Damon could only pray he didn't look as petrified as he felt. "I imagine you shall stay to see the… fireworks?" His voice was cool and mercifully without a quaver. "Your sick little soul will doubtless gloat over us." But as bravely as he spoke, his glance slid to the side in a last faint hope. Trask was sprawled motionless, just to one side of the doors. He looked dead. There was no sign of Hartwell, but perhaps because of his own deeply ingrained adherence to the Code, it was almost inconceivable to Damon that Amory could be a party to this final savagery. He had done all he could to protect his ex-comrade from Bodwin's fury enroute to the barn. Was it possible that, objecting to Damon being struck with a cane, he could yet turn his back on this brutal murder? Hartwell was a weak, greedy man, but surely he would not—
Bodwin had not missed that searching gaze and offered smugly, "If you are looking for Hartwell, he's gone. He wouldn't have helped you, anyway. He is quite totally spineless. He needed you dead but couldn't bear to watch it. I rather fancy he is at this moment driving your coach hell for leather toward Weymouth and the first ship he can find."
Receiving only a bored stare by way of comment, he sighed. "I really must go. Such a lovely morning for a duel, don't you agree? Cheerio, Whitthurst. Keep your chin up!"
The Viscount's breathless response was pithily explicit, and Damon laughed. Bodwin shook his head reprovingly, then started for the door. Outwardly calm, he was inwardly in a raging fury. They were being so very stoical! He bethought himself of a detail and, smiling, turned back to tap his cane gently against Damon's lacerated cheek. "I forgot to tell you, old fellow. You were so very cooperative to sell your Mama's locket. It was made to order for me! What a pity you will not see the miniatures I commissioned—you'd have liked them. And they did the trick so well. My timing, you know, never fails. Now I shall go to the funerals and weep. I weep so convincingly…"
Damon's poise vanished. Struggling against the ropes, he gasped with rageful futility, "By God! If I ever get out of this!"
"But you cannot, poor lad. We shall replace the fences as we leave, and no one knows you are here. I should so love to stay and watch. But I shall see the fire from my coach…I mustn't be greedy, must I?"
"Cam…" Whitthurst's voice was a sob of despair. "I can't hold this damned thing… much longer!"
"You must!" gasped Damon. "I've…I've nigh…got it clear! Hang on, Whitt!"
He wrenched frantically. He'd had no intention of ever again donning the built-up boot, but the prospect of attempting to stop the duel while he limped about had been repugnant. Now he could only thank God he'd worn it, for by an ironic quirk of fate his infirmity was their one hope. Whoever had tied him had made his bonds cruelly tight. His left foot was already numbed, the rope having bitten deep into the soft leather. The reinforced boot, however, had not been crushed at all, and if he could but drag his foot out and push the boot clear, the resultant slackening of the ropes must allow his left foot to escape, also. His efforts were agonizing, but to be trampled beneath countless iron-shod hooves would be incalculably worse, wherefore he clenched his teeth and pulled savagely.
"The horses!" choked Whitthurst, slanting a look at the nervous animals. "They must…smell the…oil!" His face was streaked with sweat, and his arm shook visibly, the lamp essaying a crazy dance on its small shelf.
It was a miracle, thought Damon, that the poor fellow had been able to last this long, for it seemed an eternity since Bodwin had minced out of the barn. "You've done splendidly. Whatever… happens, it's not—" His struggles ceased, his heart thundering as a white stallion, plunging away from another animal, broke through the rope. The horse trotted toward him, pranced to the side, stamped about uncertainly, then came closer. The great head swooped down; the nostrils sniffed at him. Damon, sick and nauseated, managed to shout, "Get back! Damn you!" The stallion reared, the powerful hooves smashing down scant inches from the prostrate man. It was all the impetus Damon needed; one racking effort and his foot was free. He kicked desperately at the still-trapped boot, shouting again so that the stallion's eyes rolled, his ears laid back, and he moved uneasily toward the two mares who had started after him.
"Cam…old sportsman…" Whitthurst's voice was a sob of despair. "I… I can't hold my… dashed arm up… any longer! Cam, I… can't… I—Oh, God!"
