The Duke's Holiday (40 page)

He rolled off of her with utter reluctance and began
straightening his clothes.

“Your Grace! Where are you?”

It was his driver, Newcomb.

Montford groaned, crawled over to the edge of the loft, and
peered down. “What the devil do you want?”

“Is Miss Honeywell with you?” the man inquired in a harried
voice.

“No,” Montford replied, affronted.

Astrid wanted to vanish into the hay in mortification.

“You sure, Your Grace? For it would be better if she were!
Not that I’ll notice if she
is
,
mind!”

“What are you blathering on about!” Montford demanded.

“If she ain’t with you, then she might be in the castle!”

“Yes, that’s where she is,” Montford said quickly.

“Then we’re in a heap of shite, because the castle is on
fire!”

Astrid leapt to her feet. “What?” she cried, coming to the
edge, modesty bedamned.

Newcomb had the good manners to avert his eyes. “The
castle’s up in flames! Don’t tell me you’ve not noticed!”

Astrid ran to the nearest window and looked out, her pulse
leaping, her stomach sinking. A chaotic horde of people milled about the yard
and gardens staring helplessly up at the flames and smoke that leapt out of
every available opening in the old structure.

Montford came up behind her. “Hell and the devil!” he
muttered. “What next?”

IN WHICH
ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE. AGAIN.

SEBASTIAN
SHERBROOK rounded the edge of the castle, his eyes burning with the cinders
floating through the air, his lungs clogged with smoke. He found Marlowe, grimly
puffing his cheroot and bellowing out orders to a line of servants throwing
buckets of water from the stable well through the windows of the castle, to
little effect. If the pile of rocks could be saved, Marlowe would find a way.
Though the chances were slim from where Sebastian stood. The castle was an
inferno.

Sebastian had been slightly tipsy before the incident with
the pig. Now he was stone sober, and his skin was prickling with dread. He
couldn’t find Montford, and he feared his friend was trapped inside. Sebastian
did not know what he’d do without the old bugger. Montford meant as much to him
as Marlowe. He’d be lost without him.

He was growing sentimental, which was a very bad sign.

The two urchins who had unleashed the pig on them came
running around the corner, nearly knocking him from his feet. Their strange
garments and faces were blackened with ash, making their terrified eyes look
enormous. Marlowe moved quickly to intercept them, grabbing their robes and
giving them his sternest stare. The Viscount had two hellions of his own and
knew how to handle them. “You two pests stay put.”

“We can’t find our sister!” one of them sobbed. Tears
streaked the ash on their faces.

Marlowe patted their heads. “Don’t worry. She’ll be found.”
He glanced at Sebastian, his expression belying his encouraging words.

Sebastian shook his head. He’d seen no sign of Miss
Honeywell either.

Or Lady Katherine, for that matter. But he’d not become
hysterical over
her
.

He glanced around him. Araminta was over by an old crumbling
stone wall, awkwardly comforting the old lady in the ancient dress, her wig now
nowhere in sight. He started over to them. “Where is your sister?” he demanded
of Araminta.

The girl lifted a trembling hand and pointed towards the
castle.

His heart sank as he followed her gesture. Lady Katherine
was
still inside? He broke into a cold
sweat, and his nails dug into his palms. He told himself he’d feel the same for
anyone stupid enough to get caught in a burning building.

But then he spotted her tall, elegant form among a cluster
of farm hands. Her sleeves were rolled up her slender arms, and dark splotches
of soot covered her dress. She hauled a bucket across the yard and passed it
off to one of the men. Then she brushed her fallen, gossamer hair off her face
and marched towards one of the castle doors.

His relief was shortlived. What in hell’s name did she
think she was doing?

He rushed across the yard, and without thinking he grabbed
her by the arm. He hated touching people, but he only remembered this after
she’d turned to him, her fine, emerald eyes wide, a slash of ash running down
the length of her arrogant patrician nose.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he demanded,
translating his wild thoughts verbatim. “Do you want to get yourself killed?”

Her serene face betrayed nothing but slight surprise, but
he could see the flare of fire flash through her eyes. He felt a measure of
gratification in ruffling her feathers, however slightly. “No. But the pig is
still inside. You locked him in the kitchen. I thought I might …” She trailed
off and looked away from him, her mouth tightening. “I thought I might save
him.”

 
“You’re going
to risk your life for a pig! I should be amused if it weren’t so damnably
stupid!”

