My Dearest Enemy

by Connie Brockway

  “Aid you?” Avery asked in a deceptively mild voice.

  “Yes,” Camfield said. “I mean. I think you can tell by now that I mean to make an offer for Mill House and its properties. Maintaining friendly relationships with the owner of a place one covets is simply good business.” He smiled at Avery. “Either of its potential owners. Care for that brandy now?”

  “No.” Avery smashed the cigar into the crystal ashtray beside him. “So your courtesies toward Miss Bede have all been a matter of expedience?”

  “Yes,” Camfield agreed sunnily. “Good God, man, you don’t for an instant imagine that it was anything else? I mean, Miss Bede is a fine-looking woman in a foreign sort of way, but she’s decidedly not the sort one pays serious court to and for God’s sake man, I’m a gentleman, I’d never form anything but a respectable union with a woman. Even a woman like Lillian Be—”

  He never finished saying her name.

  Lily patted her hair into place and pinched her cheeks to bring color to them before exiting the women’s retiring room. Thankfully, one of the Camfield maids had furnished needle and thread with which Lily had been able to stitch the lace flounce back onto Evelyn’s dress—a memento from a cow-footed squire who’d insisted Evelyn dance with him.

  She glanced at the wall clock as she emerged from the room. It had taken longer than she’d expected. Not that she minded.

  Except for a few fascinated matrons who’d cornered her earlier and demanded she send them information on the next meeting of the Women’s Emancipation Coalition, she’d barely spoken to anyone. A young man had asked her to one dance, but the manner in which he kept casting smug looks of triumph at his friends quickly robbed her of any enjoyment she might have had in it. When the next fellow had asked to partner her she’d refused.

  Evelyn, upon her dress being restored to its previous glory, had been taken with a sick headache and accepted the Camfields’ offer to retire to one of the bedchambers; Francesca was dancing through a throng of attentive gentlemen like a firefly through a midnight meadow; and the last time she’d seen Avery he’d been bent over the gorgeous form of Andrea Moore.

  She paused at the threshold leading into the ballroom, suddenly tentative, unwilling to see Avery holding another woman in his arms, even for a dance. Stupid. She had no claims on him.

  All her sentimental fantasies about his softheartedness and compassion had been built around a case of allergies. She steeled herself to enter when she heard Martin’s voice behind the half-closed door directly beside her.

  “She’s decidedly not the sort one pays serious court to and for God’s sake man, I’m a gentleman,” he said. “I’d never form anything but a respectable union with a woman. Even a woman like Lillian Be—”

  His words were abruptly cut off by a muted thump.

  Liquid heat covered every inch of Lily’s skin in a wildfire of embarrassment. She whirled around, nearly knocking over one of the Camfield girls—Molly? The young girl’s face registered an instant of distaste before setting into the determined smile of a social hostess.

  “Ah, Miss Bede. I hope you’re enjoying yourself? Were you looking for a place to freshen? We’re using the—”

  At this moment the door beside them swung fully open and Martin Camfield stumbled out, his hand cradling his left cheek. Even between his fingers the dark swelling beneath his eye was evident. His startled gaze flickered from his sister to Lily before his pale skin flushed darkly.

  “Martin!” Molly Camfield exclaimed. “Whatever happened to your eye?”

  “I, er, stupid of me but I walked into a door,” he muttered. “I best find the kitchen and see about getting some ice on it.” He nodded shortly and hastened off down the hall.

  “Well, I have never known Martin to be clumsy! I wonder—” Whatever the girl was about to say was interrupted by the appearance of Avery. He came out of the library scowling. The knuckles of his right hand were red.

  “Mr. Thorne!” Molly gasped. “Whatever happened to your hand?”

  He didn’t even pause but strode right past them. “Slammed the damn thing in a door.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Don’t you think we should have insisted that Francesca return home with us?” Lily asked when the silence in the carriage stretched to an uncomfortable length.

  “We could have insisted,” Avery answered shortly, looking out at the passing countryside, “but it wouldn’t have done a damn bit of good. She was being admired.”

