B005R3LZ90 EBOK (26 page)

He glanced at her. Soil and grass stained her lovely white dress with sky blue ribbands. A smile tweaked at the corners of his mouth. "What is it, love?"

"May Sam and I go feed Matilda a carrot?"

His glance darted from the children to the stables, which were only a hundred yards away. Before he gave permission, though, his gaze met Sally's, soliciting approval.

She nodded.

Georgette went back up to the folly to fetch a carrot. When she reached the bottom of the knoll, she called to her brother. "Come, Sam!" She began to run toward the stables, and Sam ran after her, trying his determined best to catch up with her—which, of course, he never did.

"I believe Sam will have a very long nap this afternoon," Sally said. "He is most certainly wearing himself out."

George faced Sally, his back to the stables. He had never before noticed the metallic glints in her hair. They were just like Sam's. His eye took in the grace in her relaxed posture, the expression in her deep brown eyes, the slenderness of her person. He had come to love everything about Sally. His viscountess.

He moved closer to her and took her hand. She gazed at him with warmth and a shy little fluttering about her lips. His pulse accelerated. He wished to declare himself to this woman he had married. But what if she had no desire for him? His stomach lurched, then dropped. No woman had ever spurned him. Not for a minuet nor for a night of passion. Wherever the Viscount Sedgewick had cast his eye, the recipient had been only too pleased to accommodate the well-enough looking peer. He vowed to win his wife's love.

"Have you enjoyed our outing?" he asked.

The glimmer in her expressive eyes was enough answer for him. She nodded. "Would that every day was this perfect."

His exact thoughts. He fleetingly recalled another comment she had made today that mirrored his own thoughts. She had said as a child she had loved everything about Hornsby. Did she still?

"Is Hornsby a place where you would be content to spend the rest of your life?" he asked.

Her slender face became serious. "Hornsby has always been my favorite place."

His heart tripped again. Did all of her thoughts so closely align with his own? Of course, it had not always been that way. The two of them had once collided. About small things. Not the big ones. With one exception. Sally had not approved of his coolness toward his son. And, as was most often the case, she had been right to chastise him.

He cleared his throat.

"George?" she said, sniffing, her nose in the air. "Do you smell something burning?"

He bolted upright. By God, he did! He spun around to look for the children at the very instant Sally shrieked. A blood-curdling shriek. A yellow flame leaped from the top of the stable's gabled roof. The stable was on fire!

He could not think. He could not speak. He could only react. He took off running with blazing speed. Sally, too, began running, but her speed could not match his. It was as if he possessed the speed of ten stallions.

He only hoped it would be enough.

As they neared the stable he called out his children's names in an urgent, strangled voice he could not believe was his own. "Georgette, Sam, get out of that stable!"

Sally's calls echoed his own.

When he was within ten feet of the mews, Georgette stumbled out, coughing and rubbing her eyes. No sight had ever been more welcome.

"Where's Sam?" he asked in a cracking voice.

Her little shoulders shrugged.

And where was that damned groom?

George called over his shoulder to Sally. "You take her. I'll go for Sam."

With no decrease in his speed, George sprinted through the opened double doors and was immediately surrounded by thick gray smoke. He began to cough, and his heart pounded in fear. Where was his son? The damned smoke was so thick, he did not know if he would even be able to see Sam if the lad were five feet in front of him.

George's eyes stung and watered, and he couldn't seem to stop coughing. "Sam!" he called as loudly as his raw lungs would allow. The only sound was the crackling of burning wood and the frightening whinnying from the horses' stalls. Though he was standing in the middle of a burning building, a chill raced down his spine.

"Sam!" he yelled again as he pushed ahead toward the stall he thought was Matilda's.

This time he heard a faint, muffled noise.
Why in the hell couldn't the boy talk?
The sound came—he thought—from the pony's stall.

The loft—where the fire must have started—snapped and crumbled away, igniting the stalls beneath it. A wall of flame leaped a mere ten feet from him. His hair singed. His hot skin felt like molten metal. His heart raced. He had to get out. Now, while he still could. But he could not leave without Sam.