Her back stiffened. When she gathered herself to her full
height, she was not but an inch or two below him, which was most off-putting
for a female. She stared at him contemptuously. “It is not stupid to feel
compassion, Mr. Sherbrook. Even for a … a pig.”

This was the most absurd argument he’d ever had. He just
gaped at her.

She sniffed and swished her skirts, moving around him,
heading towards the kitchens once more.

He stepped in front of her. “You shall do it only to vex
me!”

She stared beyond him. “I assure you I do not regard you
enough one way or another to wish to vex you.”

Ouch. That would have hurt if he regarded
her
one way or another. But he didn’t.
She meant nothing to him, other than as a fellow human bent on an idiotic folly.

“Nor do you have any authority over me, so I suggest you
move aside,” she added. She had her chin lifted haughtily, a stubborn gleam in
her eyes. She met his gaze nearly at eye level, refusing to back down. She
attempted to move around him, but he stepped in front of her. She moved the
other way, and he moved with her.

“You’ll not do it,” he said.

She clenched her hands into fists. “It is the principle of
the thing.”

“I hate it when people start speaking of principles. It is
ever so tiresome,” he drawled.

Her shoulders stiffened even more. He watched a mote of ash
land on a strand of hair falling down her neck, black on white. He itched to
reach out and brush the ash away. But he did not. He dared not.

“It is a living creature. It does not deserve to suffer any
more than we do,” she said softly.

“Everything living suffers, and most things die suffering.
In pain or hunger or outrage.”

She looked back at him, a mixture of frustration and
something that looked very much like pity in her eyes. He hated her even more
for it. “Do you really believe that?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Of course. And if you do not, you’re
naïve. There is nothing pleasant about death, and rarely anything pleasant
about living. But that is a digression. The pig was probably destined for
slaughter soon enough. Perhaps we’ll find him later, nice and smoked and juicy,
ready for a feast.”

“You are despicable.” She paused. “I want that pig for a
pet, not for the table.”

“You can’t have a creature like that for a pet.”

“I can, and I will,” she averred with steel in her tone.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” he said, throwing up his hands. She
was not going to give this up. “I’ll go,” he said, regretting the words as soon
as they were out of his mouth. He lowered his hand and spun around. “Stubborn
woman,” he grumbled, stalking towards the kitchen door, which was smoking out
of the top and bottom.

He’d not have her dying on him over a pig. He didn’t like
her – how could he like a woman who threw in her lot with a man like his
uncle? – but he was not entirely a scoundrel. His honor as a gentleman
forbade him from letting her perform suttee like some Hindu fanatic – and
all over a pig. Though he’d not been honorable or a gentleman in any useful way
for years. And he probably wouldn’t be for much longer, considering the flames
shooting out of the upper storeys above him.

But he had no real fear of death. He would prefer it not be
entirely painful, of course – being burned alive was
not
the way he would have chosen to go – but if it had to be
now, then that would be fine by him. He would be sorry to distress Marlowe and
Montford, for those two were the only ones besides his valet who’d miss him,
but they’d understand. He’d never expected to last this long anyway. None of
them had.

Besides, there would be a certain ironic humor in having
died during the rescue of a male pig named Petunia.
 
He hoped the tale was inscribed on his
tombstone.

LADY
KATHERINE had never truly intended to go after the pig. She’d considered it for
a split second before throwing out the idea as nonsensical folly, but then
Sebastian Sherbrook had intercepted her, bullied her, and so provoked her to
anger it would have taken an entire regiment aiming muskets at her head before
she would have backed down. She had realized about halfway through their
argument that at the end of it she’d be marching into a burning castle and
nearly kicked herself for digging in her heels in the pursuit of winning an
argument with Mr. Sherbrook, of all people. The rogue was certainly not worth
it.

But before she could say another word, he was stalking
towards the castle himself. He didn’t even hesitate as he slammed in the door
with his long leg and charged inside, which showed a worrying disregard for his
own person.

She bit her bottom lip and watched the door that he had
entered, her worry turning to full-fledged panic as the minutes passed and he
did not emerge. He couldn’t die, because she would blame herself for the rest
of her life, and that would be
most
unfair of him.

“Where the devil is Sebastian?” the Viscount demanded,
loping up to her side in his strange attire, bedraggled and drenched, a damp
cheroot hanging from his mouth. She’d not expected Marlowe, of all people, to
have organized the servants and raised the alarum. It was most heroic of him,
if a bit useless. The castle was so clearly lost.

