The floor was hot, even through the folded blanket. Beyond the curtain of smoke, she could see nothing but the faint circle of the moon outside the window across the room. She scrambled to her feet.
Behind her was complete chaos—people shouting and screaming, the thunder of a huge blaze, and pounding feet running by in the hall. Off in the distance, the fire wagon clanged as it raced up the street and church bells rang, calling all able-bodied men to help put out the blaze. She could just make out the bed, and saw that it had not been slept in. Katherine and Agnes must not have returned yet.
The floor beneath her shoes was so hot, she had to scamper about to keep from burning the soles of her feet. It was then she saw the flames licking under the door of the chamber, like the tongue of a serpent, searching for prey.
Coughing, Sophie held her skirt to her nose, trying to block out the fumes while tears ran down her cheeks. She dashed for the beckoning moon, stumbling over trunks and small pieces of furniture, falling to her hands and knees and burning her palms on the hot floor. Something gave way behind her. She dared not look back as a hot wind blew her dress up around her waist and scorched the back of her neck. She scrambled to her feet and flung herself toward the window.
Gasping and half-blind, Sophie felt in the darkness for anything at hand with which to break the glass. She knocked over a hot metal candlestick, and caught it before it rolled out of reach. Then she rose up and bashed out the window panes, closing her eyes tightly against the rain of glass that splintered beneath her blows. She thought fresh air would have flowed in to revive her, but instead hot air blew outward, sucking away what little air remained in the room.
Sputtering, Sophie climbed onto the windowsill, slicing her hand on a shard of glass still hanging from the battered mullions. She ignored the stab of pain. Below her, the drop was at least fifteen feet, but she knew she had to jump. The heat behind her raged, wafting through her hair and blowing her tattered gown around her legs. A crowd had assembled in the street below, but all she could make out were the white ovals of their faces against the darkness of their winter clothes. While she teetered on the ledge, a man yelled for her to jump.
“Jump! Jump, dammit!”
She jumped, her skirts whipping up around her shoulders, her heart leaping with terror for the impact to come. Before she could form a second thought, she plowed into something firm—the arms and chest of a man—not the hard cobblestones she had expected to hit. The impact knocked the wind out of her, and she fell out of the man’s arms into the slush upon the road, which felt wonderful on her hot skin.
“Are you all right?” she heard a familiar male voice inquire. “Miss Hinds, are you all right?”
A dark shape loomed over her. She tried to focus her stinging, watering eyes on the features of the man that had broken her fall, but he was backlit by the roaring furnace behind him, and all she could see was the outline of his hat and a set of wide shoulders.
She tried to reply that she was unhurt and that she wasn’t Miss Hinds, but the words wouldn’t form on her lips. In fact, all sensation flowed from her limbs, as if her life force was draining away into the snow. Was she wounded and bleeding to death? Before she could find an answer to her question, all went black and quiet.
“Is she dead?” Puckett gasped as Ramsay carried the limp form of Miss Hinds toward the carriage. Ramsay strode to the vehicle, surprised at the feather-like weight of the woman in his arms. When she’d slammed into him a few moments ago, she’d felt like a cannon ball.
“No. Open the door, Puckett.”
“Of course.” His secretary scrambled to comply and watched in concern as Ramsay gently deposited Miss Hinds on the seat of the coach.
Ramsay reached for the lap robe and drew it over the young woman’s slight figure. Miss Hinds was barely recognizable as an heiress from Santo Domingo whom he’d met the previous afternoon, albeit through her dressing screen. Her hair was singed, her face was covered with soot and her dress hung in dirty tatters. Blood ran across her palm and down her fingers. “I think she has merely fainted.”
“Shall I tell Charles to take her to hospital?”
“And have her contract a fever there?” Ramsay shook his head. “I’m taking her to the townhouse.”
“The townhouse?”
“She’ll receive better care there. Far better care.”
“But her reputation, sir—”
“We’ll inform the innkeeper tomorrow of her whereabouts, as soon as the worst is over. And with Betty at the house, all will be proper.” He sat on the same seat as the heiress, his thigh pressed along her shin while he pulled a clean handkerchief from the cuff of his frock coat. “Tell Charles to drive on.”
Puckett carried out his orders while Ramsay lifted Miss Hinds’ wounded hand. Carefully, he wrapped the soft cotton cloth around her palm and tied the ends, hoping to stop the trickle of blood from the gash on the soft mound of her thumb. She moaned, and he inspected her for further signs of trauma while Puckett climbed into the carriage.
“No broken bones?” his secretary asked.
“I don’t think so. But we’ll have Dr. Pimm examine her as soon as we get back.”
“Lucky girl,” Puckett remarked, adjusting the cravat at his scrawny neck. “Looks like she might be the only survivor from the upper levels.” He nodded at the sight behind his master. “Look at it, Captain. The inn is going up like kindling.”
As the coach rolled away, Ramsay looked over his shoulder at the Queen & Cross, one of the few wooden structures to have survived the Great Fire decades before. Now its old timbers were finally succumbing to the inevitable onslaught, roaring toward oblivion, throwing a thunder of flames and sparks into the inky sky. There was nothing the townspeople could do to save it, and no amount of water great enough to douse that blaze.
