Priceless (30 page)

Bronwyn and Adam lay in the comforting aftermath of passion, flat on their backs with only their fingertips touching. The moon, almost full, lit the loft and left only a residue of darkness. Bronwyn was surprised to hear herself define half-formed thoughts so eloquently, but she made no effort to stop.

“One day I woke up and there I was, poised, mature, dynamic, beautiful—all because I saw myself through your eyes. Your vision may be faulty, but I am through trying to correct it. If you see a beautiful, gracious lady when you see me, I’ll see the same mirage you do when I look in the mirror.”

Adam’s hand crept over Bronwyn’s and squeezed it. He brought it to his lips, and with a laugh in his voice he asked, “What makes you think it is my vision that is at fault, my dear?”

The jingle of a horse’s riding tack outside the window woke Bronwyn. “An early wedding guest?” she suggested.

Adam grunted. The sun had barely risen, but already night’s magic had fled. Tomorrow had come, and he would marry another woman. He would marry Bronwyn’s sister. The last time had come to an end. They were children no more. “I can’t break it off,” he said abruptly. “Not without gross disgrace to Olivia.”

On the defensive almost before he spoke, she snapped, “I didn’t ask you to.”

“No.” Carefully he removed her from his shoulder and flung back the cloak that covered them. “You didn’t, did you?”

Harsh reality struck her, as did the chill of the air. “Well, to ask you to disgrace my sister for my own selfish reasons would be…selfish.”

Rising from the nest in the straw as if he were impervious to the cold, he stretched and dusted the bits of hay from his chest. As the sun lifted above the trees, the straw, piled high behind him, glinted golden. She trembled to see him framed so splendidly, exhibited to his advantage by color and texture. The long line of his spine flexed as he brushed his legs; everywhere he flaunted well-developed muscle and sinew.

Only the white bandage marred his perfection. Yet how
should she ask about it? What tactful method could she use to inquire about his pain? Obviously the last time’s passion had waned and was best forgotten. “Did we hurt your leg last night?” she blurted.

His sardonic glance answered her even as he said, “I didn’t notice.”

He jerked the clothes out from beneath her, leaving her lying on the crushed straw. It scratched her, and he irritated her.

He shook his clothes, then hers, and laid them out. “What does Olivia say about me?”

A deliberate reminder, she supposed. Well, if he could be stolid, so could she. Sitting up, she finger-combed the straw from her hair. “She’s being brave and silent.”

Shoving his arms into his shirt, he said, “That sounds ominous.”

She reached for her chemise, pulled it over her head, and heard something, just a whisper of sound from outside. “What’s that?”

Cocking his head, he listened, too. “I don’t know.”

“Do you hear it? Little crackling noises?”

“I suppose a stable boy is performing some chore downstairs.” He pulled on his breeches and shoved his bare feet into his shoes. “So speak quietly.”

“It’s so early.”

“We have many guests, with many horses.” Shrugging into his waistcoat, he urged, “I suggest you hurry before any of those guests rouse themselves and see us returning to the house.”

She leaped up, snatching her petticoats and pulling them on in a flurry of lace. “I know the need for silence, for secrecy, better than you, I expect.
You’re
going to be married.
I’m
going to be ruined.”

Cold as the winter wind, he said, “That’s your choice.”

Her mouth dropped. What a thing to say. What a thing
to think! As if she could stop this wedding. What did he want her to do? Knock Olivia over the head, steal her wedding dress, and take her place in the church? As she loosely laced her gown and fumed, she wanted nothing more than revenge on this superior, stupid male. “Olivia spends a lot of time praying.”

“Praying?” he asked, outraged. “Am I so dreadful?”

She bit back a smile. “She’s very religious.”

“A clever evasion. You ran away. Olivia is praying. The most dread bridegroom waits to consume his—” He stopped, sniffed. “The smoke from the fireplaces must be blowing this way.”

She smelled it, too. A hint of smoke in the cool air. “Or the farmers are burning their trash.”

“No doubt you’re right.” He searched the hay. “Have you seen the ribbon to tie back my hair? My handkerchief?”

