• • •
Chase piled a thin pyre of branches and straw against the stone exterior wall of the broodmare barn. It had to be high enough to reach the thatch roof. The job was distasteful. He worked slowly, but soon, too soon, he had a sufficient pile.
“May you rot in hell, Uncle,” he mumbled as he touched the end of his torch to the debris. The flames sprang up like innocent children, creating little flambeaus in the grasses. Swiftly they grew, however, catching the bottom of a rotted board that led to the roof. The blaze grew rapidly now, catching and spreading like a blanket of blue and red and orange.
Chase ducked inside the barn. A pile of filthy straw rose against the flank of a dead horse in the first stall. He lowered the torch and fire instantly curled around the grasses, touching off the horse’s tail.
The smell of burning hair was so nauseating, Chase grabbed a bucket of water and doused the blaze. Overcome by revulsion, cold sweat beaded on his forehead. “A curse on you, Uncle Wadsworth,” he said aloud. “A curse on you.” He closed his eyes and waited for his stomach to settle.
Just then flames pierced the ceiling, illuminating the barn with a light brilliant as day. Chase saw the stalls, the hind legs of dead horses poking from them. The stench of death and smoke filled his nostrils. Aurelia Davenport — despite her age she was beautiful, but he wouldn’t wed her. He wanted her money, her power, her caché. The gambling debts he’d accrued … all of his valor spent on the field at Waterloo … all the good in his life sacrificed for fear of poverty. He was a coward with a soul as dark as his uncle’s.
With a terrible cry, Chase lifted his torch and screamed, “To hell! To hell and damnation!”
Deliberately, he lowered the torch to the tail of the dead horse. The hair curled. Horrible and glowing orange, fire spread to the straw and the flesh of the dead beast. Chase forced himself to watch, forced himself to breathe the stench of rotted, burning flesh.
He raced to the next stall, set the torch to the hayrack, then the horse carcass, then the dirty straw surrounding the dead animal, until fire drove him back into the corridor. Like a madman, he lit the next stall, and the next and the next. Down the row he ran, until a roaring conflagration towered at his back.
He was putting the torch to a stack of horse blankets when someone cried, “Stop!”
Hugh Davenport stood in the far entrance to the barn. “Run, Davenport!” Chase shouted, “Run from me.”
• • •
Chase’s eyes were wild. “Where is Ellie Albright?” Hugh yelled, but the captain didn’t seem to hear.
“I’m warning you, get out!” Chase cried, brandishing his torch.
The fiery skeletons of the farthest stalls crumbled and a wave of heat blasted Hugh’s face. “You’re murdering her!” he screamed. Plunging into the burning barn, Hugh kicked open the first stall. The body of a dead horse shocked him to a halt.
“What has happened here?” he said, backing away. Chase stood still as a statue watching him. Horror and disgust knotted Hugh’s gut. “Monster,” he hissed.
“Get out!” Chase screamed, bolting toward Hugh.
Hugh armed himself with a shovel propped against the wall and charged back, trying to drive Chase away from the unlit stalls. They met with a brutal blow. Sparks flew as the shovel smashed against the torch. Again and again Chase parried his fiery weapon until Hugh caught the burning end dead on with the shovel blade. It snapped and a shower of embers leaped into the air tracing arcs to the dirt floor. “Bloody hell, man!” Hugh cried as he stomped out the lit end. “Are you gone mad? Where is the girl?”
Scarcely had the words left his lips when Chase came at him again, this time with a pitchfork. The captain’s eyes had changed — there was killer in them now — a desperate man ready to fight to the death. Before the pitchfork’s sharp tongs pierced his flesh, Hugh spun out of the way.
With a powerful thrust, he used the shovel to deflect Chase’s next stab, and ducked into an open stall. Ellie wasn’t there, but Chase was on him in a flash, thrusting the prongs of the pitchfork at his throat. With the shovel in two hands, Hugh blocked the fork, catching it between spikes. He twisted his body, throwing Chase off balance. The captain fell with a crack on the ribcage of a horse carcass. Unable to dislodge the shovel from the pitchfork, Hugh hurled the implements at his foe and darted back into the corridor, slamming the stall door shut on the fallen captain.
