Clandestine (36 page)

A loud crash sounded from down the hallway. The house was burning down around them.

From the corner of his eye, Marc saw Jedediah scramble to his feet, dart a glance at the rapidly encroaching fire and run down the stairs.

Leaving his mother to her fate.

Coward.

Coughing from the smoke, Marc crawled back to Ruby and grasped her hands in his, pulling her toward him, ignoring the pain in his wrist, levering Ruby onto his right shoulder.

“Forgive him.” She wept into Marc’s ear as he staggered down the steps. “Forgive me.”

Afterwards, Marc had no distinct memory of how he got out of the burning house. Smoke seared his lungs, blurring his vision. Ruby must have passed out. But somehow, he kept putting one foot in front of the other, staggering across the smoke-filled great hall and through the front door.

Fresh air wrapped around him. He felt hands grabbing him, lifting Ruby away. Cold water splashed his face and soothed his raspy throat as he collapsed on the ground.

Wiping the smoke out his eyes with his good hand, Marc gulped in air, coughing uncontrollably. Someone placed a cup of much-needed water into his fingers. He lay on the ground, alternating between spasmodic coughing and sipping water.

After a length of time, the coughing subsided somewhat, and he managed to push himself upright.

He was sitting on the lawn, well back from the front of the house. Flames leapt from the upstairs windows, particularly fierce along the right of the house where the family wing had been. Though by now, fire engulfed nearly the entire structure. Smoke rose as one enormous plume into the sky that could probably be seen in Hereford itself.

It was quite the magnificent sight. He almost wished he could take some video of it for James and Emme.

Kit stood with Marianne and the baby across the lawn to his left, well back from the building. Tears streamed down Marianne’s face as she clutched tiny Isabel to her chest, unconsciously rocking and soothing the baby. Kit offering comfort.

Kit turned her head, seeing him. Relief washed over her face and she turned away from Marianne, intent on coming to him.

But Marc stayed her with a wave of his hand, coughing again. He was fine. Well, as fine as he could hope to be. And there were others, like Marianne, who could use Kit’s help.

Understanding his meaning, she nodded and then, with a wink, blew him a kiss. The darling minx.

His heart swelled, pounding in his chest. Heavens how he adored her.

He blew a kiss right back.

Man, anyone who knew him at
all
would mock him about now. Blowing kisses like some love-sick puppy.

But it wasn’t the potential embarrassment that startled him.

It was the fact that he
liked
blowing kisses to Kit. He wanted to blow more kisses to her. He wanted to give her
actual
kisses.

Wow.

He was in so deep.

Part of him was desperate for her to make a decision, so he knew what his future would be. Part of him wanted to remain in this limbo, avoiding the situation all together.

Would she join Daniel at the Golden Rose Inn on Tuesday? Could Marc leave her there with her brother and ride away?

The thought left him breathless, hands shaking.

Which kicked off another painful coughing fit.

After several minutes of uncontrolled hacking, he managed to drink enough water to sooth his throat for a moment. His wrist throbbed from the motion. Marc tested it, pressing gently on the bones. No tenderness, thank goodness, which meant no broken bones.

But when he tried to move it in circles, pain shot up his arm. Definitely sprained. He wouldn’t be punching anyone again anytime soon.

His soot-smeared cravat was still damp around his neck. Gingerly untying it, Marc used the long length of cloth to bind his wrist, immobilizing it as best he could.

Aside from singed clothing and smoke-seared lungs, he seemed to be okay.

He lifted his head back to the burning building.

Every able-bodied man—including Arthur and Linwood—stood in lines before the house, passing buckets of water along to toss on the flames.

A decidedly futile effort. Even a host of modern fire engines could do nothing to save the building now.

Arthur seemed to realize this and stepped out of the line, shaking his head in defeat, recognizing that the entire front facade could collapse at any time. He waved everyone back from the engulfed house. Giving up the structure for lost.

Arthur walked to Kit and Marianne, gathering his wife and child in his arms. Marianne instantly sank into her husband’s embrace.

Linwood moved toward them and then paused. Arthur, Marianne and little Isabel did make a touching tableau, and Linwood seemed hesitant to interrupt. Instead, he changed direction and, casting a lingering glance at his sister and her husband, the viscount strode across the grass, coming toward Marc himself.

Suddenly, the roof over the great hall collapsed with a gigantic crash, glass shattering. Shrieks of horror spread throughout the gathered crowd. Even Linwood flinched.

So that was that then. The house really was done for.

Marc turned his head to his right, noting that Ruby lay only a few yards away, tended by the housekeeper. Grunting to his feet, he winced his way over to them.

So maybe he needed to add sore muscles to his list of aches.

Collapsing on the ground next to them, Marc hissed when he got a good look at Ruby.

Her face was battered and bruised, one eye nearly swollen shut. With a damp rag, the housekeeper was gently wiping away the blood and soot.

Linwood came up to them with a nod, crouching beside Ruby. Looking between the two men, the housekeeper excused herself, saying she would see if the doctor had arrived yet.

Alone with Linwood, Ruby turned to Marc, fixing him with her one good eye.

“Jed?” she croaked and then coughed, turning involuntarily onto her side.

Linwood patted her back, the viscount somehow looking none-the-worse-for-wear. Hardly a hair was out of place on his head. It was almost uncanny how mayhem never seemed to touch him.

“I don’t know where he ended up,” Marc coughed, his voice just as gravelly as hers.

Linwood grunted in disapproval. “What happened?”

Ruby waived a hand, as if to dismiss the question as irrelevant, still coughing.

“Please don’t bother to dissemble, Lady Ruby,” Marc continued. “I know that Jedediah was working as a spy for the French. And that you have long been a secret agent for the British government. In fact, you stopped sending information to your liaison a month or two ago. Everyone has been trying to find you.”