“Can’t go anywhere without your hair ribbon, hmm?”

He glared. “My knife is with it, and no, I can’t go anywhere without it.”

“I’ll help you find it.” She thrashed through the straw, muttering, “Men can’t find anything. Helpless as babes. Perfectly willing to let me search—” Annoyed, she glared at the still and silent Adam. “You could at least pretend to look.”

“Sh.”

She straightened, hands on hips. “What?”

“Listen.”

She listened. The crackling sounded louder, closer. Smoke bit at her nose, and she glanced around at the hayloft, stuffed full for the winter. “Fire,” she whispered. Then louder, “Fire!”

As if in answer to her alarm, one horse belowstairs whinnied. Then they all whinnied. Hooves crashed against the stalls.

“Stay here,” Adam instructed, and when she would
have objected, he insisted, “Stay here. I have to get the doors open. Some of the horses are only tethered. You may be trampled.” He pointed at the window. “See if you can get that door open and get out that way.”

He disappeared down the ladder before she could stammer, “What?”

Get that door open? It was a window. But Adam had never shown previous signs of stupidity, so she went to examine the window. It was, indeed, part of a door. A bolted double door undoubtedly used to load the loft with hay. It looked like part of the wall, except for the slab of wood hanging across the iron hooks to hold it closed. Sucking in her breath, she lifted the beam up and away and dropped it. Pushing the doors, she leaped back from the fresh breeze that whirled the straw into a frenzy. The scent of it mixed with the smoke to set off a strident alarm in her. Fire. Oh, God, fire in the stables. The straw, the parched wood, the living horses: what could be worse?

Leaning out, she searched for a way of escape but saw only torched piles of hay placed against the wall. As the fire consumed its fuel with audible relish, the horses screamed. Someone rattled up the ladder. She turned, expecting to see a servant, but saw only Adam.

“The stable is locked,” he said tersely. “The fire started outside.” He came to the doors and looked out.

She grabbed his arm and shook it. “You’re saying someone set this fire? But why?”

Grimly Adam pointed across the lawn where his splendid house rested. No light, no motion, enlivened it. “To wake us? To take revenge for the devastation of the South Sea bubble? Or—”

Sparks fluttered up, snapped at the breeze, extinguished themselves. They would not do so for long, Bronwyn knew. Soon one would escape its fellows and, like some carrier of the plague, live to transmit fire to the loft.

“Useless speculation,” Adam muttered, then said,
“There’s no ladder. No way down. I’ll jump to the haystack. If I make it—”

“
If
you make it?”

“If I make it, I’ll find a ladder.” He set his legs and eyed the distance. “If I don’t, you’ll have to jump yourself.”

“If you don’t make it, how can I?”

He smiled slightly. “Both your legs are healthy.”

“Then why don’t I—”

She spoke to the wind. He leaped and landed safely, slipping, clawing at the haystack as it slithered from beneath him. The whole stack shivered, gave way, and he landed on the ground atop a golden pile. Adding her voice to the overwhelming tumult, she shouted in triumph.

Then, like some small ferocious dog, a man hurled himself at Adam, knife held high. Unprepared, Adam rolled toward him; the man overshot his mark and tumbled in the dirt. His wig came off, his head gleamed in the sunshine.

Judson. Bronwyn shook in a paroxysm of hate, a hate as hot as the fire around them. This time she would not watch as Judson tried to kill Adam. This time she’d destroy the dirty little cutthroat herself. She whirled and bounded back inside the loft. The boards below her scorched her feet. Little fires had escaped the main one and licked the straw. Somewhere under the piles a knife lay hidden, and Bronwyn Edana was going to use it.

It had to be here. It had to be. Bronwyn scrambled
though the pile of straw where they had slept. Her fingers shoved at the yellow lengths, her eyes darted from side to side, she even used her feet to find the thin dark case that would furnish Adam’s salvation.

It wasn’t there.

It had to be.

