Thunder and Roses: Book 1 in The Fallen Angel Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  As she tugged her cloak around her, Nicholas said, "There's a travelers' hut not far ahead. Shall we stop for the night?"

  "With pleasure," she said fervently.

  The frame hut was a little off the road, almost hidden in a grove of tall trees. Two stories high and solidly built, it even had a shed on one side to shelter horses. As they dismounted, Nicholas said, "Go inside and get warmed up. I don't want you to take a chill on your honeymoon." He gave a playful leer. "If you're going to be confined to your bed, it should be for a more interesting reason."

  Clare laughed and went into the hut, which was simply furnished with a table and several chairs. A couple of minutes later, Nicholas brought in the saddlebags and an armload of dry firewood that had been stored in the shed. Then he went out again to bed down the horses. He took such good care of her, she thought fondly. It was a pleasure to be pampered.

  Once the fire was crackling, she explored. It didn't take long because the upstairs was a single spacious room exactly like the one below, only without furniture. A faint layer of dust covered all surfaces, but under that everything was reasonably clean. She was descending the steep steps when Nicholas came in again. "I didn't expect this," she remarked. "Are there many such huts in the mountains?"

  "None quite like this one." He stripped off his soaked hat and coat. "In the middle of the last century, a prosperous wool merchant was caught up here by a blizzard, and would have died if a shepherd hadn't taken him in. In gratitude, the merchant established an endowment with the nearest parish to build and maintain a shelter for travelers. Being a man of delicacy, he specified a second room, in the event that ladies were ever trapped here amidst crude males."

  "But I like being trapped here with a crude male."

  "Not all females have your good sense." He wrestled off his riding boots. "So the hut was built, and every spring the parish sends someone up to repair the ravages of winter. Not much else is required, because people who know about the hut use it carefully. For example, before we leave in the morning, I'll collect enough wood to replace what we burn. By the time the next traveler comes, it will be dry and ready."

  "Fascinating, though the shepherd who saved the merchant might have preferred a fast ten quid paid directly to him." She knelt and put more wood on the fire. "Do the Rom stay here?"

  "Good Lord, never. No self-respecting Rom would stay inside when there's open air available. They hunger for the wind." His gaze rested on her thoughtfully. "You, however, would do well to get out of those wet clothes." He started across the room. "Let me help you take them off."

  She had a pretty fair idea where his help would lead, and she was right. Quite delightfully so.

  Afterward, they dozed lazily before the fire before rising and donning dry clothing. Clare prepared a simple supper of ham, potatoes, and onions, which was accompanied by an expensive bottle of claret which Nicholas had brought in the spirit of honeymoon. They spent the evening sprawled lazily in front of the fire, chatting and sipping tea. As they finally rolled up in their blankets, she murmured, "Let's take a trip like this every spring. No one else but us."

  "I'd like that." He kissed her lightly. "Don't ever become too much of a countess. I like you exactly as you are."

  She smiled up at him. "If you're the Gypsy Earl, does that mean that I am now a Gypsy Countess?"

  "I suppose it does. That makes you a rawnie, a great lady. But then, you always were." He tucked her back against his chest, his arm folding her close. "Sleep well, Clarissima."

  * * *

  Members of the small band grumbled about the rain, but the leader shut them up, reminding them how well they would be paid for that night's work. He was irritated himself, though, for he hadn't expected his quarry to be sheltered in a building.

  As they waited for the early hours of the morning, passing around a bottle of whiskey to warm their bones, he considered the best way to accomplish his task. It would be simplest to storm the hut, but likely the door was latched, and breaking it down would take away the element of surprise. It was also likely that the quarry was carrying a pistol, and he looked like a man who could be dangerous.

  Leaving his men, the leader quietly scouted the area around the hut. The construction was rugged, the windows small and set too high to climb through easily. Deciding to have a look in the shed, he slowly opened the door. One of the horses whickered, but not loudly enough to disturb the people sleeping inside. Against the wall of the hut was a dark mass that proved to be dry firewood. He gave an ugly smile, for now he knew the best way to flush his prey.