Linwood fixed Marc with a decidedly surprised look over Ruby’s head. Marc shrugged, like it was all in a day’s work.

All the bravado eased from Ruby, her eyes fluttering closed.

“I thought I could stop him,” she whispered. “I knew that someone kept betraying us to the French. Someone close to the Home Office, giving them access to our secrets. But it took me a while to understand the covert agent lived under my own roof. I had to come to Marfield, leaving everything and everyone else behind, before I finally realized it had been Jedediah all along.”

“Why? Why would he turn spy for the French?”

Ruby lifted a shoulder. “Debts? A chance to prove himself? Who can say. He came upon me earlier as I was writing a letter to a contact in Bath. Confronted me. Beat . . . me. He tried to kill me . . . his own mother . . .” Her voice trailed off in a whisper.

A tear escaped the side of her eye. Marc could only imagine what such an admission cost her strong pride.

“Only the worst of cads would do such a thing,” Linwood said, lowly, taut with anger.

Well, what do you know?

He and Linwood had
finally
found a topic on which they could agree.

Ruby nodded and gave a gasp. She fought for control, swallowing back tears.

After a moment, she opened her undamaged eye and fixed it on them. “He started the fire as a way to cover his tracks. He intended to kill me and then make it look like an accident. But the fire spread too fast. I managed to hit him and crawl away. But he caught up with me. If you had not arrived, Lord Vader . . .” Her voice trailed off. She swallowed and then coughed again.

Linwood nodded his head. Decisive. “If he escaped that inferno, I promise he will be apprehended and . . . dealt with. I will personally ensure that no lingering dishonor touches your family over one traitor’s decision.”

Marc lifted his head and cocked a brow at the viscount. Linwood would be true to his word.

Ruby relaxed, closing her eye again as the housekeeper hurried up to them, the doctor in tow.

Seeing there was nothing more for him to do, Marc wandered toward where Marianne and Arthur stood, watching the burning house. It would likely burn for a while. Arthur still had his arms wrapped around his petite wife and child, stroking Marianne’s back soothingly.

It was a touching scene of love and support. Despite tendencies toward self-importance, Arthur Knight was a kind husband and a doting father. The kind of man who matured into a pillar of strength. No matter how hard the going, Marc sensed Arthur and Marianne would walk through it hand-in-hand.

And in that instant, Marc wanted that scene for himself. He wanted to be holding Kit, comforting her, secure in the knowledge that no matter the problem, they would face it together as a team. That her laugh and wit and the sheer delight of her would always be at his side.

He was desperate to see her. To hold her. She had left Marianne to Arthur’s care and was now probably helping comfort someone else. Capable. Strong.

He scoured the assembled throng of people, all watching the house burn. Footmen, grooms, gardeners, maids . . . but no Kit.

Perplexed, he threaded his way through the crowd until he spotted Fanny, the only maid he knew by name.

Grabbing hold of her arm, he caught her attention.

“Have you seen Miss Ashton?” His voice still scratchy and rough.

“Miss Ashton? I do believe she was just here.” Fanny glanced about with him, trying to see through the crowd. “Well, she
was
just here,” Fanny repeated. “Gilbert, have you seen Miss Ashton?”

One of the footman turned his head. “Miss Ashton? I saw her leave with Mr. Jedediah a short while ago. Headed down the lane they were, probably off to arrange more help in Marfield.”

Marc had heard the phrase ‘my blood runs cold’ often enough. But he had never actually experienced it.

The sensation felt rather like . . . one’s insides turning to ice.

Go figure.

The panic that washed in
behind
the terror was no better. Tasting of fire and ash.

Kit
had
just been here.

Except, suddenly, she wasn’t.

Chapter 23

M
arc took off at a run down the lane. His lungs burned in his chest, hurting worse than the most vigorous workout he could ever remember. His wrist throbbed.

But he pushed himself through it. Numb. Terrified.

If something happened to Kit . . .

Nausea crept in at the thought.

After a few minutes of running, Marc had to slow down. His poor overworked lungs couldn’t handle any more abuse. His throat on fire. Coughing wracked him.

Coughing which wasn’t going to help him sneak up on Jedediah unawares.

Why hadn’t he thought to bring some water with him?

Oh, that’s right. Because he was stuck in 1814, and water bottles wouldn’t be invented for probably a good hundred years. Granted, if he had been thinking, he probably could have found a canteen . . . or, at the very least, a bucket.

After struggling for a few seconds, he managed to quiet his cough, but the sensation tickled almost unbearably at the back of his throat.

Walking as quickly as he could up the lane, Marc scoured the trees and sides of the road for any sign of Jedediah or Kit, fighting to hold his coughing to an occasional quiet burst of air. Spring was just starting to creep into the forest, lending the trees a suggestion of leaves. The lack of foliage made it easier to spot an attacker. But it also made Marc a more visible target.

Nothing.

He carefully peeked around the sharp curve in the lane where he had first met Kit.

Nothing.

He continued on, crossed over the bridge, pausing every twenty feet or so to listen. But he heard only the birds in the bare trees, chirping cheerfully.

Still nothing.

But drawing near the lane which curved off to Duir Cottage, something glinted in the middle of the road. Small and silver. Rushing up to it, Marc picked up Kit’s rape alarm.

No!

And then, a faint noise caught his attention.

It wasn’t much. Just the sound of scuffling, the muffled cry of a woman.

Kit.

Marc clutched the alarm in his good hand and darted up the lane toward the cottage, staying low, eyes alert and scanning.

He could see nothing out of the ordinary and, each time he stopped, he heard nothing more. The tickle in his throat caught up with him, and he had to pause for a second, leaning against the trunk of a tree, stifling a coughing fit with the sleeve of his coat.