A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1) (43 page)

“I’ll not change my mind, Michael Lassiter,” she answered. “No matter how skilled you are in bed, and you are very skilled,” she offered seductively, “I still have my wits about me and today is the day.” He pulled out of her and rolled to the side in a single, fluid movement, then reached out and pulled her into his arms.

“You won’t regret this, Belle,” he murmured.

“No, but you might,” she countered, only half teasing him.

“Never.”

She looked at him intently. “I’m damaged, Michael. Not physically perhaps, but inside. I can be fearful and withdrawn. I don’t trust easily, but I do trust you. I’m stubborn, opinionated, too outspoken and very independent
–
not at all the sort of woman to make a good countess. I’m not even considered to be a lady by most of society. You’re not getting much of a bargain.”

“Oh, yes I am,” he whispered. Her kissed her temple slowly, tenderly. “I know all those things about you, my love, and those are some of the things I love best about you. We will continue to have our challenges. I’m just as, if not more stubborn and opinionated as you, even if I am always right.” She rewarded him with an elbow in his ribs. He laughed and continued. “We are bound to have some glorious fights, but ah, the making up will be equally spectacular. We may never leave our bedroom.”

“Ou
r
bedroom? You intend to share a room with your wife?”

“Damn right.” Michael’s expression sobered and his tone became more earnest than any Belle had ever heard him use. “It has taken years for our journeys to bring us together again and together we’ll remain. Once we are married I never want to awaken without you by my side. You, Arabella, Annabelle are my harbor, my delight, my friend and dearest love. Never doubt that.”

Belle felt tears sting her eyes. She’d longed to hear him say those words five years ago and to mean them, but the girl she’d been then could never have valued them as did the women who heard them now. He was right. They had made their separate journeys, maturing and learning to slowly, cautiously open their hearts so that when next they met, despite all the hurts and wounds of the past, they would be ready to love each other without reserve, without fear. Michael brought her hand to his lips and placed a tender kiss across her knuckles.

“And so I ask you, Arabella Winston, or Annabelle Winslow – whichever name you prefer, will you....” A sudden pounding on the door broke them apart and Michael cursed as he quickly rose from the bed.

“Michael!” Rafe shouted as he continued to pound on the door. “Get up, man! The dower house is on fire!

Chapter Twenty-eight

Michael sprang from the bed, hastily pulling the bed curtains closed to shield Belle before he lit one of the lamps. “Stay where you are,” he ordered her in a harsh whisper, “and lock the door once I’m gone.” He tossed her nightgown and robe to her certain she would hate being discovered in such a severe state of dishabille with him a second time. She stayed silent and unmoving – probably one of the only times in their lives together that she would obey him, he thought, but he’d be damned if he’d see her humiliated again, mentally vowing to thrash Rafe soundly if he took so much as a step towards the bed. “Just a minute, blast it,” he thundered in response to the other man’s incessant pounding. He pulled on his britches and his shirt before yanking open the door. “What happened?” he demanded over his shoulder as he sat down to pull on his boots.

“Someone set a fire,” Rafe said stepping inside the doorway. “I think we both know who.”

“Is my mother safe?”

“I honestly don’t know, Michael. We haven’t found her. The men are seeing to the fire and it’s no easy task. I’m concerned that....” His words were cut off by Drew’s appearance in the doorway.

“I’ve just come from Belle’s room,” he cried. “She’s not there.” Michael heard a sharp intake of breath from the bed. Rafe’s gaze shot to the closed bed curtains. “Paddy hasn’t seen her either.” Drew continued. Thankfully, he hadn’t heard Belle’s gasp. “We’ve got to find her!” Michael grabbed the lamp from the table and ushered the men out the door and closed it firmly behind him. “Come on,” he growled.

“I’m certain Miss Winslow’s in safe hands,” Rafe drawled, as they hurried down the hall, “or at least she was until recently.”

Drew struggled to keep up with the other men leaning heavily on his cane.  He seized his brother’s arm. “Has she been with you tonight?” he demanded.

Michael pulled in a deep breath and prayed for patience. “Yes, she has,” he answered curtly, “still is actually, but we don’t have time for this now.”

“Go on, don’t wait for me,” Drew replied just as shortly, “but you’d best plan on obtaining a special license come morning, brother.”

“I will, if I ever get to ask her the blasted question,” Michael muttered hurrying down the hall after Rafe.

He caught up with the other man on the staircase. “Are you certain the house is secure?” he asked.

“As certain as I can be,” Rafe answered. “You’re thinking the same thing as me, that this is all a distraction to get us away from Belle.” Michael nodded grimly. “I’ve still got two men in the house. They’ll keep her safe.”

“Can we spare anyone else?”