  “And you’re certain that Evelyn left earlier?”

  She could barely make out his nod.

  “Yes. Some neighbor or other drove her home. You didn’t think she’d actually leave Bernard alone for more than an hour, did you?”

  She had no reply for this and so fell silent, content while hidden in the dark corner of the coach to study him.

  The moonlight bathed his face in an icy luminescence that oddly made his tanned skin appear even darker against the stark white collar and snowy tie. His hair, ruffled by the night air, fell across his forehead.

  He was the most extravagantly masculine being Lily could imagine. His stylish clothes did nothing to destroy the image; they only augmented his breadth, his height, and his musculature.

  And whether he approved of her or not, no matter how irrational or ill-fated, he cared about her. Pleasure unraveled in her and for once she allowed it.

  “You didn’t have to hit him,” she said.

  “Hit who?” he replied so quickly she knew he’d been waiting for her to address the issue. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Martin Camfield. I was in the hall. I heard what he said, or rather what he was about to say.”

  “What an extraordinary accusation to make.” He sniffed again and sneezed. “I’m a gentleman. I don’t go about striking my host. I suggest that you curb this tendency to listen at doors. It only encourages that vivid imagination of yours to run amuck.”

  But she knew now. And nothing he could say could erase her knowledge.

  “You hit him because you thought he’d been toying with my affection,” she replied.

  He looked around, his features still hidden in the carriage’s gloom, but his fair hair gleamed in the moonlight like some alchemist’s rare metal.

  “If I were to strike someone,” he said slowly, “I suppose that would be one of the few justifiable reasons to do so. Fellow would have to be a cad to risk hurting a lady.”

  “Since we’re creating a hypothetical circumstance in which a gentleman might justifiably hit another gentleman, might I add another aspect to the situation?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Suppose that the defending gentleman had misread the lady’s involvement? Perhaps the lady knew all along that the fellow who was flattering her did so only to smooth his way in any future business negotiations? Would the defending gentleman still be justified in beating up his host?”

  “One blow can hardly be construed as ‘beating up’ one’s host,” Avery said.

  “I see.”

  They fell silent except for the sound of Avery’s fingertips tapping on the windowsill and his occasional sneeze.

  “You allowed Martin Camfield to fawn all over you knowing he did so to get into your good graces?” he finally burst out.

  “Yes.”

  She peered closer but could see nothing of his expression, lit by the bright moonlight from behind as he was. “Why did you allow it?”

  “He’s the only man who’s ever paid me any sort of court,” she admitted, hoping the darkness would hide her blush. “And besides, one could hardly call his tepid pleasantries ‘fawning all over.’ Your kiss was much—” She stopped, appalled at what she’d just said, nearly admitted. In confusion she moved further into her corner.

  She was overwhelmed by her sense of him, the fragrance of crisp linen, the angle of his jaw, newly shaved and marble smooth, just catching the light, his deep rumbling voice.

  “Camfield’s a fool,” he finally mu
rmured. He lifted his hand. She held her breath. Gingerly, he moved his knuckles down the long coil of hair that lay on her shoulder. “Tepid pleasantries? Were I to—”

  His mouth grew nearer and she felt herself pulled toward him. His fingertips brushed along the curve of her cheek, skated along her chin and tilted her face up, exposing her expression in the bright moonlight.

  He would see. He would know how very much she loved him. And what good would it do either of them?

  “How could anyone react tepidly to you?” he mused.

  She leaned closer and as if against his will, he touched her cheek with his knuckles. His hand turned and a touch turned into a caress.

  She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against his fingertips. They trembled against her skin, glided over her eyelids, and traced her lower hp.

  “Lily …” His voice held a smile. “You are so damn beautiful. I wish …”

  She wished, too. But she didn’t want to hear him give voice to dreams that could never be realized. Too much stood between them—a house, an inheritance, and most of all, a future they could never share, he because he would never live in an unsanctioned union, she because she would not live as any man’s chattel.