  He'd burn them out.

  Chapter 29

  Nicholas came awake suddenly and completely.

  For a moment he lay still, wondering what had alerted the part of his brain that never slept.

  The smoke. There was far too much for their small, banked fire. He sat up and scanned the room and saw a wavering glow in the window opposite the fireplace. The rain had stopped, and in the silence he heard a faint, menacing crackle.

  Beside him Clare still slept. He shook her shoulder. "Wake up, there's a fire outside."

  When her eyes were open, he rose and swiftly pulled on breeches, boots, and a shirt. But he was not unduly worried. The door was only a few feet away, so there was no chance that they would be trapped inside.

  Clare got to her feet, blinking sleepily. For once ignoring her delightful nakedness, he tossed over the nightgown she hadn't gotten around to wearing. "Pull that on so we can go outside and see what's burning. With luck the fire can be put out easily, but I don't want to take any chances."

  She nodded and obeyed, putting on her own boots and lifting her cloak as she headed for the door. Nicholas picked up his saddlebags, which contained everything they had of value, and followed right behind her.

  Yet he couldn't shake the itchy feeling that something was wrong. Sparks from the chimney could have ignited a fire, but it was damned odd, given the damp condition of the forest. And why were the flames on the side of the hut opposite the shed? He didn't recall seeing anything flammable there.

  As Clare unlatched the door and started to swing it open, he realized that crackling sounds were coming from both sides of the hut. Warning alarms went off in his head. If the shed was burning, why weren't the horses screaming? And how could accidental fires start in two different places?

  Looking over Clare's shoulder, he saw a flash of movement twenty or thirty feet from the door. The lifting and pointing of a long, straight object.

  A rifle.

  Horror ripped through him. Dropping the saddlebags, he caught Clare around the waist and dragged her to the floor. At the same instant the rifle fired. A bullet blasted over their heads and smashed into the back wall. Acting on pure instinct, he wrapped his arms around Clare and rolled away from the open doorway. When they were out of the line of fire, he reached back and slammed the door shut. Within seconds, three other bullets hammered into the heavy wood.

  "Dear God," Clare gasped. "What's happening?"

  "Someone wants to kill us," he said grimly. "Or more likely wants to kill me, and doesn't care if you die at the same time."

  He sprang to his feet and fastened the door's simple hook latch, though it would give only the barest protection. He had brought a pistol, so he dug it out of his luggage and loaded it. Then he peered out the window in the front side of the hut. The area was lit by flickering flames from both ends of the building. Judging by the amount of light and smoke, the shed was burning merrily and well on its way to complete destruction.

  Five armed men were standing at the outer limits of the light. Beyond them, he saw their two horses, which must have been removed from the shed before the fire was set. As he watched, one of the men began moving cautiously toward the door, his rifle raised and ready.

  Nicholas smashed the glass of the window with the barrel of his pistol and snapped off a shot. The man shrieked and spun around before crashing to the ground. Nicholas swiftly reloaded and fired again, but the other attack
ers were beyond the effective range of the pistol and he did no damage.

  A voice barked an order and one of the men started circling around the hut toward the rear. Nicholas swore under his breath; any chance they might have had to escape out the back window was now gone.

  Voice tight but composed, Clare said, "The hut is on fire, isn't it?"

  "Yes, and there are at least four men out there, armed and ready to shoot if we come out." Rapidly he scanned the possibilities. "Since it's probably me they're after, they might let you go if I give myself up to them."

  "No!" The smoke was thickening fast, stinging the eyes and clogging the lungs. In her vehemence, Clare inhaled too much and began coughing. When she could speak again, she said, "They can't leave me alive as a witness to your murder. If we surrendered, they would probably rape me, then kill me anyhow. If I'm going to die, it will be at your side."

