He envisioned Serena trapped within, pounding on the inside of that locked door. The vision sent more panic tearing through his veins.
Flinging his coat aside, he ran to the side of the house and spied a window that had not been boarded up after Ravenna’s departure. Thankful for the oversight, he kicked the glass in.
He ducked through the opening, only to be brought to his knees by smoke thicker than London fog at its worst. He could see nothing before him as he crawled deeper into the orange-flamed inferno.
“Serena!” He heard no response. “Answer me!”
Lucien took a deep breath, then realized his mistake as the dense smoke invaded his lungs. His body protested, racked with coughs. Could Serena breathe . . . or had she ceased to do so?
“Serena!” he yelled. “Whimper or cough. Anything. Tell me where you are.”
Again, cloying, smoky silence prevailed. Fear screamed across his skin, in his veins. He crawled further ahead, noticing the visibility improved closer to the floor. As he moved across the wooden surface, heat pelted him from every direction, the thick, unbreathable air ravaging his lungs.
He shouted her name again. And received no answer.
On hands and knees, Lucien made his way forward, close to the front door. He willed away the dizziness, the black closing in at the edges of his vision.
A few feet away from the door, he encountered a foreign object. Squinting to see through the smoke, he saw a soot-smudged hand. Not just any hand—Serena’s hand, wearing his diamond wedding ring.
With a joyous cry, he reached for her, curling his fingers around her arm, then her waist, glad just to touch her, to feel the warmth of her body. But she didn’t respond at all. Straining with effort, he pulled her dead weight into his arms and stood, tugging Serena up beside him.
Smoke curling its way down his lungs insidiously, Lucien ducked his head, then darted toward the smashed window.
He stumbled over the leg of a chair and tumbled to the hard floor. His injured knee ached from the jarring contact as he skidded across the ground, Serena landing on her side above him. She laid limp and lifeless, just beyond his grasp.
Grunting, he hauled himself to his feet and lifted her again. Ahead, he could see the afternoon sunlight beaming through the open window, penetrating the smoke. Like a ship’s captain on a foggy night, he ran, following the beacon to safe harbor.
Finally, he stepped through the window frame. A jagged edge of glass sliced his arm. Grimacing, he held Serena tighter, angling her legs away from harm.
Beyond the confines of the blazing walls, Lucien deposited Serena gently on the grass. Her usually honey skin looked a macabre mixture of bloodless white and sooty black. Her mourning dress, torn and smudged, displayed a lace collar nearly as dark as the muslin of her bodice. With shaking hands, he smoothed the blackened hair away from her face. He encountered dampness and jerked away to find his fingers wet with Serena’s blood.
Panic serrated his insides like a knife, slashing at his composure. Trying to force panic aside, he bowed his head to her face, listening for any trace she still breathed . . . still lived.
Servants rushed to his side, staring at their fallen mistress. He shut out the noise and turmoil.
A moment later, he felt a whisper-light but nevertheless existent rush of air from Serena’s open mouth to his cheek.
With a warm shower of relief, he scooped her up again and carried her into the house. “Holford,” he yelled in the entrance hall. “Send one of the stable lads after Doctor Thompson. Now!”
Clutching Serena in his arms, Lucien struggled up the stairs, cursing his limp with each step. Vaguely, he heard Mildred and Caffey behind him, talking in frightened whispers of herbal medicines.
At the top of the landing, he swerved toward his bedroom, then rested Serena’s inert form on his bed, the one in which he had first made love to her. He refused to believe she would die on this bed, too.
“Damn it, live,” he whispered to her unresponsive face. “You cannot die on me, not now.”
Caffey rushed forward to remove to help him remove Serena’s soiled clothing, while Mildred sponged her face and arms of soot. Lucien’s apprehensive gaze never left his wife’s face. He pushed back the bitter fear that he would lose Serena to the specter of death, as he had lost Chelsea.
Damn it, he couldn’t let her die. He must beat death at its own game. Then, he vowed to spend his every waking moment by her side; post a hundred guards in the house, whatever required to ensure her safety.
If Serena died, Lucien vowed Alastair would pay the ultimate price—slowly, painfully, at his hands.
****
Doctor Thompson arrived after the longest hour of waiting Lucien had ever endured. He refused to leave the room during Serena’s examination. Instead, he stayed close, hovering near Serena from a nearby Sheraton chair.
“Will she live?” he asked, fingers locked together.
The doctor paused in his examination, his gray mutton whiskers moving as he frowned. “I cannot rightly say yet. The damage to her lungs may be extensive.”
Lucien grabbed the doctor’s sleeve. “What does that mean?”
Thompson shrugged. “It means I cannot speculate on her condition now.”
With curse, Lucien sank back in his chair and watched the doctor stem the flow of blood at the back of Serena’s head. “Have you any notion how the bleeding started?”
Thompson nodded. “She’s been struck, I believe. A knot of swelling surrounds the wound.”
He vowed then to see Alastair swinging from Tyburn.
Lucien swallowed as another thought, one forgotten in his panic, returned. “Doctor, my wife is with child. If she lives, will she miscarry?”