  “Hush,” she implored, her eyes awash in tears. She didn’t want this moment to end. She couldn’t let go of it.

  She turned her face into his caress and kissed the warm center of his palm. She heard the sharp intake of his breath and then she was being pulled into his arms, enfolded in a powerful embrace to half lie against him in the dark and wonderful carriage, rocking gently in a timeless void.

  One hand cradled the back of her head, his other arm looped about her waist. His mouth touched her temple, moved to her cheek, and toward her mouth.

  “Dear Lord, Lily. You set me a—”

  “Fire!” Hob yelled from atop the coach. “Gawd Almighty! The stables be on fire!”

  Lily jerked back from Avery, clambered to her knees atop the seat, and thrust her entire upper body through the window. Her eyes riveted on Mill House’s stables. Behind it one of the great rucks blazed like a beacon, wind whipping the huge tongues of flame out to lick the stable’s southernmost eaves. Already smoke spewed from the top of the building, noxious plumes streaming into the blacker night sky.

  “Hurry!”

  But Hob had already laid the whip against the horse’s flank. The mare bolted forward and Lily half tumbled from the window only to be caught by strong hands and hauled back into the carriage.

  “You’ll get yourself killed,” Avery said, shoving her into the seat opposite him and shrugging out of his dinner jacket. He snapped the white silk tie from his throat, ruining the stiff collar in the process.

  The carriage careened over the rough road as Lily clung to the window frame, her eyes fixed on the stables.

  “My horses!” Her voice broke. “My horses.”

  Her upper arm was seized in an implacable grip and she was spun around to meet Avery’s tense face.

  “Do not go anywhere near the stable,” he ordered. “I need able bodies. Go to Drummond and find the field hands. Find buckets. Pump water. But stay the bloody hell away from the stable. Do you understand me?”

  “My horses!”

  He shook her. “I’ll get your damn horses out. I swear it. Now, promise me!”

  She gave one short nod. He released her and opened the door of the carriage just as Hob began dragging back on the hand brake. He leapt, fell and rolled, regained his feet, and raced toward the burning building. By now half the roof was fringed in a border of orange flames, its delicate appearance the gluttonous hiss of fire consuming the wood.

  The carriage skittered to a halt. She saw Hob leap from the seat and make for the stables. Somewhere a bell rang out, alerting all within hearing distance to the fire. She pushed the carriage door open and dropped to the ground. Her heel caught in the silk skirt and she cried out in exasperation, tearing the gown and running toward the stable.

  She had the ablest body at Mill House. All the buckets were at the stables and the kitchen pump was too far away to be used as a water source. But by the stables was the well that was used to keep the troughs full.

  She lifted her skirts and ran.

  Thank God the seasonal workers were there. The twenty men and boys hired on for the June harvest were already milling about the burning hay ruck and stables but, like ants on a termite mound, their fervid actions were random and ineffectual. A few beat blankets against the hay stubble leading to the barn. Others flung water where it would provide little good.

  If the fire made it to the barn, Mill House would be lost. Martin Camfield could name his price for what was left.

  Avery began shouting orders, his face set with determination. Within ten minutes he’d a team digging a firebreak between the stables and the barn, another group containing the flaming ruck, and a water line working on soaking the stable roof. Each passing moment the air congealed in his chest, clogging his throat, a steel vise tightening around his lungs.

  The long ride in the horse-laden atmosphere of the carriage, the smoke and hay stubble, the dry, hot air all worked inexorably toward a crisis. He didn’t have time for a crisis.

  The sound of frantic whinnying rose above the roar of the blaze. Hooves struck stall doors and haunches crashed against box stalls. Lily’s horses.

  He tore off his shirt, doused it into a bucket of water and tied it around the lower portion of his face. The air staggered into his lungs. He swore viciously, unable to find even enough breath for his curses and, ducking his head against his arm, plunged into the stables.