“He went inside.” She pointed towards the kitchen door,
which had fallen off its hinges.

The Viscount threw his cheroot down to the ground, his face
paling. “What?”

“He’s gone inside to fetch the pig.”

“The devil you say!”

She winced. Marlowe started forward, then stopped. His face
creased in anguish as he turned back to her. “What have you done? You put him
up to it, didn’t you?”

She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “I did no
such thing. He rushed off, before I could stop him.” It was not entirely the
truth, but it was close enough.

“You’ve no idea what you’ve done! He has no regard for
himself. He’ll walk straight into the flames, if you let him.”

“Surely not!” she scoffed, rather startled by the
fierceness of his tone.

“He is not right!” Marlowe cried. He pointed to his brain
box as if to illustrate his point.

“Whatever do you mean?”

Marlowe looked as if he wanted to shake her or worse, but
with a jerk, he turned away from her, growling like a bear, and started towards
the kitchen door. She followed after him, truly panicking now. Even Marlowe,
the most feckless man in England, was concerned over Sherbrook’s lack of
judgment. That was
not
a good sign.

They both stopped in their tracks as the doorway in front
of them collapsed, flames leaping from the fog of smoke and dust. Marlowe cried
out. So did she. She’d killed The Singlemost Beautiful Man in London! Her heart
sank to her toes, and moisture burned her eyes.

But then a now familiar sound captured her attention behind
her: the high-pitched squeal of a pig throwing a tantrum. She turned with
Marlowe to find Mr. Sherbrook sprinting through the garden, leaping over a wall
in order to evade the pig, which barreled after him, intent on murder. He was
coated in ash from top to toe, coughing into his handkerchief, the only splash
of color left to him his piercing blue eyes. They gleamed like jewels in their
new ebony setting.

He waved to them and flashed a grin in their direction, his
teeth blinding white. “Got your damned pig. Hope you’re happy.”

She heard Marlowe sigh in relief. “Bloody damn fool,” he
muttered, fumbling inside his robe for his cheroot tin. He extracted one from
the tin, went over to the collapsed doorway, and lit it in the smoldering embers,
grumbling to himself.

Katherine had to go and take a seat next to her sister, her
nerves shot.

But the drama was far from over. She spotted Astrid
Honeywell running towards them in her scandalous trousers, her shirt gaping
open at the top. Her fiery hair was speckled with hay and streaming down her
shoulders. She looked, in short, as if she had been rolling in a haystack.

Katherine had thought it only a metaphor – surely the
chit hadn’t
truly
been rolling around
in a haystack – but then she saw the Duke of Montford trailing behind
her. He was missing his jacket, and the ends of his lawn shirt were tucked out
of his breeches. His waistcoat had been buttoned up unevenly, and his hair was
standing up on end. He was also covered in hay.

It did not take much brainpower to deduct that those two had
been rolling around in a haystack
together
.
Which was scandalous. And very interesting.

Things had, apparently, not ended well between the lovers,
however, for when Montford attempted to comfort Miss Honeywell, the chit jerked
her arm away and kicked him in the shin. Then she turned her attention back to
the castle, falling to her knees in the muck, looking devastated.

The Duke looked equally devastated, but he was staring at
Miss Honeywell, not the castle.

For some unfathomable reason, Katherine found herself
glancing at Mr. Sherbrook, who’d made his way to her side with no sign of a pig
in pursuit He was wiping the soot off his face with a lacy handkerchief, to
little effect. When the resources of that bit of fabric were exhausted,
Katherine offered him her handkerchief.

After a moment’s hesitation, he took it.

There was nothing to smile about, but she found herself
giving him a wry grin.
 
She couldn’t
help herself. “Is your life always like this?”

His eyes went wide. The barest ghost of a smile twisted his
beautiful, ash-coated lips, but he didn’t look at her. “Disastrous? Of course.”

“I thought so.”

“I
THINK it’s burning out,” Flora said, half an hour later, touching Astrid’s
shoulder, her face grim and worried. Astrid had been sitting in the mud,
watching the castle burn, oblivious to the rest of the world. Oblivious to him.

Montford stood behind, watching Astrid and feeling
helpless. He could offer her no comfort or do anything to stop the fire. He
suspected she would end up blaming him for everything.

“It hardly matters now,” Astrid murmured. “There’s nothing
left.”