her arm. She looked up.

"No!" she screamed at the sight of Matthew's face. "Where is Hart?"

"It is me, Matthew." His fingers dug deep and pulled her from the warm bed into hot air. "I've come to save you."

"No, no, no." She struggled, choked on burnt air. "This is a dream. There is no fire. Let me go. I want Hart." But he yanked her toward the hallway, toward the dancing orange light.

"Matthew!" she screamed. "Stop!" But then they were out in the hall, heat burning her skin.

When he pulled her toward the rear door, Emma got her feet beneath her and followed. She could see the dark rectangle ahead, the door that would free her from this inferno. And Bess . ..

Oh, no. "Bess! Wake up. Please wake up. There's a fire! Matthew, you must get Bess."

"I've come for you, Emily. Hurry. You don't need this place. This is not your home."

Beautiful, cold air poured over them. Emma drew a deep breath and realized they were outside.
"Bess!
I must go back."

"No."
He dragged her toward the silhouette of a shying horse while Emma fought and screamed. The horse screamed too, desperate to be away. Emma strained to look over her shoulder and found that the fire illuminated the whole yard. And there, crawling on hands and knees, was Bess. She cleared the door of her room and collapsed onto the grassy yard.

Emma cried with relief, and every sob drew fresh air into her lungs. The dullness of sleep and smoke was scrubbed free. "You," she groaned. "You did this." Something squeezed her hands. She stared down at the rope as it tightened to a knot.
"You
did this."

"Get on the horse."

"I won't. You're mad. You set fire to my home."

"This is not your home. Your home is with me."

"You . . . Oh, Matthew. You burned my uncle's house too, didn't you? You killed him!"

"No," he muttered. "No, no."

"You
killed
him."

"It was an accident! If you'd only been true to me. If you'd only married me, I wouldn't have had to trick you into my home. I meant for him to get out, meant for you both to live in my father's home until you saw reason. It was your fault. All your fault."

"Oh, God, my uncle."

"Get on the horse, Emily."

"No—" His slap cut off her protest. Pain blossomed over her cheek just before he slapped her again. When she tried to lash out, the heel of his hand caught her cheekbone and she fell. All she could do was shield herself as he hit her over and over. Blood trickled down her lip and she sank into a gray, noiseless fog.

The world shifted and fell and she felt her body being carried away. There was nothing she could do to stop it.

Chapter 22

The carriage bounced over the rough road, jolting Hart's tense muscles. The crash of the waves should have been a soothing distraction, but he found himself grinding his teeth with hatred for the sound. He'd heard those damned waves all night as he'd tossed and turned in an unfamiliar bed, and he was beginning to think he'd be haunted by them for the rest of his miserable life. Haunted by the waves and this stupid decision to give up all hope for his pride and see Emma one more time.

The late morning light sparkled off the water, mocking his mood.

She'd told him she hated him, asked him never to return. And how did his heart interpret that?
Ah, yes, old man, let's try once more.
And so he was back on this road again, heading for her home.

He'd been done with her. Humiliated and abused. Cursing her for a heartless, cruel witch. She had aimed right for his heart, and her bullet had found its target with ease. Except. . .

Except that her attack hadn't made any sense. After he'd calmed down, after he'd nursed his hurt in half a bottle of whisky, he'd had an unexpected moment of clarity. Emma Jensen was a liar.

She'd said she wanted nothing to do with him, claimed he disgusted her, and that could not be true. Every move she'd made in London, every word spoken and bet placed, had helped her toward her goal. She'd calculated everything
except
the time she'd spent with Hart. He hadn't helped her plan in any way. And that night at his house—that could have ruined her completely. If he'd realized the truth that night, her deception would have crumbled around her.

Yet she'd come to him. Willingly. Recklessly.

She could not hate him.

So she was a liar. A consummate liar. A woman who lied about important things. Her life, her past, her feelings, her thoughts. And somehow that didn't matter in the least to Hart because, fool that he was, he trusted her. He understood her. He'd spent years lying to the entire world, lying to himself. He understood what it meant to keep everyone out, to hide yourself even from people you loved.

And she'd had more to protect than her heart; she'd had to protect her body when her own father had failed her. The one man who should have protected her had not, and Hart could understand that better than anything.

So she lied. But it wasn't so hard to see, as long as he could keep his temper in check. Emma lashed out, struggled against anything that might hold her. She would break his heart before she let him break hers. That's what he was risking. His heart. His pride and his soul.

If he didn't take that risk, she would never, ever believe him. And the thought of going back to London without her. . .

Hart shook his head. He couldn't stand it. Going back to that place where he kept all his desires in check. Where no one ever said anything sincere. Where the world bowed down when he neared and snickered when he left.