Thompson whirled about, brows raised in surprise. Lucien delivered him a hard stare. The doctor wiped away the questions looming in his expression. “Again, it is far too early to tell, my lord. But an injury of this nature may be harmful to the babe, indeed.”
On second thought, he’d have Alastair drawn and quartered.
The doctor put away his bottles and equipment, then turned to Lucien. “I can do nothing more now. If her condition takes a turn for the worse, call upon me. In the meantime, I suggest plenty of bed rest. I’ve left a bottle of laudanum here to ensure just that. If she awakens and requests food, keep her on a lowering diet—you know, fruit, soups, fish, no animal meats. Keep her away from coffee, tea and alcohol. Such heating foods after a shock like this can be damaging to the body.”
Nodding distantly, Lucien heard the doctor leave, but his gaze lingered on Serena’s sleeping form. Even in repose she coughed, and with each of the spasms that ripped through her chest, Lucien feared further injury would overtake her.
Gripping his hands around the arms of his chair, he stared at the ethereal beauty of her fine-boned face, delicate shoulders, and graceful, long-fingered hands.
He might lose her. Forever.
For reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely, he found himself thinking that if she died, a piece of him would wither away and die with her. He recognized that awakening part of him as the ability to care. And it scared the hell out of him.
****
For the next three days, Lucien barely left Serena’s side. She remained tucked in his bed, two armed guards standing diligently in the hallway. If Lucien slept at all, he did so in her bedroom, with the door between them open—and the fervent, increasingly desperate hope that she would wake.
The day following the fire, Caffey had found the anonymous note that led Serena to the fire. Damn, how he wished she had trusted him enough to tell him of the missive. But he’d been so angry about her deception, that she doubtless felt he would not care or could not be trusted.
If she lived, she would never feel that uncertainty again, he vowed. They would reside in civility, without acrimony for a past that could not be altered. Lucien doubted he would ever be able to trust her completely, nor had he any intent to give her his heart, but they would no
longer be wedded enemies.
On day four, he sent for Doctor Thompson, who, after another examination, proclaimed that Serena would indeed live. He also declared that her “delicate condition” was not in jeopardy. But, as for when Lady Daneridge would awaken . . . he could not comment.
On the fifth day, Lucien woke in the Sheraton chair by Serena’s bedside. A quick glance confirmed no change had occurred overnight, and he began to wonder if she would ever awaken. For the first time since Chelsea’s death, Lucien sank to the carpet on his knees and prayed.
As if divinely inspired, as if God had truly been listening to his prayers for once, Serena moaned and rolled toward him. Lucien sprang up from the floor and hovered over her. He clutched her salved and bandaged hand between his.
Pushing her hair from her cheeks, he said, “Serena, wake up. Open your eyes.”
An instant later, her brown lashes lifted to reveal her blue eyes, sleepy and confused.
“Where am I?” she croaked, her voice hoarse.
Relief crashed through him as he stroked her hand. “In my bedroom. How do you feel?”
She frowned. “As if I’ve been beaten.”
Lucien stroked his palm across her forehead. “Breathe in and tell me how your lungs feel.”
She did so and a coughing spell seized her. Once recovered, she answered, “Burned. It hurts.”
“But you can breathe fairly well. That is a good sign.” He rubbed his thumb along her forearm.
The skin beneath his touch was the only part of her that wasn’t filled with pain. “What happened?”
“Tell me the last thing you remember,” he said.
Caffey delivering calling cards while she was in her bath. Lady Bessborough and her grandmother were supposed to call and— “A note,” she blurted, her voice gaining strength. “I received a note instructing me to go to the summer house if I wanted to know more about Cyrus’s death.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Who signed it?”
Serena thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No one. It was anonymous.”
“And you chose not to tell me about it?” His expression went tight with anger.
She coughed again, then cleared her throat. “I . . . The note said to go alone. Its writer said he feared for his life. I felt certain that if I told you, you would demand to go.” She paused. “Where did you come by those cuts on your face?”
He stared at her. Serena noticed the exhaustion and anxiety etched around his eyes and mouth, along with a puzzling collection of cuts, scrapes and bruises.
“Sweetheart, do you remember the fire?” he asked.
She didn’t recall anything of the sort. With his various scratches and contusions, he looked as if he had been caught in it. Had she? Confused, she shook her head.
“What do you last remember?” he prompted.
She hesitated. “I went to the summer house. The door was ajar.” She coughed. “I went inside to look for the person who had written the note, but didn’t see anyone about.” Her eyes widened with remembrance as she said, “Then I heard something behind me and I tried to turn, but...my head hurt. Back here.” She lifted her fingers to her wound, wincing when she touched it.
Quickly, Lucien pulled her hand back into his. “Alastair or one of his henchmen hit you, then locked you in the summer house while you were unconscious. They set the building on fire.”
Serena gasped, then succumbed to another coughing fit. Once recovered, she asked, “How did I get out?”
She fixed her gaze on his familiar, now battered features. Again she noted the small cuts slashed across one cheek, visible even through several days’ growth of beard. A glance down told her his hands were bruised, covered with small scabs and painful-looking blisters. Reality dawned. “You saved me?”