“She’ll owe you a favor, now, sir,” Puckett added after a moment. “Not an entirely unwelcome position.”
“My thoughts exactly, Mr. Puckett.”
Sometime just before dawn, Sophie awakened to find herself in a clean bed in a small plain chamber she’d never seen before. The remains of a fire glowed in the grate of a little fireplace across the room, and near it sat an old woman in a wing back chair. She was attired in a black dress and knitted shawl, gloves, and a white cap with the ribbon ties trailing over her ample breasts.
Sophie angled herself up on one elbow, and her body protested with a cry of sore muscles and bruised flesh. She looked down at herself and found someone had dressed her in a white cotton night rail even though her skin was still cloudy with soot. One hand bore a bandage and the flesh on both her palms was tender with burns. It was then she remembered the terror of the past evening and her leap from the Queen & Cross. Who had broken her fall? Where was she? In prison?
The room where she lay was severe enough to be a prison cell, but had she really been in prison, she wouldn’t have been afforded a fire and a change of clothes without first bribing a gaoler. Since she hadn’t a farthing in her possession, she knew she couldn’t be partaking of purchased comfort in a gaol cell. So where was she?
Perplexed, Sophie slowly drew her legs up and slipped them out from under the bedclothes. Wherever she was, she knew it would be too dangerous to remain a moment longer, however wonderful the prospect of sleeping a few more hours. Though she might not be in a prison, she would surely become a prisoner once the household woke up and discovered who she was. Wincing, Sophie stood upon her tender feet. She took a careful step, but the floor beneath her squeaked loudly, betraying her.
She glanced at the old woman in the chair, and to her dismay saw the woman’s eyes flutter open.
Sophie stopped in her tracks.
Chapter 4
“Miss Hinds!” the woman exclaimed, struggling out of the chair. “You’re awake!”
Sophie stared at her, confused. Miss Hinds? The old woman must mistake her for her foul-natured mistress. In fact, the man who had broken her fall last night had called her by the same nam
e as well. Her initial fright gave way to temporary relief that no one seemed to recognize her for whom she really was. Sophie had no recourse but to take advantage of their ignorance until she found a way to leave.
She sank against the high mattress of the bed, taking most of the weight off her tender feet. “And you are?”
“Mrs. Betrus. I’m the housekeeper.” The old woman edged forward, her head cocked to one side, a ribbon dangling in the air. “Are you all right, miss?”
“I shall be, thank you.”
“Do you need something? To relieve yourself?”
“No, no, I was just confused. I’m afraid I don’t know where I am.”
“And why should you? Poor dear! You’ve had a horrible experience.” She reached out and gently touched Sophie’s elbow. “Get yourself back into bed and I will fetch you something to drink.” She urged Sophie back into the bed. “The doctor said you should take as much liquids as possible.”
“The doctor?”
“Dr. Pimm. He examined you last night.”
Sophie looked up in shock, worried that he might have seen the telltale scratch on her arm. “A doctor examined me?”
“It was nothing at all compromising. He just checked for broken bones and looked at your hand.”
Sophie didn’t remember a thing about it. What else had happened? “I don’t recall it at all.”
“It’s no surprise you can’t remember, dear. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I just don’t remember—” Her voice drifted off into vagueness as Mrs. Betrus gently adjusted the bedclothes around her.
“Don’t worry. It will all come back to you. Meanwhile, you must rest and recover, dear.” She gave her a warm smile and patted her hand. Sophie’s throat constricted with emotion at the housekeeper’s touch. She could not remember the last time someone had looked at her with loving kindness in their eyes and spoke to her in such a gentle tone. “I’ll get that drink for you, and then we’ll see about a bath and breakfast.”
“Thank you,” she stammered.
Through bleary eyes Sophie watched the housekeeper leave the room and realized she still didn’t know to whose home she had been brought. No matter. She would soon be gone anyway, as soon as she found her clothes and a route out of the house.
Sophie dropped to her feet again and tip-toed across the room, avoiding the squeaky plank and ignoring the pain whenever she moved. She crept to the single window near the corner of the bed and drew back the curtain with her uninjured hand. Cold air brushed her cheeks, reminding her of how frozen she’d been for the last few days. Snow fell outside the windowpanes, promising even more discomfort should she leave this room and this house. She looked down, once again trapped two levels up from what looked like a fashionable street. If she leapt from the window this time, there would be no one to break her fall. She might even break a leg. Then how would she get on?
No, she must find another way to leave this place. But how and when? And in what? Certainly not in bare feet and the nearly transparent night dress she’d been given. She had to find her clothes before she went anywhere, especially since one of her pockets held the diamond buckle torn from the murdered man’s breeches.
Sophie glanced around the room, dimly illuminated by the yellow glow of the fire, and wondered where her belongings might be. There was the wing back chair, a chest of drawers, the bed, a night table, and a tall wardrobe near the door. Perhaps her dress and shoes had been put away in the wardrobe. She crossed the bare floor, determined to find her things. When she opened the doors of the wardrobe, however, she was dismayed to discover the shelves were completely full of books.