She stopped, took a breath, coughed. Smoke burned her throat and punished her efforts, but she calmed herself. That knife was here. She would find it before the fire consumed the stable. She would find it before Judson—

With grim determination she lifted an armful of straw, shook it, discarded it. She lifted another armload, shook it, discarded it. Another.

A white handkerchief, embroidered with the initials “A.K.” fluttered to her feet, and she sputtered with hysterical laughter. Success was close.

She lifted another armful, and before she even shook it, the knife smacked the wooden floor. Snatching it, she sang, “Thank you—oh, thank you,” unhooked the leather cover that held the blade secure, and hustled to the door. She saw Adam and Judson at once. Close below her in the muck of the stable yard, they were locked together. Long and shiny,
the blade of Judson’s knife dipped and swayed in his grasp. Both of Adam’s hands restrained Judson and his murderous intention.

Bronwyn’s gaze never left them. She pulled the knife from its case, and for the first time doubts struck her. Adam had showed her how to throw the knife, yet she knew it required practice to hit a target. She balanced the tip in her fingers. How could she hit Judson, when Adam stood so close? Her hand shook. But what choice had she? For all Adam’s bravado, she knew he’d not fully recovered from his shooting. She knew he’d strained himself last night, and God only knew what damage he’d done with his leap to the haystack.

Panicked horses shrieked and plunged within their stalls, and she saw servants running toward the stable, yelling, waving their hands. Not one of them even noticed their master. The fire consumed their thoughts as it consumed the building.

The responsibility rested on her.

Judson’s eyes gleamed, mad with the need for vengeance.

“This time I’ll finish it. This time I’ll finish you.”

Adam heard Judson’s vow, but he spent none of his air to answer. It required all his concentration to scuffle when his leg felt as if it were attached backward. Occasionally his foot flopped out of control, and occasionally Judson’s vicious kicks found their mark. But he dared not let go of Judson’s wrist.

Someone had to help him, and that someone had to be Bronwyn. Blind faith kept his grip strong when he should have given up. Somehow Bronwyn would help him.

A flash of light above brought his gaze up. There she stood, framed in the doorway. Fire glowed behind her, feeding eagerly on the straw, yet she seemed unconscious of her peril. She held his blade in her fingers. One brief glance, and he knew all her uncertainty. She feared to
throw the knife and feared not to. He cursed himself for her lack of experience and praised himself for teaching her a throwing grip.

And with a surge of desperation he communicated his demand to Bronwyn.

Throw it. Just throw it well, and he would take care of the rest.

She firmed her mouth, steadied her hand, flung the knife with the strength of her arm behind it.

Right at Adam.

She wanted to cover her eyes, could not. He saw it, saw disaster aimed right at him, and swung his body around, nudging Judson into the path of the blade. It sank between Judson’s shoulders, and Adam didn’t wait to see its success. He dropped Judson and surged toward her, terrified by the conflagration that destroyed the stable she stood in.

“Jump!” he shouted. “Jump!”

She jumped. Adam caught her, and they tumbled to the ground.

Babbling, “Is he dead?” she circled his neck with her arms.

“Who cares?” He jerked her to her feet and dragged her toward the house at a run. At a safe distance he stopped and shoved her down, rolling her on the ground while she hollered.

When he let her up, she said, “What was that for?”

Not interested in her indignation, he examined her, all of her. Her hair and clothes came under particular scrutiny, and he sighed, “We put it out.”

“Put what out?”

He brought a lock of her hair around before her eyes. “You were smoldering.”

The sight of the frizzled ends of her hair subdued her. “Oh.”

“It’s a miracle you weren’t aflame.” He pointed at the burning building.

It seemed to be sucking up the air, exhaling the smoke.
Kenneth directed a bucket line from the well to the building, but it held little chance of success. The servants’ only desire seemed to be the rescue of the frantic animals within. Wet cloths covered the horses’ eyes as they were led out; buckets of water doused them and their smoking coats. The walls puffed bellows of smoke. The roof thatch exploded in flame. Everywhere people swarmed, shouted, ran.