“Not if you wish to save the house. Seaton knew what he was doing, I’ll say that for him.”

Michael looked back up the staircase praying that for once Belle would do as she was told.

***

Belle listened as the men headed down the hall to the staircase and longed to cosh all three of them over their respective heads, but this was no time for indignation. She needed to return to her room and get dressed. There could be injured to care for before this night was done. She slipped cautiously from the bed and quickly dawned her night gown and robe. Far away in the vastness of the great house she heard the sounds of an army of servants mobilizing to save the dower house. She had no doubt who’d set the fire. Her hands stilled for a moment as she knotted the tie of her robe. He would use this opportunity to try to get to her and if she knew Michael and Rafe at all, she knew they would realize the same thing soon enough. She eased the door to Michael’s private sitting room open, giving thanks that the staff kept the hinges as well oiled as they did. Wisdom would say she should lock herself in and wait for Michael’s return, but even now, after facing enemy fire and battlefield horrors, her courage failed her when it came to Seaton. She could no more sit still and trust in the security of a locked door than she could walk blindfolded into a cage holding a hungry tiger. A faint orange and yellow glow drew her to the window. Flames shot from the downstairs windows at the rear of the dower house. Belle let the window curtain fall behind her as she stood transfixed trying to take in the scene below her. Servants formed bucket lines to throw water. They appeared to be having a difficult time gaining significant ground against the flames. Belle searched for one figure in particular knowing she was too far away to clearly recognize anyone. She hoped he’d stay safe and not engage in heroics, but Michael would never stand idle when something needed to be done, blast him. He’d thumbed his nose at the Russian blockage. Why would he hesitate now? She sent up hasty prayer for Lady Stowebridge. The woman might be a the devil’s own viper, but she didn’t deserve such a horrible death.

Belle turned to step out from behind the curtain when the sound of a click coming from the room’s hidden panel froze her in place. Her heard a whispering sound as the panel moved across the surface of the carpet. Intuition made her ease back into the drapes. Then she heard it – the sound of shuffling footsteps and labored breathing. No, it wasn’t Michael or Drew. Like Rafe’s men, they would have used the main stairs and corridor. She pulled back farther into the recesses of the fabric. A soft glow emerged from the entrance to the passage, illuminating the darkness around a stooped figure. Belle fought the urge to burst from her hiding place and run into the hall. There was no telling if the person who’d entered the sitting room was truly lame, or not, if they carried a pistol, or not. She held her breath as the figure moved towards her. He would have to pass right by her hiding place. She forced herself to take small, silent breaths. Time crawled by as he drew closer one shuffling footstep at a time. Her throat tightened to the point of pain as it fought to release the scream she held back with all her might. Her back muscles cramped from fear, but she forced herself to remain absolutely still.

The smell hit her so suddenly that she almost gasped aloud. The fetid odor of infection permeated the air in the room. Belle struggled to keep breathing evenly, praying that the source of the smell wouldn’t discover her and that she would have time to escape.

The figure continued past the window heading towards Michael’s bedroom.  She heard it make an impatient, growling sound and any remaining doubts she’d harbored about the prowler’s identity vanished in a single, cold wave of dread.

Belle frantically judged the distance from her shelter to the passage. She hadn’t heard the panel close, but what if she were wrong. She heard him curse and knew that all too soon he’d start upending furniture and tearing things apart in his search. She couldn’t count on Rafe’s men hearing him, or reaching her in time. Belle used a trick she’d learned as a child when eluding him. She positioned herself at the very edge of concealment and began silently counting to five. Once she reached the last number she hurled herself towards the secret panel hoping that it remained open and that she could find it unerringly in the dark room. Her luck held and she managed to slide the panel back into place sealing herself inside the passage.

Unable to pause in her flight to find and light a candle, Belle groped her way down the narrow staircase keeping one hand on the wall and sliding her feet tentatively along each step. Thankfully she’d used this passage with Michael many times during the past several weeks and her knowledge of the spacing of each step held her in good stead. How had Seaton learned about the passage way? Michael said only he and Drew knew of its existence.

Belle listened in the oppressive darkness for any hint of sound. Nothing, nor even the scurry of rodents. She considered using one of the other exits Michael had shown her along the lengthy trek downward from his chambers to his study, but if Seaton knew about the passage then he may know about the other entrances as well. Even now he could be waiting for her in Michael’s study having hurried down through the house. She should have grabbed a candle stick,  or anything else that could be used as a weapon. Below her she saw the faint glow of light magnified by the blackness surrounding her.  She was almost to her goal. Gaining the passage entrance, she paused. The angle of the bookcase shielded most of room from her view. Belle waited for a telltale sound, or smell – anything that might tell her if he waited in the shadows beyond the glow of the oil lamp. Nothing. She stepped cautiously from the concealment of the bookcase. The baron could be anywhere at this point. He could have a pistol. She had to find Michael. Where were Rafe’s men? She turned to push the bookcase back into the wall, sealing off the passage and never saw the blow coming until it was too late.