The next stall was empty, and the stall after that, too. “Ellie!” Hugh yelled, “Ellie!”
Chase burst into the corridor, fury in his eyes. He leaped with pitchfork in hand, shoving the prongs hard at Hugh’s chest. The sharp metal ripped through wool and linen and tore into flesh, but as Hugh stumbled back, the blow failed to pierce cartilage and bone. He slammed against a wall and sank onto a stool that tipped beneath his weight. He fell sideways. The pitchfork, retracted and hurled through the air, hit a place on the wall where Hugh’s head had just been, sticking like a quivering arrow in its mark.
“Leave me be,” Hugh bellowed, trying to roll away from his assailant.
“My uncle won’t allow it!” Chase screamed, leaping on him and shoving Hugh’s hand into a burning patch of straw. Hugh threw him off, and drove Chase’s face into a pile of manure. Kicking and punching, Chase gained the upper hand and squeezed Hugh by the throat. For an instant, the fight suspended. They both heard banging from one of the stalls. “It’s Ellie,” Hugh rasped.
Chase looked confused. He released Hugh’s throat. “Miss Ellie?” he said.
The banging grew more frantic. Chase lurched to his feet in the direction of the sound, but stumbled and crashed, one shoulder slamming into a bench carrying a blacksmith’s anvil. There came a dull thud, followed by a sickening bang as the anvil hit Chase’s back and tumbled to the floor. The breath left the captain’s body in a gasp, his legs kicked, and then lay still.
In shock, Hugh stayed on the barn floor until he became aware again of the frenzied thump, thumping.
With horror, he realized Ellie must be in a stall on the verge of being engulfed in flames. He found two horse blankets and plunged them into a water trough in the corridor.
One soaked blanket he threw over his head, the other he wrapped around his hand. Fumbling through the woolen barrier he gripped the red hot bolt to the stall door. Steam hissed a spectral fog that disappeared in seconds, igniting the blanket. Soon access to the stall would be impossible.
And then something cold hit the stall door and splashed back in Hugh’s face. Water! The flaming blanket went out and Hugh shot back the bolt. Toby stood in the corridor holding an empty bucket in his hands.
“Drag him out!” Hugh bellowed, nodding toward Chase.
Hugh swung open the stall door. “Stop!” Toby screamed. “You’ll kill yourself!”
“It’s Ellie.” Hugh plunged into the black smoke that roiled through the open door.
He dropped to his knees, down where the smoke was thinner. Crawling forward, his hands groping blindly, a cold fear swept through his veins. He shivered despite the heat that made the skin on his back tighten. Where is she? The question thundered in his mind obliterating his body’s urgent signals to flee. The hair of the pony’s mane tangled in his fingers. He stopped crawling, paralyzed in terror. And then he heard her, the drum of her feet on the wall. He clambered over the pony’s neck, stumbling, crawling, feeling frantically until he touched a writhing pile of cloth. He yanked the bundle into his arms, his lungs burning with smoke, and ran from the stall just as its walls disintegrated into a mass of fire. He ran and continued to run until he felt the blessed cool night air wash against his cheek and knew she was safe.
Still holding her, Hugh fell to his knees panting and coughing. He tore at the cloth to unwrap the bundle. From the center of the singed rags Ellie’s face emerged. Hugh untied the gag from her mouth. “My petticoats were wet fr
om the fountain,” she sputtered. “I got them over my head for protection from the smoke.”
At first Hugh simply stared at her. Then he began to laugh. He laughed so hard he fell into a fit of coughing. He sat in the dirt and covered his face with bloody, burned hands.
Toby dragged Chase from the barn and laid him face up in the stable yard. “I would have been out to help sooner, but they had me tied in the paddock,” he said.
Hugh’s coughs quieted as Ellie’s soot-covered face wavered into view. He blinked the stinging smoke from his eyes.