The thought of it burned like coal in his gut. He wanted Emma and all the tumult she'd brought to his life. All he had to do was convince her. Perhaps he should take out a lease in Scarborough. It wouldn't take more than a year of dedicated effort, surely.

He was actually starting to smile when the carriage jerked and rattled. "Whoa," the driver called. "All right. All right."

The carriage rolled on at a slightly slower pace.

"Sorry, Your Grace. The horses are a bit spooked. There's smoke ahead."

The smell of
woodsmoke
had been growing steadily inside the carriage, and Hart hadn't realized how strong it was till the driver spoke. Odd. There weren't many trees around.

He was just tensing with the first hint of concern when the driver spoke more sharply. "Your Grace!"

Hart knocked open the door and stood, bracing himself between the carriage roof and the open door. They'd taken a small rise, and the lane below stretched out in clear expanse. Clear except for the haze of smoke that stretched out like a gray puddle. A steady breeze swirled the haze around and around itself, sending occasional tendrils farther inland. A small group of people milled about a structure that had collapsed. Flames still licked at the blackened wood, but there wasn't much left for the fire to consume. A small shed had been spared, but the bushes next to it were scorched.

When his eyes fell on the neat garden, Hart's mind shuddered with recognition. "No." He looked around the yard again, then farther, to the surrounding meadows, the low rock wall at the back of the property, the trail that wound through tall grass to the edge of the cliffs.

This was Emma's home.

The driver glanced back and Hart met his somber gaze. He wanted to scream for him to go faster, damn it, but the horses struggled against the reins and the lane was only a few feet from the danger of the cliffs.

Finally, when Hart could no longer take the pace, he jumped to the grass and ran the last hundred yards to her home. Three men knelt in the grass, bent over a white shape laid on the ground. Hart sprinted toward them.

"Emma!" He saw a limp arm stretched across the ground, saw the fingers twitch. "Oh, thank God," Hart groaned as he skidded to a halt and dropped to his knees. The men parted and Hart was staring down into a slack face. The lips far too pale, eyes unmoving beneath closed lids. And it wasn't her.

"This is Bess," he choked out. "Bess
Smythe
. Where is Emma? Where is the lady of the house?"

He twisted desperately around, straining his eyes, demanding that they find her. When he looked back up to the men, their gazes fell away, then shifted one by one to the smoldering wreckage.

"She is not in there." His voice sounded sure and calm. "She escaped. You must check the yard, the—"

"We've searched the grounds, sir. We found Mrs.
Smythe
in the rear yard. But Mrs. Kern . . . the other rooms were farther from the door. Did you know her, sir?"

Hart didn't bother answering, instead he picked up Bess's hand and felt for a pulse. "She needs a doctor. Have you—"

"We've already sent for Doctor Jersey, sir."

"Lark!" Hart shouted as he pushed to his feet. His driver and footman rushed forward. "We need to search every inch of these grounds. Out to the cliff and back as far as you can see. Lady . .. that is, Mrs. Kern is here somewhere."

His driver sprang into action. They searched for a full hour, walking over every inch of grass, searching every rocky crevice, every thorny bush. He refused to think of anything but finding her, refused to consider any other possibility, until he finally found himself standing only a foot from the edge of the blackened wood. The wind shifted, blowing smoke and heat into Hart's eyes, but his tears quickly washed them clear.

The house had been reduced to a tangle of pitch-black sticks and chunks of charcoal covered with pale soot. And Emma was in there, charred like the rest of it, her precious body indistinguishable from lifeless bits of wood.

"Mrs.
Smythe
is resting in your carriage as you requested, Your Grace." The doctor's nasal drone infuriated Hart. Why was this man alive and speaking and Emma dead?

"There's nothing more I can do for the woman, though I believe she'll wake. May I leave now? I've patients to attend. A woman close to childbirth—"

"Go."

Time passed. The sun slanted lower, glaring into his eyes from the west. Hart kept his vigil. And sometime . . . at some point as he stared into Emma's temporary grave, Hart remembered. For no reason at all, he remembered. That memory that had nagged at his mind for weeks . . . Emma's taunting words .. .

I
 
saw you there.

That part had been the truth. She had seen him. He could picture her now. A little girl a bit younger than his sister. She'd startled the hell out of him, tiptoeing past in the dark in a place she should never have been. Eyes wide with fear, twin braids swaying against her back.

Oh, God, he remembered now.
Someone has come to my room,
she'd whispered, as if sharing secrets with a friend. And Hart, young and arrogant and so damn sure of himself, what had he done to help her? He'd flayed her father with a few choice words, threatened him with dire consequences if the girl came to harm, and then. . .

And then he'd left. And forgotten all about her.

A stray spark caught a wisp of air and danced up from the smoke, weaving a slow pattern in front of him before it rose and disappeared into the sky.