by Donna Hatch
Emma leaned against the door jam, her mouth pulled to one side. “There is something more going to happen tonight. I heard talk of some kind of weapon, a big one. I don’t know what it is, but if your man and the other constables go there expecting only men with guns…”
Alarm blasted through Jocelyn’s veins. “We have to warn them.”
“I’ve told them already.”
“What precautions are they taking?”
“I have no idea.”
Moments later, she slipped away, leaving Jocelyn frantic with worry. A dozen times she made up her mind to go to Bow Street and beg Grant to leave the peacekeeping to the Runners, but he would resent her interference. He was an able man, he didn’t need a worried female getting in his way. Besides, twilight had already enshrouded the city which meant the dinner party would probably begin soon. Grant may already be there, getting into position to apprehend the conspirators and protecting the prime minister. If only she knew something that would help them!
Jocelyn changed for dinner but her anxiety had smothered her appetite. She paced in the dining room awaiting her father, hardly noting the smells of food.
When Papa arrived for dinner, he took a single glance at Jocelyn’s face and immediately went to her. “What is it, princess? Are you concerned about the events occurring this evening?”
“I’m so worried about Grant. If he should be hurt…” her throat closed off her words with a squeak.
Her father took her into an embrace. “I know. But he’s a capable young man. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”
She clung to her father, praying that Grant would be safe. If only she could help in some way. Remaining safe at home while Grant put himself in harm’s way seemed a poor way to show her affection. Her love.
“I’m having dinner with Lady Everett before we go to the opera. Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. Have a lovely evening.”
He hesitated. “Do you want to come with us? There is space in the box.”
“No. Go on. I look forward to a quiet evening.”
He kissed her and left. Jocelyn ate dinner alone and wandered into the library in search of something to take her mind off the danger Grant faced. But the smell of books only reminded her of that moment in the country library when he’d trapped her with his arms on the ladder and that undeniable attraction sizzled between them.
A sudden blast shook the house. “Good heavens,” she exclaimed. “Was that thunder?” She parted the curtains and peered out, but the sky remained clear. Long fingers of sunset spread outward from the west and cast buildings into silhouette.
Like an approaching ocean wave, screams and cries of alarm grew louder and closer. Over the rooftops, a black cloud boiled. Not a cloud. Smoke.
All at once she knew: the weapon.
Grant.
Jocelyn raced outside, winding through streets and alleys until she reached the area producing smoke. Smoke hung over the neighborhood, stinging eyes and throats. As Jocelyn raced nearer, the collapsed wreckage of a house came into view. She knew that house. One of the members of the cabinet, Lord Tierney, lived there. Jocelyn attended a balls there every Season. This must have been the house where the cabinet was scheduled to dine and where the conspirators planned to strike.
Had the prime minister gotten out safely? The cabinet?
Grant?
She ran toward the ruined structure. “Grant!” she screamed.
A man blocked her path. “Stay back. It’s still collapsing.”
“Is Grant Amesbury out? Is he safe?”
The man shook his head. “Don’t know ’im.”
Another form reached her. “Miss Fairley?” Jackson, his face grimy with dirt and sweat, stood in front of her. “Stay on the other side of the street.” Jackson joined a loose ring forming on the perimeter, watching as if awaiting their moment to act.
The odor of black powder stung her nose and watered her eyes. Cries and screams echoed in a confusing raucous. From next door, a large group of armed men stepped out, forming a protective barrier around a several men huddled together. The familiar faces of Lord Liverpool, Lord Tierney, and several cabinet members made up the center of the cluster. Armed guards hustled the government officials into waiting coaches.
But what of the brave Runners and agents who’d saved them? What of Grant? He was not among the guards.
She wanted to scream at the men standing outside the crumbled building to do something, to stop waiting around and to find Grant, but smoke lingered like a caustic blanket. Two men ventured toward the collapsed building, but the thick smoke drove them off.
