Etiquette With The Devil (43 page)

The sky flamed red and Bly dove, knocking Graham down. Rocks began to rain down from the tower. They wrestled, until Bly gained the advantage and secured the pistol, holding it against his mentor’s chest.

“Don’t make me shoot, Graham. Don’t make me the villain.”

Graham laughed, his eyes lit with greed. “You already are, Ravensdale. You fucking—”

Bly reached back and punched Graham. Graham’s head snapped back, and he stilled. Bly aimed the pistol and fired two more shots.

Barnes ran out from the shadows. “I have him. And we’re in luck, there’s a constable here who’s learned of someone’s innocence and the guilt of this man.” He kicked Graham in the gut.

“We have to go.” Bly grabbed Clara’s hand. “Are you well?” He dragged her forward, not waiting for her answer. The passed under the archway, then followed the back side of the tower. “We need—”

“Christ, the dynamite!” Barnes shouted from behind the tower. “Graham, you son-of-a-bitch—”

An explosion rattled the garden as a high-pitched whistle pierced his ears, precluding the darkness that pulled him from this world into a black void.

*

Orange light blossomed overhead as Bly dropped to his knees in a heap, pulling Clara back as she tried to run forward. The fiery showers rained down, singing Clara’s shoulder as she stared at the ground at her fallen husband. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and gunpowder.

The tower began to crumble, as stones of all sizes rained down in a terrifying rumble in between bursts of fireworks. Bly did not move from the awkward fall, nor did he speak, he just remained motionless on the ground as the world around her suddenly paused and faded to black.

She sank to her knees, the bones of her corset digging into her skin as she bent over her husband. “Bly?” She lifted his head, horrified as warm liquid pooled into her palm from his wound.

Her lips against his did not wake him. Her forehead pressed against his, her tears washing away the blood on his face as she took another shuddering breath. “I love you too, and you can’t leave me,” she whispered.

It was too dangerous to stay by the tower as stones continued to crumble and fall. She wrapped her arm around his neck, but he was too heavy to lift. Clara kissed the tip of his nose as she pushed to her feet and grabbed his hand, watching as he head lolled back as she attempted to drag him forward. His head bobbed over the ground in an unnatural way, causing a sour taste to turn in her mouth until she thought she would be ill.

“Barnes,” she yelled in dread. Clara grabbed the pistol from Bly’s hand and aimed it blindly into the sulfur cloud. “Isaac!” The sound of gunfire had turned to pointed yelling, drowned under the fireworks hurtling through the summer night.

“Someone help,” she screamed, a sob escaping her throat. She paced around Bly’s body, squinting between the bright intervals of light for sign of any movement. “Someone,” she coughed, the thick air burning her throat.

She dropped to the ground, her orange skirts billowing over the grass like flames of a spreading fire. Her hands shook as she ripped at her petticoats, wadding up the fine silk to pad the wound on the back of his head.

“Help me.” Another explosion sounded, the force of it pushing against Clara’s body, stealing away another shouted plea. She gasped for air to scream again, as a voice said, “Let me.”

Clara whirled around and pointed the pistol at the source of the voice, ready to pull the trigger.

With another flash, Isaac neatly dodged an explosion overhead, as another low rumble shook the base of the tower. “Help me lift him,” Barnes yelled over the noise.

They carried Bly away from the tower, just as it crumbled to the ground in a heap of ancient stone. The fireworks quieted as the fire burning in the garden glowed, casting a dim light over the long grass below the garden. Applause from the house drifted over the park.

“He suffered a bad blow to the head. He’ll come around, Clara,” Barnes said as she cradled Bly’s head in her lap. She nodded, sniffing back the tears, her ears still ringing from the noise.

Isaac lowered to his haunches and reached into his coat pocket, the silver of his flask sparking and catching Clara’s eye. He uncapped it and poured the liquid over Bly’s face, first a few drops before emptying the bottle as Bly’s eyes opened on a gasping breath.

“Works every time.” Barnes rubbed Clara’s arm. “I told you, he can’t die. You’re stuck with him, my dear.”

“Bastard,” Bly said in a soft rumble, laughing until he turned his head to spit up blood. He tried to sit up, but Clara pushed him back down, her hand cradling his cheek, her eyes taking in the sight of his again.

“I have Graham. Well, the constable does, which is bloody convenient. I will write and tell you of any news.”

“Wait,” Clara said as Isaac stood. “You have to leave now?”

“I do, my spotted goose, but you will be fine. He’ll be able to walk in a few minutes.” He bent down to Clara, leaning in close. “I know you will keep him well,” he whispered into her ear, stealing a kiss on the cheek before rising and fading into the night.

It was unsettling to be left alone with Bly in the aftermath of such a scene, alone in the thick air and silence. “The children are safe with Molly,” Clara said, anticipating his question.

“You?” His voice was coarse; for once not hiding that he was in pain.

She brushed back her hair, a dry laugh escaping her. She could not answer. How could she possibly begin to describe the relief washing over her now that he was awake once more. She settled next to him instead, nestling into the crook of his shoulder.

So many words raced through Clara’s mind, but only three slipped out of her lips as he took a shaky breath and pushed a hardened kiss to her forehead.

“I love you,” she said again, this time for him to hear. Bly drew her in closer as she lost herself to the starry sky above, soaking up the light, no longer afraid of the darkness.

Jaipur, India

1890

T
he air was hot, laced with the heavy perfume of jasmine, as laugher drifted into her room from the pond below. Clara rolled onto her back, refusing to end her nap, even as the mattress sank with another’s weight.

