I ignored Lisa and wrapped my arms around Alden, kissing the side of his neck before saying into his ear, “It’s going to be all right, my dumpling.”
His arms tightened around me, his gaze never leaving the shifting pattern of light and smoke as the fire consumed the guts of the house, leaving only a broken, blackened shell. We were far enough back that we had escaped the heat of the flames, but the roar of the fire as it consumed the house was soul-shattering.
“I was just telling Alden that things are not as black as they seem. There are so many things he can do with the insurance money—” Lisa would have continued, but I cut her off with one venomous glance.
“This isn’t about the insurance money,” I told her. “It’s about a lovely old house being destroyed, something that you don’t seem to care about.”
“Of course I care,” she said, exasperation evident in her voice. “I care a great deal. This was Lady Sybilla’s home, if nothing else, and she is devastated, absolutely devastated! But as my mama always told me, there’s no use in crying over spilt kitty litter. You just have to clean it up and move on.”
“Oh . . . go away,” I said, too tired to worry that I was being rude. I tightened my arms around Alden, and breathed in his scent, but it was barely discernible over the smoke.
“There’s no need to be rude, Mercedes Starling,” she said with an exaggerated sniff. “I’m sure Alden understands what I’m saying. Oh dear, there’s Lady Sybilla. I thought Adams was going to keep her in the lodge.”
Alden said nothing during the conversation, just rested his chin on my shoulder, his arms warm and solid around me, and continued to watch the fire.
“Alden?” I whispered near his ear. “Did you have insurance on the house?”
“No.” His voice was flat and emotionless. “I was waiting for the last of my trust money to be released.”
I sighed, and wanted badly to be anywhere but at that spot at that moment. “I kind of figured that must be the case. What do you want me to do?”
At last he glanced away from the fire, a question in his eyes, but one that was tinged with pain. “About what?”
“Your house.”
“I don’t have a house anymore.” His gaze slipped back to the fire. “I have nothing but a bunch of land that is mostly leased out, and the broken remains of my dreams.”
“You have me,” I said softly, stroking my hands up his back. “It turns out you were right, you know.”
“About what?” He looked back to me, and I took the opportunity to move him slightly, so he couldn’t see the fire over my shoulder.
“I am in love with you. I don’t how or why or when that happened, but it did, and now you’re stuck with me, you great big boob, because if you try to dump me, I’m going to be miserable and heartbroken. And you don’t want that on your conscience. You’re too sensitive for that, and I can assure you that the idea that you’d destroyed my one chance at happiness would make you a neurotic mess. More of a neurotic mess than you were when I first met you.”
One side of his mouth twitched. “Are you trying to distract me from the hellish nightmare that is now my life?”
“Yes. Is it working?”
“Yes,” he said, sighing heavily before kissing me. “I’m glad you admit that you love me. Would it make you think less of me if I sat down and cried?”
“Not in the least. Men have just as many emotions as women do—you simply process them a bit differently. Let’s go find somewhere private where you can cry to your heart’s content, and I will hold you and tell you it’ll be all right and that we’ll get through this, and then afterward I will tie your hands to a bed frame and have my way with you in such a manner that you’ll forget about this horrible day for at least a little bit.”
“I accept your offer,” he said gravely, and made no protest when I took his hand and started to lead him down the drive to the gatehouse, our temporary new home.
Lady Sybilla was being assisted into a camping chair by the redoubtable Adams. Both women were dressed, their matching white hair tidy as ever, their faces equally dour.
Alden stopped in front of Lady Sybilla, his fingers tightening on mine as he obviously tried to think of something to say.
Lady Sybilla wasn’t about to wait around for that, however. “Young man,” she said dispassionately, her gaze running over first him, then me, before turning back to the house. “Bestwood Hall has been destroyed.”
“Yes,” Alden said, his shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry. I was in the hospital when it started.”
She was silent for a moment, then made a tching noise. “It always was an abomination. That gatehouse is much more desirable.”
Both Alden and I gawked at her, outright, full-fledged, gob-stopped gawked.
“The hell?” I asked, finally able to speak. “What on earth are you saying? You loved Bestwood Hall!”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” she asked with a sniff.
“You did! In the many times that you refused to leave because you told Alden that it was your late husband’s beloved home.”
She gave a ladylike shrug. “It never was very comfortable to live in. Drafty, very drafty, and inconvenient in the layout. Many is the time I told Adams the whole thing should be pulled down and rebuilt, is that not so, Adams?”
“It is, your ladyship.” Adams’s pinched face grew even more pinchy, a thing I didn’t think was possible. “I’ve always told her ladyship that whoever laid out the house should be hung by his toes, and so I say now. It was a sprawling confusion of a house, and we are much happier at the gatehouse.”
“No,” I told them both, pointing a finger at Lady Sybilla, who opened her eyes wide at both my words and action. “No, you cannot simply do an about-face now. I refuse to let you. You made Alden’s life a nightmare for the last two weeks, and now you’re trying to pretend you wanted to leave all along, and I’m not going to let that pass. Here’s Alden all torn up—his house is destroyed, along with the last few bits of your furniture that were too heavy for us to move—and I know he’s the sort of man who feels responsible for that, despite the fact that he tried for weeks to get you out of there, and had to resort to threats of physically removing you before you finally did.”