Unable to watch any longer without doing something to help, Jocelyn pushed through the rapidly forming crowd toward Jackson. He stood, tense and expectant, his eyes so trained on the scene of the disaster that he didn’t seem to notice her presence. Her nerves bunched, anxious to leap forward. She wiped her burning watering eyes and nose, and coughed. She searched for Grant’s familiar form. Where was he? So many people stood nearby that he could be anywhere.
As the last of the smoke cleared, members forming the ring around the building broke and climbed cautiously among the rubble. As sunlight faded, the concerned, or possibly merely the curious, brought torches and lanterns, holding them aloft so others could see their way.
Grant was not among the helpers. Rescuers lifted shattered timbers and collapsed stone fireplaces as they searched for those still trapped inside.
Someone called, “Amesbury? I’m coming for you. You hang on, understood? That’s an order!”
Jocelyn glanced at the man but in the dim light could barely make out his form. Whoever he was, he believed Grant was in the rubble which meant he was caught in the explosion. Underneath the wreckage. Trapped.
He was not dead. He lived. He had to. He’d survived war, capture, dozens of fights. Surely he’d survive a bomb. He’d know how to protect himself.
Of course, if he’d used his body to shield another, the way he’d used his body to shield her when she’d fallen….
No. He was alive.
Every nerve screamed to search for him. She leaped forward and ran to the nearest heap of broken brick. “Grant?”
Black powder burned her nose. Using all her strength, she picked up pieces of brick and plaster, digging her way through. She rolled back something the size of a stone. Someone moaned.
“Grant?” Encouraged, she began digging, clawing.
She found a warm hand that clutched at her. A hoarse cry came from underneath the pile of bricks. Frantic now, she continued removing the broken remnants of the house.
“Help me!” she shouted. “I’ve found someone!”
Someone brought light, and others helped. Volunteers unburied a living man, with blood seeping from his face and his arm crushed. A stranger.
Disappointment burned in her tears, but she blinked them back. If one man had been buried and survived, others would, too. Within moments, the highborn worked alongside jarveys and pickpockets as dozens worked to rescue the fallen. Three more men were carried from the heap, two alive but one dead.
Not Grant. He was alive. He was alive. She sang that mantra over and over in her head. Only vaguely registering pain in her arms and hands, she continued removing anything within her strength to lift or roll out of the way. Her heart jumping at irregular intervals, she worked at clearing away the wreckage.
A carriage and galloping horses’ hooves clattered to the scene. “How many are still missing?” someone shouted breathlessly as if he’d just arrived.
“Nine that we know of.” It sounded like Jackson’s voice.
“Grant Amesbury?”
No reply. The man must have shaken his head.
The other man swore. “Find him!”
She kept up the work, praying Grant was alive and unharmed. He might not be hurt, only trapped. It was possible. Anything was possible.
As she focused on clearing the area, she fell into a state of calm where her fear faded. H
er back ached and her fingers were fiery, but on she searched. She would not give up, could not give up, until he was found. Others arrived, calling names of loved ones, but she tuned them out.
Someone frantically yelled, “Let me through! My brother’s in there!”
Jocelyn stayed focused on digging, lifting, dragging. Her fingers left darkened smears on everything, but she kept at it. He was alive. He had to be. She had only to find him and then everything would be all right. He’d be safe. And she’d have another chance to prove to him that she loved him truly. Somehow she’d convince him to trust her.
As she pulled away yet another broken pipe, she found something. A boot? She tugged gently, but it stuck fast. She felt along the boot, finding a leg.
She called, “I found someone!”
Others rushed to assist her and soon uncovered the lower half of a man lying on his stomach. The rescuers lifted a broken table from on top of him. Someone brought more light. Dark clothing, including a wool coat littered with dust and debris, covered his broad-shouldered back. A large piece of plaster lay over his upper shoulders and head.
Jocelyn dropped to her knees and pressed a hand to his back. “Grant?”
A helper lifted off the plaster to reveal the fallen man’s dark hair dusted with white and small rocks. He lay motionless. Dark liquid concealed his features, but she knew the shape of his face.