The club fell from his hand. His arm dropped helplessly. Damon's throat constricted with horror as the lamp seemed almost to float down. For an instant it did not catch, but then one flicker exploded into a column of fire. Whitthurst shrank away as the blaze licked up beside him. Fighting madly to free himself, Damon succeeded in pushing the boot through the ropes and tore his left foot clear. The stallion jumped away from the fire and he and the mares ran back towards the other animals. A line of fire was streaking to the bales, and the terrified horses screamed as another great pillar of flame shot up amongst them. They raced for the doors, collided with the stallion and his mares, and milled in a plunging, rearing panic. Damon, twisting his body frantically, had one brief second before that frenzied confusion became a ravening stampede for freedom… over him! His wrists were still hopelessly tied, but his fingers gripped the rail, and with a strength born of desperation, he half scrambled, half flung himself to the side.
The thundering mass of horseflesh was upon him as his knees struck the fence. He hooked one foot over the bottom rail, but there was not sufficient space to squeeze through, and he could only flatten himself against the rough wood and pray. Sound was deafening; the floor shook; smoke and dust choked him. His heart all but jumped through his chest as something smashed against his back, beating the breath from his lungs. Splinters drove into his cheek as he was rammed against the rails. A hoof whipped through his hair, missing his scalp by a whisper; another stunning impact seemed to crush in his ribs, and his senses swam, his grip weakening. Sagging helplessly, he knew this was death and begged it might be quick. A terrified screaming… a tremendous crash…
"Cam!" The agonized scream sliced through the mists in his brain. Whitt! He peered about disbelievingly. He had slumped down from his desperate hold on the rails and was sprawled on the floor, yet his body was not being sliced to pieces under those plunging hooves. The horses had gone! Contrary to Bodwin's plans, they'd beaten the doors down with their first thundering charge. He was still alive! Through clouds of acrid smoke the Viscount was barely visible, cringing away from the flames, coughing, his streaming eyes fearfully riveted to what he had obviously thought the lifeless body of his "uncle."
"I'm… all right!" Damon howled, and began to fight the ropes about his wrists. The heat was incredible. When the flames reached the stores of paint and varnish, they were done! His hands were very strong. With all his might he wrenched and tore at his bonds. Had his wrists been bound together, he may have succeeded; as it was, however he struggled, he could neither reach the knots nor loosen the rope; even the slippage that blood provided failed to allow him to pull free. His heart sank; it was taking too long. The fire was closing in on Whitt. Another minute or two and he'd be enveloped. Abandoning the useless effort, Damon twisted until his knees were under him, and, gripping the bottom rail, fought to drag it from the end post. With his wrists bound he could not get a proper hold. The smoke was blinding him, and he coughed and spluttered, his eyes streaming. The end post was heavier than the regular supports, and the rails rested there in deep sockets. Reversing his tactics, Damon used the rail as a battering ram, and pounded savagely at the post. He thought his wrists must break, but—had the post shifted a little, or was that the shimmering heat distortion? He rammed the rail home again and this time the post definitely tilted. Another slam. He swore in anguish, but the end of the rail slipped from the socket.
Hope flaring, he heaved desperately. If he could pull the entire length of the rail through the other posts, he would be able to get to Whitt. He succeeded briefly, but then the rail refused to budge. He could not see through the smoke, but whatever impeded it was quite immovable. Cursing with frustration,
he threw himself back, striving with all his might to break the rail off short, but for all he achieved, it might have been cast of iron. His last alternative was to drag his hands along to the end, but in this he was foiled by the ropes catching on the rough wood. It was his only hope, however. Ignoring the pain of torn flesh, he strove with all his strength. Slowly, jerkily, the ropes began to move. He'd been secured not too far from the end post and the rail narrowed where it had been shaped to fit into the socket. The last foot was easy. He slid the ropes over the end, clambered to his feet, and tottered toward Whitthurst.
Coughing incessantly, blinded by the dense smoke, he flung an arm across his eyes, fear that the flames had won making him lurch into a run, only to trip over a sprawled shape and fall heavily. Whitthurst, lying beside him, gasped, "Ropes… burnt… through!"