“You make no point with that statement,” Lady Sybilla said, dismissing me altogether. “Young man, I will wish to speak to you at your earliest convenience about the rent due to me for the people you have housed in my domicile.”
I did a little more gawking at the apparent balls she had in charging rent for Fenice and Lisa. “The nerve—,” I started to say, but shut up when Alden answered her.
“There is no rent owed to you,” he said firmly. I wanted to applaud him. “The gatehouse is still mine—you only have tenancy in it for your life. If I wish to house guests in it, I will naturally consult you, but in this instance, I consider the situation an emergency, and as such, I will proceed without consulting you.”
Lady Sybilla didn’t like that, but didn’t get a chance to say more, because Alden started forward, taking me with him.
“I still can’t believe this place is called a lodge,” I said five minutes later when we arrived at the gatehouse. It was a red stone building, sitting back off the drive, but near enough that in centuries past, a gatekeeper would dash out and open the gates whenever a carriage (or, later, motorcar) wished to arrive or depart. “This has a tower! A square tower, stuck right there on one end. And gables! Lots of gables. Not to mention the fact that I personally saw four bedrooms when we were moving Lady Sybilla’s stuff in.”
“There are six bedrooms, actually.”
“Six bedrooms is not a lodge. Not even remotely.” I stared up at the pointed gables, and counted the windows. “Lodges are supposed to be small, primitive buildings that men go to in order to get away from their women, drink a lot of booze, and go out and shoot innocent animals
. This is a freaking mansion.”
“Not quite, although I was told it was used as a dower house for many decades.” Alden’s shoulders were definitely slumped as he escorted me into the house and up a lovely oak staircase that split into two arches midway up. We took the right arch, and proceeded down a hallway, with Alden opening doors as he came to them. At last he found a room that wasn’t occupied. He lay down on top of the naked mattress, and covered his eyes with his forearm. “Christ, what a day. And it’s only just started.”
I sat next to him on the bed, one hand on his chest. “It’s been awful, hasn’t it? I meant what I said, you know.”
He moved his arm to look at me. “That you love me? I should hope so.”
“Not that, you toad.” I pinched his side. “I meant that I would do whatever you needed done. To help. Is there someone I can call for you? Insurance agent? Banker?”
“No, but I appreciate the offer.” He rubbed his face, and I thought seriously about molesting him, but decided he might not be in the mood.
“I’ll go find us some sheets and blankets,” I said, getting slowly to my feet. Now that the adrenaline rush of the hospital and the fire was wearing off, I felt like I was a hundred years old and my feet were made of cement. It took me only five minutes to find the linen closet and gather up the necessary items, but when I returned, Alden was sound asleep on the bare mattress.
I stood next to him with my arms full of pillows and sheets, and looked down on his face, at that lovely square chin, and the cheek indents that weren’t quite dimples, and the long, long eyelashes.
“You’re mine,” I told Alden, and covered him up with a soft blanket. “Whether you want it or not. But I’d prefer you want it, which means you need to get down to the business of falling madly in love with me, so we can live together happily, and I won’t have to go back to the U.S. a sad and morbidly depressed person.”
“All right,” Alden mumbled, and rolled over onto his stomach.
I laid a blanket down next to him, and curled myself into it, deciding that although I had about two hours before I was due to start my teaching duties, I couldn’t face the public—assuming the firemen let them into the garden—without a little sleep.
It turned out I was able to sleep five hours before Fenice came to find me.
“Are you awake—oh, lord, you’re at it again?”
“Hrn?” I woke up at the sound of a voice to find that Alden had rolled over until he was halfway on top of me, one leg thrown over mine.
Alden jerked back at the same time, blinking wildly and trying to focus his gaze on the door.
“Oh, it’s you, Fenice. We weren’t doing anything but sleeping,” I told her, stretching and yawning. “What time is it?”
“It’s gone half after eleven. We’re finally being allowed to hold classes, although obviously the remains of the house are off-limits.” She peered at us. “You look like hell, both of you. When did Alden get a black eye?”
“When I dragged him away from certain death.” I yawned again, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. “How many people do I have today, do you know?”
“Just three, but if you are too tired to cope—”
“No, I’ll be fine.” I stretched again. “I just need a little coffee and some food, and I’ll be good to go.”
“I’m glad to hear that, because I was worried you weren’t going to be up to it, and since the Fight Knight is only six days away, we need every man and woman on board. So to speak.”
“You think you can still hold that?” I asked her, unsure of whether it was wise, given the disaster. “Won’t people be put off by the fire?”
“Are you kidding? They’ll think it’s great—can’t you just imagine the pictures? Melee combat in front of the ruins of an Elizabethan house will be pure camera fodder.” She eyed Alden worriedly. “You . . . er . . . you won’t mind us having the event, will you, Alden? It means the world to Vandal and me, and we promise to give you all the proceeds if you’re taking funds for rebuilding. It’s the least we can do.”