Jocelyn gently placed both hands on his head, one on his cheek, and bent over, listening for signs of life. “Grant.” It came out half a prayer, half a sob.
Please, please answer.
Chapter 31
Grant lay entombed in a silent world of darkness. Unable to move, a weight slowly crushing the life out of him, he fought to stay conscious. Breathe. Look for light. Stay awake. Pain shot through him every time he coughed, and blackness threatened to drag him under. He fought back to consciousness.
Faces passed through his mind—his family, friends long gone, comrades-at-arms. As if it were moments ago, the final taunting words hurled by the liar whom Grant thought he’d loved returned as she’d revealed her cruelest possible vengeance.
He’d loved her—an explosive, passionate love fed by her too-good-to-be-true charm and mysterious allure. But she’d never cared for him. She’d lied to him, used him, betrayed him, cheerfully delivered him to the French butcher and left him to suffer and die. He’d vowed never to let another woman use him again. Better to be alone than allow his heart to be torn out and shredded again. His misused heart had shriveled to a blackened, hardened, stump.
Until he’d met Jocelyn. She offered a pure, unselfish love that had grown so slowly he almost hadn’t detected it. When, exactly, she’d gone from being the annoying daughter of his prime suspect to a lady who occupied his thoughts and a large part of his now-living heart, he couldn’t have said. But she patiently loved him, waiting for him to trust her.
Unconsciousness hovered nearby, offering an escape from pain, from life. If he succumbed, if he let go and left this life, he’d never see her, never hold her close and bask in the wholeness of being with her. Jocelyn had opened him up to a new world. He was a better, braver, nobler man for knowing her.
For too long, he’d allowed anger and bitterness to cut him off from the very people he should have turned to when he’d been so deeply wounded. When Jason died and Grant had blamed Christian for the fatal dare, Grant had shut himself off from his family, failing to give and offer the support and comfort that he should have found with them. He’d closed up even more when he got home from the war. He’d denied himself the healing he would have found from those who truly cared.
The darkness returned, singing like a siren’s song. He fought against it. He wasn’t ready to die. He had denied himself the love of a genuinely giving, loving woman who, for some unexplained reason, seemed to love him—even the darkest part of him. She’d shone her light into all those dark places and chased out the monsters lurking there, leaving him as close to a state of peace as he’d ever known.
If by some miracle he ever saw Jocelyn again, he wouldn’t squander their time together. He’d accept the gift of her love and let her show him how to love her in return. He had a few ideas of his own. The weight on his back pressed down on him, cutting off his breath, and the darkness called again. His body slipped into numb weightlessness.
No. He wasn’t done yet. Jocelyn. He had to get back to her. He had to tell her and show her that he loved her. The truth crept over him like a sunrise. He loved Jocelyn. He loved her—not like the volatile chemistry he’d felt with Isabel. No, his love for Jocelyn came as a warm tenderness and a desire to bring her happiness.
He loved her.
He tried again to move, to breathe, but whatever pinned him, and searing pain, kept him immobilized. He swam in a world of gray where feeling slipped blissfully away, promising a permanent release of all pain, all sorrow.
Light. Voices. Air.
Pain.
“Grant.” From a distance, Jocelyn’s voice called him.
He battled his way toward her. Gentle hands rested on his hair, his face.
“Is he alive?” asked a familiar voice. Christian?
“Grant!” Jared, or maybe Cole.
Did he imagine his brothers’ voices? Where were they? Where was he?
“Grant. Please come back to me.” Jocelyn’s panic-laden tone pulled him into awareness.
He opened his eyes and drew a full breath. Shards cut into his cheek, but he could finally breathe. Sweet breath. Such relief. Of course, breathing hurt like the devil, but the pleasure of filling his lungs overrode discomfort.