“You’re all right,” he said. Scarcely conscious of his actions, but filled with a strange joy, he pulled her onto his lap. With the gentlest touch, he untied her and examined her wrists and ankles. There were raw, red marks circling them. A terrible hatred for Lank, for Chase, and Baron Wadsworth consumed him. I will kill them if they dare come near her again, he vowed.
The crimson glow of the burning barn flickered on her face. She trembled as she looked at the silhouette of Chase’s body, like distant hills against the backdrop of fire. “You’re all right now,” Hugh murmured into her hair as she sat wrapped in his arms. “You’re safe.”
A sigh shuddered through him, and he tightened his arms about her. The barn buckled with a heave of scorching breath, and a scream of sparks cascaded into the sky.
Chapter Twelve
Ellie brought the lamp closer to the bed and studied the gash in Hugh’s chest. If only she could be sure she’d removed all the dirt and fibers that might have been caught in the wound. “It’s all right, sew it up,” he said, catching her hand.
She patted water from the edges of the raw opening then saw a bubble of soap. “Let me give it one more rinse.”
Hugh impatiently turned his head on the pillows. “It will only take a moment,” she assured him. Drenching a strip of cotton in an ewer of water, she squeezed it over the laceration. Rivulets found the valleys between his ribs and the indentation at the top of his sternum. One stray stream raced across his belly, threatening to leak below the waistband of his form-fitting pants. Before she could think, Ellie pressed a dry rag to his flesh to stop the flow. The skin was pliant, giving slightly beneath her hand and exposing a strip of fine hair that led down to the grotto of his manhood. The sight made her breath catch. Instantly, she withdrew.
A low chuckle flexed Hugh’s abdomen, but he ceased as pain shuddered through him. “Scared you, didn’t I?” he said, careful not to move much.
Ellie pressed her lips together. “Not at all.”
She daubed the dry cloth on his chest, feeling the plate of bone and cartilage , the heart beating under flesh made cool by the water. Her mind should be on what needed to be done to the wound, but she found herself studying his naked torso. Shadows etched the line beneath the mounds of his pectorals, his white skin heightened the darkness of his nipples, and the gash crossed the plane of his breast like a red and dangerous canyon.
The cut was clean with only a little blood still oozing from it. Now she had only to sew it closed, but the idea made Ellie queasy. No one stirred in the massive Tudor house, so the job fell to her. Lank had apparently given all of the servants the night off. “I’ve only seen Claire do this once or twice,” she said, fetching the sewing box.
“You’ll be fine.”
In the dim light on the opposite side of the room, Ellie felt safe. She longed to linger there. From this distance, Hugh seemed less like living flesh and more like a painting or porcelain figurine. Dark hair framing an aquiline nose, eyes closed, the expanse of his body rising and falling with each breath. Fear of what she had to do spread through her body as she watched him. She clutched the sewing box close and took a tentative step toward him. Don’t be ridiculous, Ellie, she told herself. Be brave. She forced her feet to move more quickly. “Let me know if I hurt you,” she said, trying to sound confident.
He let out a little sigh, but his face gave no hint of emotion. Ellie put beeswax on the needle then spread it on the thread as well. She wasn’t sure what Claire would use, but Ellie selected the finest silk thread they had — a pale blue left over from the decoration of one of her favorite dresses.
Clenching her teeth, she poked the needle into Hugh’s flesh. He winced with pain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she said, yanking the needle back.
“It’s all right, just keep going.”
Hand trembling, Ellie pressed the point again to his flesh.
Voice tight with agony, Hugh said, “Push it through.” But it wasn’t so easy. Her fingers slipped on the beeswax. His skin was tough and resistant. Panic fluttered through her and she wished with all her being that Claire was there. But Claire wasn’t there. No one was. She and she alone had to get the stitches in or the wound might never heal properly. Gritting her teeth, Ellie pushed hard and the tip of the needle popped through the other side of the skin. She fought back tears and pulled the blue thread through. Determined not to give in to terror, Ellie jammed the needle into the other side of the cut. “Ahh!” Hugh cried.
“That was too hard. I’m sorry.” Gently, she pulled the two sides of the wound together and tied off the stitch.