The uncurbed blaze had attracted the attention of the guests in Adam’s house. Women in their wrappers and men in their dressing gowns crowded the balconies and porches of Boudasea. Gentlemen, half-dressed and concerned with their horseflesh, hurried toward the barn. Northrup led them, exhorting the servants who straggled along to lend a hand.

A freed horse galloped past, the beat of its hooves so violent that it rocked the ground. Adam dragged himself to his feet and offered his hand. “Up, before you’re run over.” When Bronwyn stood beside him, he ordered, “Go back to the house.”

Astonished, Bronwyn watched him limp swiftly toward the stable. Running in front of him, she yelled, “That building is going to collapse.”

He put her aside and hastened on, calling, “The horses,” but she hurled herself at him, striking him behind the knees.

He went down, and she straddled his back. “The horses aren’t worth your life.”

He remained still, but whether she’d convinced him or simply knocked the air out of him, she didn’t know. Or care. Trying to sound brisk and firm, she told him, “There’s more help than Kenneth knows what to do with. We’ll stay here and let the stable hands do what they’re trained to do.”

His hands wrestled free of hers, circled her wrists. “No one is trained for this.” He turned over, dumping her off.

She stood and leaned over the top of him, shaking a finger in his face. “Adam, I’m warning you, don’t try to get up.”

A half smile crooked his mouth as he stood. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll knock you down again.” She put her hands on his arms, gazed earnestly into his eyes. “You’re not going in that stable.”

Cupping her face in his hands, he looked at her. Screaming assailed her ears, soot clogged her nose, fear tasted leaden on her tongue, yet when Adam smiled and whispered, “God, how I adore you,” the love within her ran, warm and sweet, under her skin. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face for his kiss.

It didn’t come. His touch left her, and when she opened her eyes he was gone, striding toward the fire. Like a mountain goat, she bounded across the grass, adding her call to the cacophony.

She met the whole mass of creatures—workers, horses, guests, Adam—galloping back toward her.

“Collapse! Fire! Run!” the stable hands screamed.

Skidding to a stop, she sighed with relief.

Adam grabbed her arm and hustled her back, yelling, “You silly woman, all the horses are out. Get back!”

With a roar the stable disintegrated. The walls fell, each board a scarlet banner. Flames swooped high, the heat reached out. Spontaneously every haystack around the stable erupted in flames.

One haystack drew her attention. A glowing torch separated, crawled away, and she remembered.

Horror etched Kenneth’s wrinkled face. “What is it?”

Grabbing Adam’s face, she shouted, “Judson?”

“Damn him,” Adam swore. “Couldn’t he just die like anyone else? Does he have to—”

He started down the slope to the stable, and Bronwyn turned to Kenneth in desperation. “It’s the man who set fire to the stables.”

In a mighty swell, the stable hands overtook Adam, dragged him back. Pulling their forelocks, dipping in little bows, showing their respect in every way, still they subdued him.

One said, “Ye can’t go down there, m’lord.”

Kenneth added, “’Tis so hot you’ll ignite from th’ heat. Best leave well enough alone. If that fellow’s not dead yet, he soon will be.”

Bronwyn heard a voice intone, “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall—”

Northrup stood beside her, and she gaped at him as he finished, “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.” Northrup rubbed the place where Judson’s bullet had struck him. “Judson’s egg is fried at last. May he burn in hell as well as on earth.”

Gianni leaned on the rail and gazed with tear-filled eyes at the retreating shore of England. Where was his master? Why had he failed to catch the packet to Calais as he promised? Never had his master failed to extricate himself from his escapades, but never had his master allowed vengeance to govern him before. Gianni had a bad feeling, here, in his heart. Pressing the affected member, Gianni drooped.

The old woman his master had stabbed with his knife still lived. The one who considered herself a doctor had saved the woman while he and his master struggled with the others. It depressed him to remember how his master had cursed. Another few moments, and the woman would have been dead. Maybe—he brightened—the woman would die of infection.

In the tiny room below the waterline, Gianni had placed the bags that contained all his worldly goods and his master’s, too. But in his belt he kept the purse of coins his master had earned with his hard work and stealthy
ways. This bag the master guarded, never before allowing Gianni to view the contents, never before allowing Gianni even to carry the contents. Always the master had given him money for the household expenses, and for the quick departures their lives had sometimes required.