  "I'd rather not die at all." A possibility flashed through his mind. He uncocked his pistol and thrust it in the waist of his breeches, then snatched up his whip. "Upstairs. Move!"

  "Wait." She yanked a shift from her baggage, ripped it in half, and dipped the pieces in the pot of water that had been set aside for morning. "Put this over your mouth."

  Crouching to get under the worst of the fumes, they raced up the steps. The smoke worsened rapidly as they climbed, and the upper room would have been lethal without the damp rags. The heat was already uncomfortably high; within minutes, the whole structure would be engulfed in flames.

  "No escape here," Clare said coolly. "A short marriage, but a good one. We never even had a fight." She coughed, then sagged against the wall, her face a pale blur in the thickening smoke. With a smile of unearthly sweetness, she said, "Forgive me for saying this, but I love you, Nicholas. I regret nothing, except... except that we didn't have more time."

  Her words were like knives in his heart. Their lives could not end like this—he would not permit it.

  He peered out one of the end windows, but couldn't see the armed man who had circled the house. Good; that meant the fellow couldn't see him, either. The window was a casement, so he undid the latch and swung it open. Flames were licking up the outside wall only a few feet below him, and he began coughing as more smoke poured in from outside.

  After quickly calculating distances and deciding it was possible, he beckoned to Clare. "We have a chance," he said urgently. "Grab the edge of the back roof and climb on top. Don't be afraid—I won't let you fall."

  She nodded with grim understanding. He climbed into the window and straddled the frame, fighting the heat and smoke to maintain consciousness. Clare crawled across his lap, then stood on the frame so her body was outside the window. He steadied her as she reached up and caught the edge of the roof, then boosted her from below until she managed to scramble up safely.

  Praying that the smoke was concealing their exit from watching eyes, he wrapped the whip around his waist, then stood on the sill and reached for the roof himself. He caught the edge easily and was lifting himself upward when his fingers began slipping on the wet slate.

  He was an instant away from plunging into the flames below when Clare's hand caught his, stabilizing his slide. Swinging like an acrobat, he managed to get his left leg over the edge of the roof. From there, it took only a moment to pull himself onto the slanting surface. The roof was a patchwork of garish light and stark shadows. He saw that Clare had anchored herself with one hand on the ridgepole before helping him. Thank God for a woman with brains.

  So far, the billowing smoke and increasing noise of the two fires had concealed them from the attackers, but their refuge was perilous. The first floor of the hut was already burning and it was only a matter of time until the whole building was engulfed. Crouching, he helped Clare to the other end of the roof, keeping a hand on the ridgepole in case one of them slipped.

  As they skidded across the slippery slate, he hoped to God that the nearest tree would be suitable. It was: a tall, thick elm that was within whip range of the hut, though only just.

  The next part was the most dangerous because he would have to straighten up. If he was seen, he would be an easy target for a rifle. But there was no help for it. He unwound the whip from his waist and stood, bracing one foot on the ridgepole for balance. Then he lashed out at the one dimly seen branch that looked close enough, and strong enough, to support them.

  The thong curled neatly around the branch. He tugged experimentally, but the hold didn't feel secure. Fighting down his raging impatience, he worked the whip loose and drew it back again. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the slate seemed to be getting hotter. Time seemed unnaturally distorted. How long had it been since he had awakened—five minutes? Three?

  What mattered was how much time they had left. Stretching out as far as he could, he snapped the whip again. This time when he tested it, the hold seemed stronger. It had better be, for there wasn't time for another cast. He extended his free hand toward Clare. "Come here."

  She crawled to his side and stood up. He took one instant to press his mouth to hers in a kiss that was meant to say what he could never have put into words. Then he wrapped his arm around her waist. "Hang on tight, my dear."

  Her arms went around him, slim but strong. An instant later, they were swinging across emptiness, supported only by the dark, supple leather. He felt a shift, a loosening of the whip's hold on the branch. If they fell to the ground, the fall might not be fatal, but the attackers would be on them in seconds.