She was still standing there, staring at the books, when she heard the baritone voice of a man just outside the door say, “I’ll take it in to her, Betty.”
Sophie swiftly closed the wardrobe and stepped back, just as the chamber door opened, and she came face to face with the tall, dark-haired man who had crossed her path more than once since she’d arrived in London.
Ian Ramsay was attired in riding boots, dark brown breeches and a waistcoat of fustian, under which he wore a finely-made shirt of holland, topped with a simple solitaire neck cloth. He was very tall—his shoulders were level with the top of Sophie’s head, and his shoulders were very wide when compared to the span of a doorway.
Face to face with him, Sophie was struck by the strength and authority radiating from his height and his posture. For the first time in her life, she felt her breasts tighten in response to raw male energy. With it, a curl of sexual awareness uncoiled deep within her, startling her, and she would have stepped away, but for the fact that she couldn’t move. Her breasts seemed to rise toward the wall of his chest that loomed less than two feet away—far too close for her to ignore.
With a rush of embarrassment, Sophie realized what she must look like to him, standing there in the thin night rail, her back to the fire, and the silhouette of her entire body plainly visible through the cotton gauze.
Flustered, she glanced up at his face, to see if he had noticed the strong reaction he’d caused in her. Above the black neck cloth at his throat, his lean face was stark and stern, accentuated by the firm set of his wide mouth and the flare of his freshly-scraped jaw. It was then Sophie saw the flush on his cheeks and the smoldering lights in his black eyes as he remained where he was without saying a word, staring down at her.
It was obvious he’d noticed her breasts. She knew that he was as acutely aware of her presence as she was of his, as frozen in place as she, and that only the barest stricture of convention kept them from leaping into each other’s arms and tangling together like two rutting animals. Sophie knew all this for a certainty, though she had never kissed a man in her life. She just knew it about Ian Ramsay.
Her heart pounded in her neck with the shocking truth of her attraction to him, and she saw his glance flick downward to the place her pulse throbbed, as if he read her thoughts. The prospect that he might guess what she was thinking only aroused her more.
She raised her gaze back to his. “Captain Ramsay?” she breathed, her voice cracking.
He swallowed. She saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall above the silk of his tie.
“At your service.” His voice was gruff, strained. He continued to stare at her and then broke off to glance at the goblet he held in his right hand, as if suddenly remembering it was there. He thrust it toward her, apparently to ward off the effect she had upon him.
“For your health,” he added. “The doctor said—”
He broke off, recognizing words were unnecessary between them. She filled the broken silence by reaching for the goblet.
“Thank you.” She took the glass in both hands and lowered her arms in such a way as to shield her breasts from view, although she realized immediately the effort wasn’t necessary. Ramsay had already averted his intense gaze and had slipped past her, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Pardon my unspeakable manners,” he said, not looking at her. From the back, the cut of his waistcoat made his shoulders seem even wider than before. This was the man who had caught her when she jumped, the man who had hovered above her as she lay overcome by the smoke and flames of the fire, asking if she were all right. This was the same man who had not betrayed her to Constable Keener. She owed him more than mere thanks and would certainly forgive him for staring. “My housekeeper told me you were safely tucked into bed.”
“I was a moment ago.” Thirsty, she sucked down the watered wine, closing her eyes as she did so. When she opened them, she was surprised to find Ramsay studying her face again. Instantly, he glanced away to the fire.
“My house is yours, Miss Hinds, for as long as your recovery requires.”
“Thank you, and I thank you for rescuing me, too—but I really can’t stay.”
“It will be all that is proper,” he added, “Barring this slight incident of course. I have a housekeeper to serve as a chaperone until we can locate your female companions. And I promise never to
enter this room again without knocking.”
He looked back and gave her a slight wry smile.
She couldn’t help but smile back. “You are kind, sir, but I am not overly injured. I don’t need to stay.”
“Brave words, miss, but I’ve seen the burns on your hands and feet and the cut upon your palm. The doctor’s advice was that you stay off your feet for at least a couple of days.”
She knew she wouldn’t talk him out of helping her, and if the truth were told, she didn’t want to talk him out of it—at least not until she had a bath and a warm meal. Apparently, Ramsay didn’t recognize her as the woman who had hidden in the shadows of his carriage the previous evening. He, like his housekeeper, thought she was someone entirely different. For the time being, she would accept his offer of service and pray that he didn’t learn the truth before she’d made her escape.
“I will send a dispatch to your grandmother as soon as possible this morning, informing her that you are safe and have arrived.”
Her grandmother? Katherine’s grandmother. Sophie wondered if Lady Auliffe would be even more foul-tempered than her granddaughter. She sipped the last of the weak wine. “Thank you.”
“Do you know if she is traveling by sea or land?”
“I’m not certain.”
“The weather must have detained her.”
“Yes. It must have.” Her voice quavered. She had never been good at telling lies, had never desired to learn the art of deception. She was certain he noticed her faltering reply, for he turned and leveled his gaze at her again.
“You are so different from my first perception of you, Miss Hinds.”
“Oh?”
“In fact, I find it quite remarkable.”
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