Damon sat up, peering at him. His jacket was charred and his eyebrows and hair singed, but a quivering grin and a wink attested to his indomitable courage. A can of paint exploded with a boom like a cannon, and Damon bent protectively over Whitthurst as blazing sprays shot through the smoke. "Come… on!" he wheezed, and on hands and knees they started to where he prayed the doors were. They had gone only a few yards, however, when the Viscount crumpled in a paroxysm of coughing. Half smothered, Damon turned back, slipped an arm about him, and pulled insistently.
"No… use," croaked the Viscount. "I'm… finished. Get out, Cam! Must think… of Sophia!"
"I am thinking of her! Move! You damned… lazy sluggard!"
Whitthurst gave a faint, weary smile, struggled up, and collapsed.
"Blast your…miserable…hide!" groaned Damon. He dragged the Viscount's arm across his shoulders and crawled on, choking, through the inferno. Sparks rained down. Another boom outroared the flames, and the glare and heat intensified. His lungs were on fire… he was near blinded… his knees were giving out, his strength too far gone for him to be able to carry Whitthurst's dead weight. He sprawled helplessly but, refusing to give up, tugged at him, cursing him in faint, sobbing gasps.
A large boot rammed into his side, and he uttered a cry of mingled pain and shock. Startled hazel eyes peered down at him. A mighty arm came to aid him. Ariel! The tears that filled his eyes had little to do with smoke. He shoved the big hands away and gestured to the inanimate figure of the Viscount. Ariel bent. Whitthurst was swung up and over his shoulder. His other hand slipped under Damon's arm. The Marquis leaned on him gratefully and somehow found the strength to stumble along. The billowing smoke was suffocating… he was vaguely aware of scorching heat and the deafening voice of the sheeting flames; and ever, that blessed, supporting arm.
He was outside, under lowering, cloud-heavy skies. It was cold, and with a dull sense of incredulity, he saw that the sun was not yet risen, although the skies were lightening to the touch of dawn. Had it then been only a very short interval? Was that possible? It had seemed a lifetime! Rain was falling, and he could have kissed each drop. Ariel left him, and he sat thankfully in the rain, coughing and spluttering, drawing in great gulps of the beautiful, cool air. Whitthurst lay close by, coughing hoarsely, and Damon was astounded to see Marcus Clay kneeling beside him but with his gaze riveted to the holocaust of the barn.
Following that gaze, he saw Ariel silhouetted against the pulsing glare, Trask's limp body in his arms. Even as he watched, a section of the loft collapsed. Ariel ducked but failed to straighten up. He was only a few yards from safety, but his shaggy head lifted, the glare illuminating an expression of agonized helplessness on his broad features.
"Christ!" Damon struggled to his feet. "His back!" He tottered forward while Clay sprinted madly for the barn. But they could never be in time. Another section of the loft came down; clouds of fire roared round the big man. Damon groaned aloud as a blazing board plummeted down. It slammed across those broad shoulders.
"That's the dandy!" roared Ariel and with one mighty leap was clear.
Chapter 26
"Esther and I were at Parapine for Yolande's Ball," said Clay, gingerly cutting away the ropes that still encircled Damon's wrists. "When I heard about the duel, I rode like fury to get here in time to warn you. Thompson told me you were already on your way, and I decided to follow and see what happened. Fond of 'em both, y'know. Gad! What a mess you've made here! We'd best—"
"Never mind that," said Damon urgently. "How did you find us?"
"Met Hartwell driving your carriage and looking deuced rum. I give him a hail, and he come down on me like a load of bricks. Poor fellow had a beast of a hole in his arm. I bound it for him, and when he woke up, he started yowling that Bodwin had gone off his upper works and intended to put a period to you two. He kept screaming that I must hurry or I'd be too late. Tell you the truth, if it hadn't been for that arm, I'd have thought his intellect had become disordered!"
"Amory…" breathed Damon, a twisted smile lighting his smoke-blackened face.
"What? Oh—quite. Well, at all events, I rode here at the gallop and met Ariel coming home from his bachelor party, very well foxed. When I told him what Hartwell had said, he sobered up in a hurry and ran along behind. We got to the spa in time to see smoke begin pouring out of the barn. We were about to tear the fence down when what looked like all the remounts for the Household Brigade come roaring out of that barn! They took down the fence for us, but my Rajah spooked, and by the time I'd managed to bring him back to earth, Ariel was already inside and hauling you and Whitt— Cam! Good Lord! I must get you home. These wrists are—"
"No time!" Damon stood and peered through the rain. "Where the devil is Whitt?"