Ellie stepped back, needing a moment to gather her emotions. “I’m so inexperienced, I’m sure I’m hurting you more than necessary.”
Hugh gave her a weak smile. “Where’s the bottle?”
She handed him a flagon of brandy and helped him take a swig. She poured a little into a glass for herself and let the sweet burn trickle down her throat.
“Make the second stitch,” Hugh said, lying back on the pillows.
“Take another swallow,” she urged him. “I think the brandy is numbing you.”
He took several large gulps, and she went back in with the needle.
By the eleventh suture the brandy was nearly gone and Hugh had relaxed considerably. “Funny thing, you of all people stitching my heart,” he said.
She completed another loop. “Why so?”
A long silence was the only answer she got. Ellie stopped stitching. His eyes were closed and his breathing had become deep and steady. “Are you asleep, Hugh?” Not a sound.
As she cleaned up the wet cloths and sewing materials, she studied him. Was it her imagination or did his face look sunken with a hurt beyond physical pain. Guilt contracted her stomach. Gently, she touched his shoulder and whispered, “I hope someday you can forgive me.”
• • •
Chase was ensconced on a chaise in the front parlor of the Albright home. He seemed weak and Ellie feared the worst. He had not opened his eyes all night, his brow was hot, and his skin a deep gray. Between Hugh and Chase, she’d spent the entire night rushing up and down the stairs trying to make the two injured men comfortable. Hugh drank so much brandy he finally fell asleep, but Chase had been restless, groaning, unable to rest peacefully. As angry as she was with the captain, she didn’t want him to die.
Toby had done his best to help her, but had to leave at first light, bound for the home of the local constable, then on to Cowick Hill with news of the catastrophe. All that Ellie could think to do was pray for Claire’s swift arrival. She was exhausted, yet so certain there were things she should have done or should be doing right now for the two patients that even when the servants returned, she couldn’t rest.
Placing a compress on Chase’s forehead, she recalled his suffering as Toby and Hugh lifted him into a knacker’s wagon. He opened his eyes when the cart hit a rut, and agony turned his face white. “I should die,” he whispered.
His words filled Ellie first with rage and then dread. “You’ll not die before you see the inside of a cell,” she told him.
• • •
The moment the Davenport coach stopped in the driveway at Fairland, Ellie raced to meet its occupants. A postilion threw the coach door open and Lady Davenport appeared. She was about to exit when
Snap squeezed past her and disappeared into the excited circle of hounds greeting the newcomers. To Ellie’s great relief, Claire was behind Lady Davenport, and her parents and Peggity appeared shortly behind her ladyship.
“Let me see him,” Snap said, bolting through the front door.
By the time Ellie and company arrived in the parlor, Snap was at Chase’s side. “He’s very pretty, isn’t he?” the little girl said.
“In looks only,” Ellie answered.
“My darling!” shrieked Lady Davenport. “What have you done?” She took Chase’s hand in a fervent grip and sat beside him to brush the matted hair from his brow.
Chase groaned and stirred beneath the bedclothes. “Forgive me, Aurelia,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
Lady Davenport threw herself over her lover’s body. A sob shook her.
“Ellie,” Claire said, bumping Snap out of the way to feel Chase’s forehead, “tell Cook to brew some white willow bark tea, and bring me a bucket of ice chips. You’ve been putting cold compresses on him, I see. Good work. You may have kept his fever from going too high.”
Ellie gave the bell pull a good yank, and moments later Alonso, their butler, arrived.
Claire patted Lady Davenport’s back and drew her away from the patient.
“But are you all right?” Ellie’s father said, holding her hands and studying her face. Mist fogged his glasses.
“I’m fine, Papa, but the barn is gone and we’re not sure if we’ll ever find the mares again.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, but it does … ”
“I didn’t mean that. I apologize.” Her father fumbled in his waistcoat for a handkerchief. Missing it in his emotional state, he wiped the lenses of his spectacles on his cravat. “Never again will I say the horses aren’t important. I just meant they’re not nearly as important as your safety.”
“And my son, is he all right, too?” Lady Davenport said, pulling Ellie from her father’s embrace.
Time After Time Page 21