  Around him white smoke swirled, still thin enough that he could make out the bolts latching the doors. He jerked a stall open and stepped aside. The mare within danced, eyes rolling wildly, hooves flashing.

  He flapped his arm and the mare shied back, teeth snapping, ear flattened.

  “You damn, bloody ass!” Avery gasped, tearing his shirt from his face and flinging it over her eyes. He grabbed the sleeves beneath and twisted tight then jerked hard on the makeshift blinder, half dragging the mare out into the aisle. He jerked his shirt off her head and smacked her hard on the rump. She bucked once and shot out of the stable.

  He leaned over, gasping for breath, his muscles trembling from lack of oxygen, his vision swimming.

  “No!” he ground out savagely and hobbled, doubled up for the next stall. Thank God the next horse had the sense to flee. He’d shoved the bolt back and the creature skittered out, slipping and stumbling in its haste to escape.

  Another stall, another horse. With each step the white blanket of smoke grew thicker. He began coughing, expelling what precious air he had from his paralyzed lungs. He reached out with a trembling, sweat soaked hand for the bolt. Too weak.

  Within he could see the phantom figure of a horse lunging madly within its smoke filled prison.

  Lily would kill him if anything happened to her horses. He stumbled to his knees. Two more horses. He couldn’t hear them anymore, couldn’t hear anything. A dull rushing sound had replaced the pop and hiss of burning wood. The last horses’ frantic calls had stilled. He fell forward, caught himself on his hands. The straw pierced his palm and the pain brought a second of lucidity.

  Lily wouldn’t have to kill him. He was already dead.

  She saw him enter the stable. His face, even in the reddish stain of the fire looked ghastly above the dirty, sopping shirt tied around the lower part of his face. Sweat slickered his muscular arms and coated his hard torso and he moved in a half crouch as though doubling up against pain.

  A minute later India dashed from the stables, haunches low to the ground, hooves beating a heartbeat staccato, and disappeared into the night. A big gelding followed and then in rapid succession five of the seven remaining horses. The rest were in the pasture.

  Lily worked on, her arms aching from pumping well water into buckets. All around her, her dreams burned accompanied by the manic chortling of crackling wood and the sweetish, th
ick aroma of burning grass. Men shouted, the bells rang incessantly calling for aid, and inside the stable a horse screamed.

  One of the seasonal workers, his face blistered from working too near the blaze, came over and commandeered the pump, calling to his mates as he drove the handle with a force she could not match. She stumbled out of his way, her feet carrying her closer to the stable, trying to see within the smoky interior.

  It had been minutes since the last horse had exited. The smoke roiled slowly, thicker near the ceiling, somewhat thinner near the ground. She bent over, peering inside.

  One of the horses ricocheted in its stall, the sound of its frenzied neighing and splintering wood filling Lily’s ears. Where was Avery? She stumbled into the stables and flung open the stall door.

  “Gee!” she shouted. The liberated horse, foam flecking its mouth, eyes ringed in white, shot from the barn as sobbing, Lily fumbled her way to the last stall and released its occupant. Avery … dear God, he was allergic. Wildly, she looked around.

  She saw him then, lying near the far end of the stable. In seconds she’d run down the aisle and fallen on her knees beside him. She grasped his arms and turned him over. His face was dusky and streaked with grime.

  “Avery!” She slapped his face hard twice. “Avery!”

  He moaned, his head rolling to the side. He wouldn’t be able to get out of here under his own power.

  She screamed. As loud and as long as she could, she screamed but the roar of the blaze consumed her voice as easily as it consumed the stable roof and her cries for help turned into spasms of choking coughs.

  No one could hear her. There was no time to go for help. Her eyes already stung and her throat burned. She had to get him out.

  She snatched India’s headstall from its peg beside her stall and crouched down, tying first one then the other of Avery’s boots together, leaving a few feet of slack leather in between. She stepped between his legs, lifted the leather straps in both hands and pulled. His dead weight inched forward. She readjusted the leather across her hips and, like a mule in harness surged forward, praying the slender leather straps held his weight.