"Rest easy. If there are any hacks about, he'll spot 'em. I'll tell you frankly, when I saw Luke haul him out of the barn, I thought he was done for! Remarkable that he could have come that close to being fried and escape with just a few burns."
"Yes. We were both lucky. Luckier that Ariel found us." Damon felt his ribs tentatively, and Clay laughed.
Ariel was working over the prone Trask. The Runner looked up as Damon walked over and managed a quivering grin. "Really knocked up a lark… didn't we, sir?" he muttered. "Had me fambles almost on the perishers and… let 'em diddle me! Never hear the end on it, I won't!"
"Don't worry," said Damon. "We'll get 'em!"
The man's face brightened. He sighed, closed his eyes, and lay still. Damon shot a look at Ariel. "Never worrit, milord," said the big man. "He'll be right as rain." The cook's hair was all but singed away, his beard a remnant, his shirt hanging in scorched tatters, his face blackened by smoke. "You"— he grinned—"look like you been run through a mangle, sir."
Damon slipped a gentle hand onto one blistered shoulder. "Were it not for you, my friend, I'd look a hell of a sight worse."
A heart-stopping roar and a great gout of flames and sparks announced the collapse of the barn's roof. They all stared at that pulsing nightmare, knowing how close tragedy had come.
Damon swung around, looking anxiously for Whitthurst.
"I must get my racing curricle, and fast, if I'm to reach Tottenbury in time!"
"Never!" Clay said gravely. "Even if I rode to the Priory and brought your curricle back, we could not be in time! It's better than fifteen miles, Cam! And it's almost sunrise!"
Damon groaned, glancing frantically at the lightening sky.
Whitthurst rode up and, slipping wearily from the saddle, gasped, "Not a blasted… nag for miles! I'll have to take Rajah, Clay. If I ride cross-country, I can lop seven miles off the journey. I just might—"
"Devil you will, you shatter-brained cinder!" Clay expostulated. "I'll go!"
"Neither of you shall go," said Damon quietly. "I'm the only one who has the least chance of stopping them."
Ariel turned and gaped up at him. Whitthurst and Clay stared at one another, then faced him in stunned astonishment.
"Go…? You?" The Viscount looked from the ragged scarecrow that was Damon to the splendid and spirited bay gelding and back again. "You never mean… ride?"
"I refuse
to carry him," said Damon dryly. "Why does he dance about like that?"
"Scared," said Clay. "Told you."
Damon looked at Rajah, shuddered, and started forward on rubbery legs.
"You cannot go, you gudgeon!" said Clay. "You've lost your boot, and—" He checked with a strangled gasp.
Whitthurst caught his breath. Damon smiled. "I'm lame," he said calmly. "Always have been. Sophia won't allow me to conceal it any longer."
"Is that it?" Clay beamed. "By Jove! I thought you'd have been over there with us if you'd had the choice!"
"Wouldn't I just." It hadn't been so hard. And Clay didn't look repulsed—not with that great grin spreading across his face! Damon proceeded to commandeer Whitthurst's right boot and, having found it to be a size smaller than his own and the fit not totally hopeless, again forced himself to approach the bay. He took two brave strides. The gelding laid back its ears and eyed him with loathing. He felt sick. Try as he would, he couldn't go any closer.
Whitthurst, having experienced pure unreasoning terror, said sympathetically, "Get out of the way, Cam. You cannot!"
"I… must!" gritted Damon. But his feet would not obey him. His hands were wet. And Rajah, sensing fear, pranced and snorted. "Clay," said Damon hoarsely, "hold him steady."
Clay shoved his pistol into Damon's belt, grunted, "You may need it!" and moved to take the reins and speak softly to the beautiful bay.
"Luke," quavered the Marquis, "you shall have to lift me into the saddle. My… my damned feet have… taken root!"
Ariel begged, "Milord… let me go! Even if I was to lift ye up there, wouldn't do ye no good!"
"You have helped me, my friend. This… is something… I must do myself."
"But—sir… first time he kicks up his heels, ye'll be head over tail! Ye ain't rid since ye was a little shaver!"
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 33