  The arc of the swing took them downward until they slammed into the tree trunk. Clare gasped as air was knocked from her lungs. He tried to absorb the shock with bent legs, but even so, the force of the impact almost caused him to drop her. For an instant they hung free, the weight of them both dragging on his strained right arm.

  The thong began to uncoil under the weight. They were on the verge of falling from the tree when he kicked out and managed to get his foot on a limb. It wasn't much support, but it was enough, and a moment later they were safely balanced on a thick branch.

  He worked the handle of the whip until the thong dropped free. As he coiled it again, the roof collapsed with a hideous roar. A pillar of flames and sparks shot skyward and a wave of searing heat struck them. In the lurid light, he saw the silhouette of the roughly dressed man who had been waiting with rifle ready in case they had tried to escape from the back window. Though no more than thirty feet away, the attacker had not seen them in the smoke and darkness. As Nicholas watched, the man lowered the gun and made his way around the blazing hut, from which no one would now emerge alive.

  They were high enough that Nicholas could see the attackers who waited in front on the far side of the fire. One of the men had a tall, rangy figure that was vaguely familiar. His mouth tightened to a bitter line. Glancing down, he saw that Clare was looking in the same direction, her face coldly furious.

  Now was the time to escape, while the attackers watched the fire in primitive fascination. He touched Clare on the shoulder and they began to work their way downward. The lowest branch was still well above the ground, so once again the whip was pressed into service to lower them.

  When they were safely down, he coiled the whip, then led Clare straight into the woods, away from the hut and the road. The ground was soggy from the earlier rain, and the air was damply chill. A good thing Clare had escaped with her cloak.

  When he judged that they were about a mile from the hut, he stopped for a brief rest. Clare's breathing was ragged, so he drew her into his arms. She was shaking violently, and he guessed that it was not only from cold. "We're safe here," he whispered. "Even if those bastards are thorough enough to wait until the fire dies down and check for bodies in the ashes, that won't happen before dawn at the earliest."

  Voice muffled against his shoulder, she said, "You saw him, didn't you?"

  He didn't bother to ask for clarification. "I saw a tall man who could have been Michael Kenyon, and I can't think of anyone else who might want to kill me," he sa
id harshly. "But that is a question for later. Now we have to get to safety."

  "Are there cottages nearby?"

  "No, something better than that." He put his arm around her shoulders and began walking, drawing on the sense of direction that had been bred into him. "We're going to the Rom."

  * * *

  They walked through the woods for hours, stumbling over rough ground and getting saturated by water that dripped from the trees. Clare gave fervent thanks they had both put on their boots before escaping, or they would be in trouble now. As it was, she was soon exhausted and would have collapsed under a tree if Nicholas hadn't been half-carrying her.

  He seemed to know exactly where they were going, though to her, all wet trees looked the same. And they didn't feel very nice when one walked into them.

  The sky was beginning to lighten when they caught a wispy scent of smoke. "The site is occupied," he said with satisfaction. Only then did Clare realize that he had not been sure if they would find help here.

  Suddenly an explosion of barking broke out, and the shadowy forms of half a dozen dogs charged toward them. She froze, wondering if they should run or look for a tree. But as the ferociously baying pack closed in, Nicholas drew his arm back and made a broad throwing motion. Though his hand was empty, the effect was magical. The dogs immediately fell silent and began milling around, following them into the camp.

  There was enough light to see that the kumpania consisted of three wagons. Dark shapes under the wagons appeared to be beds, and she guessed that the rain had driven the Rom to take that amount of shelter. Roused by the noise, several men rolled to their feet and approached, posture alert. One carried a coiled whip in his hand.

  Nicholas put his arm protectively around Clare and squinted at the nearest man. "Kore, is that you?"

  There was a moment of astonished silence. Then a baritone voice roared, "Nikki!"