Now—Gianni smiled and patted the heavy purse—now his master had proved his trust in his faithful servant. Gianni would look, only once, not for long, on this treasure. There wouldn’t be much, Gianni knew, for reverses of fortune had plagued them. But with these poor bits of silver, he would prepare for his master’s arrival in Calais. In Calais, he, Gianni, would order a hot dinner, some old wine, perhaps a woman such as his master preferred. Yes. Gianni nodded. He would use it only for his master’s comfort.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, he ascertained that no one stood near. His cloak opened, he lifted his shirt, seeking the belt that retained the bag against his skin. Carefully he pulled the leather strings apart, lifted the purse, looked inside.

Gold coins glittered in the sun. Many gold coins, thick gold coins, gold coins such as Gianni had only dreamed of. Gianni stared, twirled his finger among the golden metal, looked once more at the shore of England.

“Good-bye, my master,” he called, lifting his hand to wave. “Good-bye.”

“Robert.” Adam laid his hand on Walpole’s arm. “I need you to do something for me.”

Walpole grinned. “Today’s your wedding day, m’boy. I have helped you dress.” He adjusted the ruffles on Adam’s white silk shirt and held his waistcoat as he shrugged into it. “I buoyed your spirits with good jokes and good ale. Too late to get you out of it.”

“But that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

Walpole’s grin faded, and he stepped out of Adam’s grasp. “Damn it, you’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. I can’t marry Olivia. She’s a beautiful girl, but—”

“You can’t marry her sister, either.”

Adam jumped, glanced around. “My God, does everyone know?”

“Everyone with eyes. I saw you enter the barn last night. Everyone saw the two of you returning to the house this morning.” Walpole gestured across the lawn to the still smoldering stable. “A fire has a way of bringing out the curious, and Adam—I heard she was sitting on you.”

Adam grunted. “She didn’t wanted me to risk my life.”

“Very touching, but it didn’t take a prodigy to observe the hay in that girl’s hair.”

“That girl’s name is Bronwyn,” Adam told him austerely.

“Bronwyn, Olivia, what difference does it make? All cats are gray in the dark. Scratch one in the right spot, and she purrs.”

Adam refused to respond to Walpole’s cajoling smile. “You may understand finance, but you know nothing about women.”

Walpole was struck dumb but sputtered to life as Adam buttoned his white satin waistcoat. “I fancy myself a bit of an expert.”

“Now you know better. Should I wear my ivory rings or my amber rings?”

“The ivory,” Walpole decided absently. “They accent the white satin breeches. The fire, the daring fight in which you killed the man who had destroyed your reputation! Everyone’s gossiping about how dashing you are.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“But they’re all gossiping quietly among—what did you say?”

“I didn’t kill him.” Adam slid the rings on his fingers and smiled at his dumbfounded friend. “Bronwyn killed him. How did you think I stabbed him in the back when we were wrestling?”

“Are you trying to tell me that dewy-faced little woman threw the knife?”

“Exactly.”

“Remind me to be polite to Lady Bronwyn.” Walpole bristled as Adam laughed. “Damn it, man, that changes nothing. If you should dump one sister for the other—again!—imagine the scandal!” Touching his brow, Walpole complained, “Look what you’ve done. I’m sweating like a pig.”

“You are a pig, Robert, but you’re my friend. I’m telling you, I want you to stop this wedding.”

Walpole pulled his handkerchief from the copious pocket of his brocade coat and mopped at his forehead.

“Bronwyn and I saved your life,” Adam reminded.

“Beholden to a woman,” Walpole moaned.

“I did your dirty work at Change Alley.”

“I’ll pay you for it,” Walpole answered immediately.

“Yes, by bringing this wedding to a halt.”

“What has that girl done to you?”

Adam lifted a brow. “I’d be interested in hearing your theory.”

“You used to be passionate about nothing but finance, family honor, and England.”