“Holford thought you might be inside.”
Her mouth fell open. “You went into a burning building on the chance I might be there?” Bewilderment tinged her voice. “Why?”
Lucien glanced away, leaving Serena to realize he would not expound on the event or his heroics, but the fact that he’d risked himself to save her flooded her with warmth. But she dropped the subject for now. “You’re sure Alastair set the building aflame?”
“Who else would do this?”
She nodded. “He’s serious about killing me.”
Grimly, Lucien nodded. “Until he is caught, I want you to spend your mornings, afternoons, and evenings with me. If I cannot be with you, someone will watch over you. I promised you protection before we wed. I intend to make certain you get it.”
She stared anxiously into his implacable face. “Do you think Alastair would dare to come into the house?”
“At this point, I think Alastair would dare almost anything. He’s already had the audacity to torch a building on my grounds, with you in it. Nothing stops him from gaining entrance but the guards I’ve placed at each door and the protection of my presence. And I will protect you, with my life, if necessary.”
She didn’t disagree with his caution, but spending every day and evening with her handsome husband would take its toll on her resistance. If she wasn’t careful, she would end up in his bed all too soon. Yet with her life and the babe’s in danger, she had no choice but to agree to his plan.
“Of course,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
“I will catch him,” Lucien vowed. “Niles and I will continue to search for clues . . . someone who knows something. Though Alastair’s hired killers are dead, it’s only a matter of time before I find enough evidence to prove his crimes.”
He was still willing to risk his life to prove Alastair’s guilt and save her skin? Maybe he had been searching for clues during his evenings out, instead of bedding another woman, as she had assumed. Maybe he truly did care about her.
Lucien Clayborne was becoming more of an enigma each day.
Grandy’s voice sounded in Serena’s head, reminding her that a good marriage consists of respect, the ability to forgive, trust, and love. Did she hold those emotions for her husband?
She respected him, she realized an instant later. He was intelligent and brave. He no longer appeared to be a manipulative cad, as she had told Grandy. Her discovery of Chelsea’s death gave her an understanding of his reasons for forcing this hasty marriage—and the ability to forgive him.
But trust? That was harder to give. Perhaps he had not been dallying with other women. God, how she wanted to believe that was true, yet the hope he had been playing detective during all his nights out on the town seemed far-fetched. Besides, how many men would have remained chaste when an angry wife refused them and easy comfort awaited elsewhere?
She tried to conjure up what Cyrus would advise, but found his memory was dimming each day, replaced by images and feelings Lucien inspired. Did she care for the husband she had sworn so recently to despise?
Yes, and perhaps admitting to herself that she harbored feelings for Lucien wasn’t so terrible or dangerous. After all, he was her child’s father. So long as he never learned that a sinful part of her yearned for his fiery touch. He need never know she missed his handsome face when he was gone. Or were her feelings more?
Had she, by chance, committed the most foolish sin of all and fallen in love with him?
****
Three days later, Lucien entered Serena’s bedroom with flowers in hand after a perfunctory knock. “How do you feel?”
Serena glanced up from her morning chocolate. Her heartbeat accelerated at the sight of Lucien’s smile, at his dimples prominent above the firm angle of his jaw.
“I am well now.” She smiled shyly in return.
His eyes were the color of summer grass. His powerful shoulders, branded in her memory, fit the seams of his soft gray coat to perfection. The waistcoat surrounding his broad torso and lean waist was a deep, exotic blue trimmed in opulent gold thread. Black pants hugged narrow hips and long, muscled legs.
She feared the catch in her heart had more to do with her em
otions than the desire he roused within her.
He sat on the edge of the bed. She couldn’t ignore the small thrill at his nearness, yet he made no move to touch her.
Dropping her gaze to her lap nervously, Serena tried to slow her rapidly beating heart. The base side of her wondered if he longed to repeat their lovemaking once she had healed completely. She could no longer deny that she wanted to relive the splendor of their ecstasy, yearned to become his wife again in every way.
Yet another part recalled her confession and Lucien’s resulting contempt.
“Here,” he said, handing her the bouquet. “I brought these for you.”
She put her nose to the flowers. Her senses lit upon smelling a familiar scent. “Gardenias. My favorite.”
“Their smell reminds me of you.”
That anything at all reminded Lucien of her astounded Serena. But something as beautiful as a tiny white gardenia?
Inhaling a shaky breath, she took in the sultry scent of the flower once more. It swam inside her head, making her dizzy with a longing she wanted desperately to ignore.
She clutched the bouquet closer to her chest. “Thank you. They are lovely.”
“You’re welcome.”
He rose from the bed and stepped away. “Your grandmother called on you yesterday while you slept.” He paused, appearing to choose his next words. “We had an interesting talk.”
“What about?” Serena bit her lip. There was absolutely no telling what Grandy had said, how many secrets she had revealed. “What did she tell you?”
“That she has waited a long time for great-grandchildren from you.”
“Oh, yes. And she never tried to hide her impatience. I do not understand, really; Catherine gave her a second great-grandson in May.”
One Wicked Night Page 26