The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) (24 page)

With one mighty jerk, he ripped her gown from bodice to waist. Seizing the arms, he shredded the remaining fabric. Her shoulders stung from the force of his violent assault on the gown. He raised the knife, then brought it flashing downward.

“Brayan, nooo!”

He slashed her stays, dropping the blade to fondle her breasts.

Great rasping sobs tore from her throat.

Adaira’s filmy chemise offered little protection from his lust-filled gaze. He dipped his head, slathering greedy kisses across her neck, before nipping across her collarbone and chest with his teeth. Reaching her breasts, he bit harder. Ragged pain seared her with each sharp tweak.

“Get off me you bloody
bastart
!” Wincing, her arm twisted beneath her, she struggled to free her hand.

Brayan roughly pawed and pinched at her breasts, grinding his thick hips into hers. She’d be covered with bruises from his groping. His heavy breathing mixed with her infuriated cries. Bucking and kicking, she managed at last to slide her arm and the blessed bottle loose. Without hesitation, she brought it down with terror induced fury on the back of his head.

It shattered. He collapsed like a stone wall atop her. Grunting, hysteria choking her, she edged from beneath him. She crawled away. Curling her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and buried her face. Sobs wracked her. Shock rendered her nearly senseless.

An object burst through the other window. Adaira screamed in renewed panic. At the rear of the long building, a lantern bounced off the coach’s coat of arms before exploding into flames. For a moment she sat stupefied. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her lungs refused to draw in air.

She’d escaped Brayan to be faced with this? The carriage’s glass window pinged and crackled. They exploded into a thousand shards, jolting her back to full awareness.

“Roark! Oh, God Roark, wake up!” Clambering to her feet, yelling his name, she raced to his prone form. She shook his shoulder none too gently. “Roark, you have to wake up.”

Tears coursed from her eyes. “You great oaf, wake up. Please, wake up.” The flames streaked across the floor, igniting the spilt oil before snaking up the wall.

“I’ll not let you die in here, you arrogant, impossible man.” Clenching her teeth and grunting, she managed to roll him onto his back.

Her hair formed a curtain around his head and shoulders as she bent over him. She swiped at it angrily. “Confounded hair. Should cut it off. Nothing but a nuisance.”

Straining and grunting, she shoved at him, maneuvering his tall form so his head faced the door. Blister it, but he was heavy. She wiped her dripping forehead with the back of her hand. She squatted and slid her hands under his arms. A whiff of sandalwood wafted upward. She stepped backward, tripping on her gown hanging low on her waist.

Annoyed and verging on stark panic, she kicked at the hem. With gritty determination, she lugged him inch-by-inch in the direction of the door. Concentrating on saving him, she muttered aloud to force her fear aside.

“Rescuing unconscious lords is
so
proper.” Her gaze dropped to her breasts. “Especially with my bosoms practically exposed and touching his nose.”

She lugged Roark another couple of inches, her attention trained on him.

“Look at him.”

Step. Lug.

“That nose. Perfect.”

Grunt
. Tug.

The fire roared hungrily, its voracious flames licking their way along the ceiling. The heat was overwhelming. Sweat beaded her brow and trickled between her breasts. Her chemise clung to her damp flesh. Breathing heavily, her focus sank to Roark’s face as she dragged him.

“No man should have lashes that thick.”

“Or hair that shiny and soft.”

Throwing a searching glance over her shoulder, she moaned. Still several feet to go. God help her. She must hurry. Sucking in a ragged breath, she jerked him a bit farther.

“And those lips—those utterly delicious lips.”

She lurched backward.

“Great pompous, delectably handsome brute.”

“You think my lips are delicious, and I’m delectably handsome?” Roark asked groggily.

Startled, Adaira yelped, dropping him and jumping away. Her heels tangled in the sagging gown. She tottered for a moment, arms flailing before careening to the floor. White pain crashed over her, centered at the back of her head.

Blackness zigzagged before her eyes. Squinting at Roark, she tried to lever to her elbows. She needed to save him.

He groaned and rolled to his stomach, then crawled to her. His eyes widened, before narrowing to furious slits. “What the hell?”