Jocelyn let out a sound that might have been a sob or a laugh. Opening his eyes, he reached for her. She enfolded his hands in hers. All the words he longed to say jumbled around in his head, none finding their way out of his mouth. Poorly illuminated by a nearby lantern, her face hovered inches from his. He turned his head as far as he could to get a good look at her. He devoured the sight of her—her face smudged with dirt and soot, her hair mostly falling out of her hairstyle, her torn and filthy clothing, and her blackened and bleeding hands.
Memory returned in a flash. The explosion. He’d been buried. Jocelyn had clearly helped dig him out—because she was loyal and true. All the pretty words he should have said to her left him, and he said the first thing that came to mind.
“Daft woman. When are you going to stay home when I tell you?” He tried to scowl but it came out as a feeble smile.
She laughed and cried and fell over him, trying to embrace him where he lay, unaware how much her weight hurt. Through gritted teeth, he moaned.
She shot upright. “I’m sorry! I should have known you were hurt.”
“It’s not bad but your crushing me isn’t helping.” He squeezed her hand to soften his words.
She leaned in close to his face. A tired, welcoming smile curved her delicious mouth and a decidedly playful light touched her eyes. “What would help?” Did he imagine the provocative tone in her voice?
He had a few ideas what would help.
Someone fell to his knees next to Jocelyn. “You gave us a scare.”
Cole, as dirty and rumpled as Grant hadn’t seen him in, well, ever, eyed Grant, his expression grave. Next to him Jared stood pale-faced. Christian stood a few paces back. All his brothers had the haggard faces and torn and dirty clothing of soldiers on a battlefield. His brothers. They’d come to search for him. To find him. To help him. Just as they always would have if he’d allowed them to be there for him. Just as they always would in the future—not because they owed him but because they were his brothers. He’d been a fool to isolate himself from his family. From love.
Grant pushed himself up on his elbows and tried to breathe through pain. Several hands reached out to help him rise. He sat, gasping and holding his ribs. One of those hands gripped his shoulder.
Cole shook his head. “When I heard what happened, I knew you’d be here. I vow, I nearly died when I heard you were caught in the exp
losion...”
Jared’s smile shone eerily white in his streaked face. “Naw, the devil doesn’t want Grant in the fiery pit just yet.”
Christian stood apart, clearing his throat quietly. Grant almost smiled. Christian always was a soft-hearted boy. But that he’d become emotional over a dark soul like Grant... a humbling realization, actually. Grant clasped Cole’s hand, then Jared’s. Jared threw his arms around him, careful not to aggravate his sore ribs. Then he clapped him on the shoulder. Grant winced.
Jared’s mouth twisted to a wry grin. “We’re still not even, though.”
As a current of memories tripped through is mind—Jared in prison, his raw back crisscrossed with lash marks, of cutting him down from the gallows, the battle to bring him back from near death—Grant gave him a grim smile. “I’ll hold it over your head for the rest of your life.”
Jared clapped him on the shoulder. Grant groaned.
Christian met his gaze, nodded, and picked his way through the rubble to Barnes who came up to stand behind Cole. “Is anyone else missing?”
“No,” Barnes said. “Everyone is accounted for now.”
Nodding, Christian glanced at Grant and offered a tentative smile before turning away.
Grant lifted his head and offered Richard Barnes a wan smile. “You really ought to stop rescuing me.”
Barnes gestured to Jocelyn. “She beat me to it this time. I’m much obliged to you, miss. I’m Richard Barnes, at your service.”
“Jocelyn Fairley. A pleasure.”
“Fairley? Ah.” He held out a hand to Grant. “A couple of doctors are here. Let’s have one of them check you. Both of you.” His gaze flicked to Jocelyn.
As Grant took his hand and hauled himself to a stand, gritting his teeth in pain, Jocelyn slipped underneath his arm and wrapped one of hers around his waist, carefully avoiding his sore ribs. “Lean on me. I’ll support you.”
He studied her for a long moment, finding only concern and pure, open affection in her face, her eyes. “Yes. I believe you will.”
Her soft smile warmed every cold part of his body, even his heart. Once the doctor examined and treated them, they bade farewell to their friends and family.