Bly’s body, still dripping from his swim, levered over hers, cooling her warm skin. She gave a satisfied sigh as his hair dripped over her face like a soft spring shower over the moors. His lips slanted over hers and she lost herself to the kiss, still half-asleep, certain she was dreaming.

“Hello,” he whispered, his hands tenderly framing her face. “How are you?”

She took a deep breath before opening her eyes, bracing herself for the vivid colors of another world. India was just as he had always described. No saffron yellow, teal, or magenta awaited her, only the familiar hazel that made her heart squeeze.

Clara ran her fingers through his wet hair, the water drops running down her arms in rivulets. “Better now. Kiss me again,” she said with a coquettish smile, her voice still rough from sleep.

When he teased her lips apart with a wicked sweep of his tongue, she knew it was not a dream. Time lost its meaning as he kissed her, one caress melting into another, until her lips were swollen and the carved ceiling overhead spun from his languid assault.

Bly traveled his hands down her body, covering her curves and dips as if he were reading a well-studied map, continuing his path even as she stirred beneath him, an impious lament escaping her lips. His thumbs hooked under the hem of her chemise before his hands journeyed back up her torso, exposing her growing stomach.

“And how are you?” he asked, pressing a trail of kisses over the rounded flesh. The baby gave an answering kick to his touch in her womb. Clara smiled to herself, listening to Bly tell their unborn child of how Rhys tamed an elephant that afternoon, while she had slept off the worst of the afternoon heat.

“I hope you aren’t letting him bring that creature home.”

Bly pushed back, resting on his knees as he gave her a roguish wink. The warm breeze stirred the netting around their bed, billowing as if they were floating in the clouds.

“I could be persuaded to change my mind.”

She laughed, shifting up to her elbows, drinking in the sight of her wet, half-naked husband. “Devil,” she breathed, as he bent back down and pushed her chemise up further. In one delicious stroke of his tongue, he traced the script etched into her fair skin, curving over her ribcage under her left breast.
Jaaneman
. Soul of me.

“I was sent to fetch you,” he whispered into her ear. As if she hadn’t suffered enough from his touch, Bly tugged at her earlobe before his lips moved down the line of her neck and settled at the freckle at the hollow of her throat. “I believe it’s time for cake.”

“How is the birthday boy?”

A chorus of shrieks floated through the open room, and then the ripple of laughter. “Bloody hell, this is high,” a boy’s voice yelled. A splash followed.

Bly and Clara laughed, even as she shook her head, her fingers tapping against his back. “He learned that from you,” she scolded.

“His mother has been known to curse from time to time.”

“Never,” she said, sitting up, pressing her lips to his forehead. “A lady never curses.”

“Who said anything about her being proper? I have it on good authority that she’s strayed under someone’s influence.” He took a hungry nip at her neck, his lips still cool as they traveled to her bare shoulder.

She framed his face between her hands—that beautifully scarred face, feeling herself fall into the depths of his eyes. Words were no longer sufficient to express her feelings. They had been buried instead inside her heart since the day she met him. From time to time, with each beat, her body echoed:
He will find you. He will love you. You will learn to live.

“Oh, how I love you,” she whispered. Those meager words would have to do for present.

Bly helped her dress and led her outside onto their balcony overlooking the pond, the vermilion sun filling the early evening sky. Above the lush top of the jungle, beyond in the hazy distance, loomed the Raja’s palace, its extravagant gilded temple spreading a blinding beacon of gold over the jungle landscape.

Minnie swung from a rope as James, Rhys, and Theo splashed each other in the tepid water of the small pond. Grace was perched on the toppled stone Buddha head, stringing marigolds onto long chains, while the wild bunch carried on. And the elephant, the one their son apparently had tamed, stood in the water with the children, reaching its trunk high into the air and showering them in sprays of water.

The boys cheered on as Minnie reared back into the canopy of the jungle, catapulting herself out of its shade, clutched around a rope. “Huzzah!” she cried, before landing into the water with an unladylike splash.

“We’ll never get them out of the water,” she said to Bly, laughing as he shooed away a pesky monkey from the railing in front of their room.

“I can try.” He let go of her hand and jumped the balustrade, landing into the water below to the boisterous cheers of the children. He swam out to the boys with long sweeps of his arms, slicing the water with ease. Clara’s heart ached a bit more as he roared and grabbed Rhys and Theo under each of his arms, hauling them to shore. “Time for cake,” he yelled over their laughs. The others dutifully followed as one did when such sweet confections were offered.

“I made this for you, Mama,” Grace said, holding out a necklace of marigolds as Clara walked down the stairs, and stepped into the garden.

And their son—her baby was no longer a baby, but a boy. His skin was tanned like his father’s, his hair still refusing to lay flat on top his head. Rhys grinned at her, one of his front teeth missing, as he pretended to take a swipe at the melting frosting. Clara shook her head, fighting back a smile. He had perfected the same cheeky wink as Bly, too.

James pulled a chair out for Clara, as Theo barreled between Grace and Rhys to take his seat. The three monkeys were inseparable. When everyone had a spot at the table, Clara began singing, ushering a jolly chorus that erupted in cheers as Rhys blew out his candles.

Bly leaned over her, handing Rhys a piece of cake. “Clara, love?” he whispered into her ear.

“Hmm?”

His lips brushed her ear as he stretched out his hand and laced his fingers with her hers resting above her heart. “Thank you.”

T
he
E
nd

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ETIQUETTE WITH THE DEVIL
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