It was hard to tell which stall was the pony's because of the heavy smoke, but he took a chance and threw open the door to the one he thought housed Matilda. His guess was right. The gray beast lunged from the stall and ran toward the light of day.

 Terror like nothing he had ever experienced filled George.
Where is my son?
He didn't see the lad. "Sam!" he called once more. Only a reduced sound came from his own lungs. Time was running out.

Then, from beneath the haystack at his feet, he saw a heart-wrenching sight. Sam's little head poked out, straw protruding from his hair at odd angles. The babe had hidden beneath the haystack to get away from the fire! He gathered Sam into his arms, convulsing into tears of joy.

Now to get out of here before the fiery building came crashing down on them! Cradling Sam tightly against him, George galloped down the center of the stable—only to find flames consuming much of the center. He could not go around them because the stalls would impede his flight. If he wished to live, there was only one thing to do. He would have to streak through the flames and hope for the best.

Burrowing Sam's face into the crook between his body and his shoulder, George ducked down low and bolted ahead. He knew he would have to go faster than he ever had. Like running his finger through a candle flame. The trick was to go so fast, the fire couldn't stick. Inhaling one final lungful of smoke, he started.

Fear made him want to turn back, but his mind was stronger than the fear. He had to save Sam. He ran straight into flames that towered over him. The first few feet into the fire's intensity he felt nothing. But by the time he could see the daylight, flames had taken hold of his coat.

He screamed the scream of a dying man, but could not allow himself to stop until he brought his son to safety. That first second he felt the flames licking against him, he felt no pain. But when he was more than halfway through the fire and close enough to smoke-free air to hope, pain seared through him. He cried out like a woman but did not slow down.

Then he heard Sally's cries. She was running toward him. The smoke was clearing. He must be outside. But, bloody hell, he was on fire!

Her wet face collapsed in grief, Sally rushed to him and took Sam. "Lie down, George! Smother the flames!" she shouted.

He dropped immediately to the ground.

Chapter 24

Saving his son had cost George his life. That was all Sally could think of as she watched the ball of fire that was her husband stagger from the blazing stable and collapse, the life draining from him. She threw her own body on top of George in a final effort to smother the flames which charred the right side of his body. She would never remember the gamut of emotions that spun through her when she saw her husband on fire. She was certain he would die, and she could not allow that. How could she continue to live in a world devoid of George? Her attempt to save him was as feeble as offering the juice of a lemon to a man dying of thirst, but she had to try.

That was how Willingham found her: lying over her husband, weeping to the depths of her soul.

He lifted her, and she saw the flames had died. Her heart twisted. George's utter stillness told her he had died, too. With a ragged whimper, she heaped herself once again upon his heated body, placing her ear over his heart. Tears raced down her cheeks. She gazed up into the steward's face. "He's alive."

Willingham eyed the ragged holes in her gown and her own raw, swollen flesh where she had pressed herself into the flames. "You're hurt."

Her eyes wild, she shook her hand. "No! Not me! It's George!" She leaped to her feet and pounced on Willingham's chest, pounding it. "Please save him."

By now the farm workers had seen the smoke and flames and had gathered at the stable to put out the fire.

Willingham sent one of the gathering servants to fetch the doctor. "Lord Sedgewick's badly burned," he said. Then he requisitioned another servant to give him a hand carrying the master up to the manor house.

Sally was only too happy to place the hysterical children into Miss Primble's care as she hastened beside her unconscious husband and directed the men to take George to his own chamber on the second floor.

Adams and Mrs. MacMannus both gasped upon seeing their apparently lifeless master being carried by two men. Sally sped up the stairs to George's chamber and pulled back the silk bed covering just as the men brought in George's charred body and laid it on the fine white linen. She went to the window and opened the draperies to bright sunlight.

"Please," she said, looking up at the steward, "remove his clothing. I wish for him to be as comfortable as possible."