Why is he swearing?

Blinding agony radiated through her head. In a daze, Adaira gazed at the stern, bloodied face hovering over her. Fire flickered in the background. Blackness swirled around her. An icy chill deadened her limbs and mind.

I’ve died and gone to hell.

CHAPTER 25

Enticing breasts hovered mere inches above Roark’s face.

He must be in heaven and this was an angel. Did angels go about scantily clothed? He was going to quite like the place if they did. It seemed at odds with the church’s teaching. He scowled. If this was heaven, then why was it beastly hot? And why were there flames?

The beautiful, lily scented angel suspended over him was mumbling something about delicious lips and delectable handsomeness. He hadn’t thought heavenly beings spoke of such things.

He must have voiced his thoughts, because full awareness rudely returned when his angel abruptly released him. His head and shoulders hit the ground with a heavy smack.

Holy Jesus.

Groaning, he closed his eyes and raised a hand to his head. Cracking pain surged against his skull. He could hear it snapping and popping.

He dared to half-open one eye. Flames leapt and danced before him. Fire? By God, the building was on fire.

Hearing a sharp cry and a thud, his eyes snapped wide open. Fighting the agony in his head, he rolled over.
Adaira!
He crawled toward her, every movement threatening to split his head asunder. Her gown was shredded to her waist, and her hair was a loose mass of snarled curls.

“Damn,” he growled, noting the vicious red handprint across her pale cheek and the bruises beginning to—

What the hell?

Were those bite marks marring her chest?

He dragged himself closer until he loomed directly above her. Her unfocused eyes rolled back in her head. The doors exploded open, crashing against the wall where they dangled on broken hinges. He shook his head against the unclear phantoms wavered before his eyes. A crowd surged through the entrance.

Thank God.

Three forms emerged from the melee. Tilting his head, he shouted, “Get Adaira out! I can manage.”

Roark attempted to lever to his feet. Swirling blackness stopped him. He collapsed atop Adaira, his face planted on her chest.

“Angel breasts,” he muttered as large hands lifted him.

Then, nothing but oblivion.

Stampeding cattle kicked up their heels as they frolicked around and around inside Roark’s aching skull. His mouth tasted like hogs had wallowed in it. After rolling in mire. Good Lord. How much wine had he drunk at dinner last night? He tentatively probed his head.

Wait. Memories deluged him, one after the other.

Fire. Adaira. Brayan.

“Adaira!” He lurched upright, then groaned, holding his head in his hands. “Holy bloody hell.”

“Ah, sir, you’re awake at last.”

Roark forced an eyelid open. His valet, Pepperhill, stood beside the bed holding a glass of liquid. He thrust the glass beneath Roark’s nose. “Drink this, my lord. It will ease the pain.”

Catching a whiff of the murky contents, Roark nearly gagged. What in God’s name was it? He started to shake his head, instantly regretting the movement. Pain plowed through his brain. Instead, holding perfectly still, he said, “No, I don’t think. . .”

“You don’t need to think, my lord. Doctor Kimball left me instructions. I’ll do the thinking for both of us. Now, sir, do drink it. You look horrid.” Bone thin and scarcely two inches above five feet, the diminutive former actor never hesitated to order Roark about.

He eyed the valet. A wholly unrepentant gaze, stared coolly back at him.

“Exceptionally bold this morning, aren’t we, Pepper?”

Grimacing, Roark took the glass and gulped the bitter contents. A shudder rippled the length of his spine before he placed the glass on the nightstand. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress until the room stopped spinning. Shoving to his feet, he gingerly yawned and stretched.

Pepperhill yanked the draperies open. A fresh slice of agony pulsated behind Roark’s eyes. “Devil it, man. Are you trying to kill me? Close the infernal draperies.”

“No need to be peevish with me, my lord. I’m not the one who passed out with my face pressed against Miss Ferguson’s bosoms.”

Roark paused in the midst of donning his navy and burgundy striped banyan. He glared at his man. “Pepperhill, you go too far.”