“You can hold it,” Alden said tiredly. “It makes no difference to me.”
“We’ll take care of everything, don’t you worry.” She flashed me a low-wattage smile, and beckoned me.
With a glance back at Alden, I followed her out to the hallway.
“I didn’t want to say this in front of Alden, but I heard there was going to be an arson inspector out to look through the ruins once they are cool enough.”
“Arson!” I rubbed my arms. “No, not even Lisa would be crazy enough to burn down an entire house.”
“You think Lisa is responsible for the fire?” Fenice asked, looking askance. “Do you have any proof?”
“No, but I’m positive she’s behind the fall he took in the gallery.” Quickly I explained my theory, adding, “It makes sense when you think of her being up to something in the secret passageways.”
“I thought you didn’t find anything there but lights hung all over?”
“We didn’t, except a chemistry bottle and some trash.”
Fenice looked confused, so I gave her a brief rundown of our sole finds in the secret passageways.
“How very odd. Why would Lisa leave that?”
“I don’t think she did. At least, not intentionally.” I glanced back through the open door to Alden. He hadn’t moved. “To be honest, I think she has a crush on Alden, and is pissed because he chose me over her, and the murder attempt in the gallery was her way of getting back. She must have found the way into the secret passages from Lady Sybilla’s documents, and done some poking around there, even discovering the smugglers’ cave. But there wasn’t anything she could do there. Unless that’s where she started the fire . . . if she did do it. I admit that it might also be a faulty gas line that started the fire, although it’s damned highly suspicious that it started in Alden’s room.”
“Could be. Both the plumbing and wiring are quite old.” Fenice glanced at her watch. “I’d best get a move on. See you in half an hour?”
I nodded, and she left, allowing me to return to Alden. He lay on his back, his face shadowed by beard and sorrow.
“I didn’t dream it, did I?” he asked, staring up at the ceiling. “The house is really gone.”
“I’m afraid so.” I leaned forward to kiss him. “What can I do to make things better?”
“Nothing, unless you have a magical ability to reverse time.” He rubbed at his whiskery chin. “All our things were lost. Your clothes, and whatever else you brought with you. My clothes. My books. All my plans and papers.”
“You still have your laptop, though,” I pointed out. “And I didn’t lose anything but clothes and a few paperbacks. Nothing that can’t be replaced. Oh, Alden, I feel so horrible for you. You have to give me something to do, something that will help you and make you feel better.”
He smiled a faint, sad smile. “I know how you feel. I want to be doing something to fix the situation, too, but there’s nothing I can do. It’s all useless now. I might as well sell the land to the Hairy Tit people, since they, at least, would have some use for it.”
“That’s defeatist talk, right there. I think the first thing to do is to look at the remains—when you can, since I assume it’s probably still unsafe to poke around now—and see if there’s anything to be salvaged. And then maybe talk to the bank about getting a loan to rebuild.”
“Rebuild?” He frowned. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Because it’s your home, and I like it here, and dammit, you made me fall in love with you, and that means the least you can do is provide me with a gorgeous country home on the coast of Cornwall where we can live in peace and raise children and horses and possibly sheep. I like sheep. You can use them in place of lawn mowers. Did I tell you that I did a year of agricultural management?”
He laughed, and pulled
me over his chest, kissing me in a way that lit up all my insides. “No, but I’m not surprised. You’d better get to your waiting pupils before I decide that the best thing for me is incredibly steamy morning sex.”
“Hey, there’s nothing that says I can’t get in a quickie before class.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Who says it will be quick?”
“Oooh.” I leaned down to kiss him, murmuring, “I do love you, you know,” against his lips.
“I know,” he said.
I thought of pinching him and telling him that now was the perfect moment for him to reciprocate, but decided he’d had enough for the last twenty-four hours, and instead took myself off for a fast shower, and a faster breakfast.
Things would get better, I promised myself as I ran down the drive to the blackened burning wreck of what used to be the house. It certainly couldn’t get worse.
Chapter 17
Alden was beginning to feel hunted. Barry Butcher seemed to dog his footsteps for four straight days. No matter where he was, he’d turn around and there was Barry, trying to force on him a sheaf of papers and an offer for the land.
Alden tried hard not to think about Barry’s offer, or the future of the house and land. Not after the bank refused to give him a loan, and his insurance agent regretfully told him that there was nothing they could do without a policy in place.
To be sure, there was the time two days after the fire when Mercy found him sitting on a fallen bit of the north wall, a notebook in hand, idly drawing an outline of what the house used to be, unmanly tears staining his cheeks.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mercy had asked, putting both of her arms around him, and distracting him from the depressing contemplation of the house. Her warmth and love surrounded him, cocooning him in a way that left him breathless with want.
“No,” he said, turning and kissing her. “I don’t want to even think about it.”
Despite that statement, he found himself obsessed with the house. He thought about it when he woke up, his limbs pleasantly entangled with Mercy’s, taking quiet pleasure in her soft snores against his shoulder. He thought about it during the day, when he threw himself wholly into the Hard Day’s Knights’ gearing up for Fight Knight, as well as several additional training sessions with Vandal.
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