***

The fire proved to be more than simply a diversion staged to draw the men guarding the estate. Flames shot from the windows of the upper floors of the dower house illuminating the pre-dawn sky. Within moments the situation changed from saving the structure to preventing the fire from spreading to any of the surrounding buildings. Michael dropped the bucket he held, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he fought to catch his breath. He wiped the soot and sweat from his forehead with the back of his equally grimy hand, then glanced over to where Drew, braced upon his set of canes, organized a group of tenant farmers. His brother gave orders like a man used to command. It was a side of him Michael had never witnessed and it made him damned proud.

“The servants are accounted for, but no one has seen Lady Stowebridge,” Rafe said striding to Michael’s side. “Her maid tried to rouse her when the fire began, but the lady was not in her room.” He looked from the blaze to Michael. “No one could be alive in there now,” he said grimly.

Michael noted the sky growing lighter to the east, his stomach tightening. He feared the baron had taken her, or worse, that she’d succumbed to the smoke and never made it out of the house at all. In either case, he’d failed her. There may be no love lost between them, but she was still his mother. “The sun will be up soon,” he said flatly. “We can search the grounds and buildings more thoroughly once the fire is contained. Have everyone fall back from the house. There’s no way to save it. All we can do at this point is watch.” 

Rafe left to carry out his orders and Michael turned back to watch the fire finish its destruction. Furnishings and paintings saved from the blaze littered the lawns of the dower house. These items reflected the lives of generations of Lassiters and all of it became meaningless in the face of a life lost.

Suddenly Rafe ran back to him, two men close on his heels. Michael recognized them as the men who’d been stationed to guard the main house and Belle.

“We’ve got more trouble,” Rafe told him.

***

Her head hurt, that much she knew. Belle lay quietly hoping she hadn’t made any sounds or sudden moves as she’d regained consciousness. She opened her eyes to mere slits trying to gauge her situation. A whiff of the same fetid odor she’d smelled upstairs assailed her and she fought the panic threatening to close her throat and leave her gasping for air. There were voices – two of them, a man and a woman. As her head cleared she recognized Lady Stowebridge voice.  She knew the other voice in an instant. Five years or five hundred and she’d know the tones and pitch of it because that voice still haunted her nightmares. 

Lady Stowebridge’s voice was raised in anger. Belle silently urged her to use prudence. The woman had no idea what kind of monster had them at his mercy. He’d been unhinged five years ago and if the cause of the smell was, as Belle suspected, the French Pox, as it was often called, the disease had hastened Seaton’s descent into madness. He would kill them in an instant should either of them anger him. She felt a wetness behind her ear and knew his blow had drawn blood. She thanked God it had done little more than that.

“You were supposed to take care of her upstairs. What did you expect me to do?” The other woman’s words registered and Belle realized with a flash of chilling insight that not only had it been Lady Stowebridge who’d struck her, but that the woman was aiding Seaton against both of her sons. “I had to stop her somehow. You were of no help to me!” The countess’ words held a shrill, nasal quality and Belle wondered if the baron found it as irritating as Belle, herself, did. There was sound of a loud slap and Lady Stowebridge shrieked in outrage. Apparently he did.

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll skin you like the sow you are,” he said, his tone reasonable as if he were commenting on a worn seam on his gloves. The woman wisely held her tongue. Belle heard him move to the window and heard the sound of ripping. “I have to tie her before she comes round. I still have work to do and I can’t have my girl interfering with me,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. “No, I can’t have that. I have to keep her tucked safely out of the way, don’t I?”

“I don’t care what you do with the creature,” Lady Stowebridge exclaimed, “as long as you keep your hands off me and off Drew! That’s the bargain we struck and I demand you honor it!”

Ominously, the sound of ripping, of any movement coming from Seaton abruptly stopped. As much as Belle wanted to spring up and run for the door she held her position, praying that the countess’s stupidity wouldn’t bring about her own death. The woman might be vain and vicious, but that didn’t mean Belle wanted her harmed. Let justice deal with her, not Seaton. Belle opened her eyes hoping that the other occupants of the room would be too distracted to notice. Her luck held. She’d fallen to the side of the settee, her head turned away from both of them. Belle’s eyes strained in the darkness searching for anything that might be used as a weapon. A long, thin object lay just out of her reach. The fireplace poker – that’s what the woman had used to strike her. Thankfully the countess’s swing had lacked enough force to inflict serious harm, merely stunning Belle for several crucial moments. The poker would serve them much better in Belle’s hands.