Willingham drew the heavy forest green velvet curtains around the bed. Sally's stomach turned when she saw the swath of crinkled skin on her husband's hips, back, arm, and part of his beloved face, but she could not allow herself to give in to the vapors. George needed her now, and she had to be strong for him. Since his back was the most damaged, the men turned him over on his stomach, his face turned toward them. The pain roused him from unconsciousness, and he screamed when they moved him. The agony that ravaged his face before he lapsed into unconsciousness again tore at Sally's heart.

With complete disregard for her own wounds or tattered dress, Sally stood at George's bedside, holding his limp hand within both of hers.

Soon, the doctor came. He hurried to the bed and drew open the bed curtains. He winced when he saw the extent of the burns and gave Sally a look of sympathy. "I have a saying about burns, my lady. If they're on ten or twenty percent of the body, recovery's good. If they're thirty to fifty percent, recovery's not good. If they're over fifty percent, death is imminent. I'd say Lord Sedgewick's burns cover thirty percent of his body."

"I must ask that you be optimistic, doctor," Sally said firmly. "Tell us what we can do to speed recovery. We shall do everything within our power."

The old man nodded. "First, you'll need to send your servants far and wide to gather up as many burdock leaves as possible. It's best to have fresh ones every day."

"But what of the stickers?" she asked.

"Remove 'em! Then bruise the leaves with the white of an egg and lay the leaves on Lord Sedgewick wherever he is burned. I believe his lordship will have an immediate easing of the pain."

Her eyes filled with tears. "What if he doesn't regain consciousness?"

Doctor Moore gazed at her from above the rim of his spectacles, and he shrugged.

Sally felt like screaming. She felt like crying an ocean. She wanted to fall on her knees and beg Doctor Moore to make George well. Instead, she nodded. "Is there nothing else we can do?"

He was silent for a moment before he said, "Pray there is no fever."

The floor of her belly gave way. She could no longer see the doctor clearly for tears blurred his image.

He started for the chamber door. "I'll return tomorrow."

Willingham stayed. Not that his presence mattered to Sally.

Nothing mattered except George. He had to live!

"There's something evil at Hornsby," she finally said to Willingham. "Someone is trying to ruin my husband."

Willingham moved to her and set a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I fear you may be right, my lady, but I vow that as long as I draw breath, I will not allow another evil thing to occur here. Hornsby's too fine a place."

"I always thought so." She ran a hand across her husband's burnished brow as her eyes lingered over his much-loved face. Even his golden lashes were singed over his right eye. If he survived this . . . he would be scarred for the rest of his life. That face she had loved so thoroughly would never again look the same. But even were he to look grotesque, she would love him still. With all her heart. She regretted that they had not had the money to commission portraits. She would have loved having George's portrait.

If only he would live.

She suddenly spun toward Willingham. "Do me the goodness of having the servants gather burdock and oversee its preparation for Lord Sedgewick."

He moved toward the door, then turned back. "If there's anything else I can do . . ."

She met his solemn gaze with watery eyes and nodded.

* * *

Mr. Basingstoke came. Fiercely clutching her husband's hand, Sally turned to him. "It's good that you have come. George needs your prayers."

The youthful-looking vicar nodded as he came to stand at George's bedside. He looked at George lying there unconscious, burdock leaves lying over his swollen flesh, his face still a grimace of pain.

And Mr. Basingstoke began to pray aloud.

Sally bowed her head and prayed along with him.

After the prayers, the vicar's eye ran along Sally's tattered dress. "I understand, my lady, that you used your own body to beat down the last of the flames on Lord Sedgewick."

Without removing her eyes from George, she nodded.

"Allow me to stay with his lordship while you change your clothing, my lady."

"I cannot leave my husband."

"But surely you will allow me—or Willingham—or someone you trust to stay through the night with Lord Sedgewick?"

She spoke louder. "I won't leave him."

"But, my lady, he could be bedridden for weeks. You will have to allow others to stay with him. You have to stay strong. There are the children who need you."