The valet shrugged his slender shoulders. “I’m but telling you what the tittle tattle is, sir. You’re sure to hear it yourself. Not that anyone’s blaming you. No indeed. What with the fire, and that monstrous buffoon—”

He gave a dramatic sigh, and turned a watery glance on Roark. Were those tears? Pepperhill swiped at his eyes, before attending to the breakfast tray. “Miss Ferguson saved your life by dragging you to the door. Such a tiny, little thing. And she lugged you all the way across the burning carriage house.”

Clasping his heart, Pepperhill sighed theatrically. “My, my, she’s got mettle, she does.”

Saved his life?

Roark tied his banyan closed. He couldn’t remember much of what happened after ham-fisted Brayan planted him a facer, except for snippets about Godwin, stones, and a loch. Roark had awakened in what he believed was heaven.

There was something about breasts and delicious lips, but the precise details escaped him. A vague image of full nipples pressed taut against damp fabric flitted enticingly across his memory. The scent of lilies teased a corner of his mind too.

Adaira, he vaguely recalled, had been a bruised and ravaged mess. Worry consumed him. She was completely compromised. While he’d been unconscious, had Brayan ravished her? The Scotsman’s ugly accusations rang in Roark’s ears. What was truth and what were the ravings of a jealous, no mad, drunk?

Trying to sound casual, he asked, “How is Miss Ferguson?”

Pepperhill, clucked his tongue. “Well enough. She’s a nasty lump on her head. You’re quite the pair. Doctor Kimball says you’re both fortunate not to have split your skulls or perished from smoke inhalation alone.”

He unfolded the serviette, placing it beside the plate, and then drew the chair away from the table. “Imagine, such chaos, and you snuggled into her chest mumbling
angel breasts
.”

Flushing, Roark closed his eyes. Damn, damn, and damn.

Pepper snickered, and in a sotto voice continued. “Even Cook was tittering on about how romantic it was when I went to fetch your breakfast tray.”

Humiliation and anger converged on Roark. “Pepper, it escapes me why you find this humorous,”

“Of course, it does,” Pepperhill said, entirely unrepentant.

“If you value your position—”

The valet ignored him, like he always did when he didn’t like a topic of conversation or Roark’s opinion. Which was often. If Pepperhill weren’t impossibly talented at his job, and equally perceptive to Roark’s moods and preferences, he’d have dismissed the man for his impertinence long ago.

Roark was tempted to give Pepperhill his
congé
if only to see his reaction. The servant was entirely too confident of his position. It would do him good to be set back a pace or two.

“By-the-by, my lord, your clothing from yesterday was beyond repair.” Pepperhill wrinkled his nose in distaste. He eyed Roark. The gleam in his eyes changed from cocky to compassionate. “You’ll feel better if you eat something. Doctor Kimball advised the draught should be taken with food.”

Pepperhill turned his attention to the table. After arranging the dining utensils, he poured a cup of coffee, and then lifted the dome from the sausage, bacon, poached eggs, and toast. Raising a brow, he stood waiting behind the chair.

Lying down and yanking the covers over his head was much more appealing, but Roark had a houseful of guests to attend to.

And a fire to investigate.

He obligingly sat in the chair Pepperhill held for him. He took a sip of tepid coffee.

Roark fingered the egg-sized knot on the side of his head. He’d have a brilliant headache for a day or two. There was no help for it. Duty called. He couldn’t stay abed and nurse his head. He’d suffered far worse at his sire’s hand and still functioned.

“Pepperhill, please tell Westbrook to have Sir Hugh meet me in my study,” he glanced at the clock, “in an hour.”

That gave him plenty of time to bathe and organize his thoughts. They drifted repeatedly to a chocolate-eyed siren. Suddenly he was quite famished. After spreading marmalade on a piece of toast, he took a healthy bite.

“Very good, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“Yes, I’d like a bath, and I want to be informed the moment Miss Ferguson is awake. Did Doctor Kimball say if she’d be able to entertain visitors or be up and about today?”

He took another bite of toast, then forked a bit of egg into his mouth. It was cold, precisely why he preferred eating below stairs. Hunger compelled him to take another bite despite the unappetizing condition of the eggs. Besides, he needed his mind keen today. An empty stomach didn’t lend itself to sharp thinking.

“I’m unaware of Doctor Kimball’s orders regarding her. I’ll check with Miss Ferguson’s abigail straightaway, my lord.” Pepperhill opened the chamber door to leave.

Roark paused, a piece of bacon halfway to his mouth. “Pepper, where’s the Scot, Brayan McVey? I assume he’s been detained somewhere on the grounds.”

The valet sent Roark a searching look. “Sir, he perished in the fire.”

Pepperhill moved back into the room. “You and Miss Ferguson were barely found in time. The coach house collapsed moments after the two of you were brought out. No one had time to find the Scot, much less rescue him. If it hadn’t been for Miss Ferguson moving you as far as she did, and Miss Seonaid’s vision, I’m afraid you both would have died as well.”

This time, there was no hiding the tears pooling in the man’s eyes. He brushed them away, but made no apologies for his emotional display.

The Scot was dead.

Adaira had obviously held him in affection, at least at one time. Something told Roark, she’d grieve her friend’s death, despite his atrocious actions. The man had been unbalanced, much like Edgar. Why the stupid fool had started the fires, Roark would never know. For certain, Brayan hadn’t expected to be a victim of his own demented scheme.

“Where is his body? His next of kin will need to be notified.”

“My lord,” Pepperhill swung his attention to a window. “The building burned to the ground. There were no remains left.”

Roark could muster no sympathy for the Scotsman. What Brayan had put Adaira through was unpardonable.

“You mentioned Adaira saved me by dragging me to the door.” Roark furrowed his brow. “But, Miss Seonaid, how could she have known?”

Pepperhill grinned, which so startled Roark, he choked on his coffee, spewing it across the table. Pepperhill didn’t grin. Ever. The minutest upward tilt of his lips passed for a smile on extremely rare occasions.

The manservant rushed to Roark and began pounding him on the back, sending shards of pain into his already thrumming head.

“Enough man! Did you forget my head?”

“My apologies, my lord. I did indeed. I feared you were choking.”

Roark waved off the apology, his appetite effectively squashed. “You were saying? Miss Seonaid?”

The valet nodded. “It seems she has the second sight. Prior to this, I’d not believed in such drivel. While we were fighting the fires, she and the other ladies were sequestered in the drawing room. She suddenly went stiff and blurted something about Miss Adaira being in danger.”

Pepperhill brushed a speck of lint from his immaculate sleeve before straightening his already perfectly aligned waistcoat.

“But how did you find us in time?” Inexplicably restless, Roark stood. He crossed the room to gaze on the charred ruins beyond his window. He’d come very close to dying last night. Adaira could have escaped. She risked her life to save his. His chest tightened with suppressed emotion.

God, he was grateful she was daring and unconventional.

Why had he thought to change her?

“I’m given to understand Miss Seonaid sees things. Images.

I was told she saw flames, carriages, and her sister being set upon. But if it hadn’t been for Miss Adaira getting you near the entrance, you would have died.”

Pepperhill made an odd sound in the back of his throat.

Visions?

Thank God her family believed Seonaid, trusted her enough to send help. And thank God for Adaira. How she’d hauled him that far, he’d never know. Clanking and tinkling told Roark the dutiful servant cleared his leftover breakfast.

Then he was beside Roark, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Sir, are you well? Can I get you anything?”

Turning his head, Roark smiled. “I’m fine, Pepper. I need naught else but my bathwater. There’s much to put aright today. Please send Westbrook to me after you’ve delivered the message to Sir Hugh.”

“At once, my lord.” Gathering the breakfast tray, Pepperhill made a smart half bow, then turning on his heels, left the room.

Roark’s gaze skimmed the blackened mounds proclaiming where the stables and carriage house once stood. His house party was over before it began. Although the arrangements were made, there was no way on earth he should host a ball tonight. He’d not be surprised if half his guests hadn’t left for home already.

Blister it. More visitors would be arriving today. His other barns were sufficient to house their horseflesh, and none of the guests’ carriages had been in the coach house. However, there was the magistrate to contact, staff and guests to question, a list to prepare of lost goods, one of items to be replaced immediately, and still another of building supplies to order.