“Yes, but—”
“And the others?”
“I think the fate of man is better left in the hands of God than the court of England.”
“And what about the fate of my wife?” Simon hated the tears, hated that he tasted salt in the cuts on his lips. “And my children. And—” He looked at Georgina again. He shouldn’t have, because the hurt clamped down on his throat and the only thing he could whisper was “Her.”
Mr. Wilkins shook his head, snot dripping from his bony nose. “I am sorry, Master Fancourt. I wanted it to end before it came to this. That is why we did everything we could to stop Patrick Brownlow from his blackmailing scheme…and that drunken woman…when they attempted to expose us. All I ever wanted was to end such an operation before anyone else was hurt.”
The door banged and Rupert charged down the steps again. This time with a lantern in each grasp. “The carriage is ready. Come on.”
“I am coming.” For the hundredth time, Mr. Wilkins cleared his throat. A nervous habit, something he used to do when he served a silver tray of tea to Father’s important guests, or when the unmarried housekeeper flashed him a wink in the corridor at Sowerby.
One of the lanterns crashed against a crate. Flames burst.
“Let’s go.” Rupert ripped down the one from the beam. He slung it to another corner of the room, grabbed Mr. Wilkins’ arm, and yanked him toward the stairs.
But the butler turned back.
A tremor racked his body as he fumbled in his pockets and finally found the handkerchief he had been searching for. He swept it below Simon’s nose, soaking up blood, patting him dry. “I am sorry, sir. Very sorry.” He hesitated. “I hope someday I can forgive myself for what I have done.”
Then he followed his brother up the shifting wooden stairs. The third lantern exploded at the bottom. The door slammed. The lock rattled. The fire whooshed higher from too many places in the room.
Desperation gut punched Simon. He had to get them loose. Grinding his teeth, he heaved his chair toward the blazing crate. It toppled sideways, but he used his elbow to scoot closer. Closer. Closer.
“Simon.”
Please, Lord.
The flames licked close to his skin, but not close enough. With one final lunge, the fire singed him. Eating into his ropes, flickering across his hands, swathing him in sensations that were oddly cold and tingling.
“Simon!”
He ripped his arms free and dragged himself away from the crate. He untangled from the ropes, rolled from the chair, suffocated the fire on his shirt. The shadows tried to close in on him. He breathed. In, out, in, out, coughing.
The smoke already stung his eyes as he crawled for the beam.
He caught her face.
Her hair tickled his raw skin and heightened the pain, but he dipped forward anyway. Absurdity. He didn’t know what he was doing. His mouth pressed into hers—at first hard, desperate, every ounce of his frenzy and confusion tangled in her lips.
He pulled away.
Then kissed her again. This time slower, her softness enveloping, her sweetness warding off the blackness. Too many senses awoke. Warmth knifed through the horror. She was all the things he had never allowed his mind to imagine. Everything beautiful. Wonderful. He loved her…loved her because she was the lifeline that kept pulling him from the waves.
Only now she was going down too.
His fault.
“Forgive me.” The words ripped out of him. He pushed the hair out of her face, rubbed both quivering cheeks, then devoured her lips one more time.
How easily she melted into him.
And belonged to him.
Maybe she had always been his—from the beginning, in the spring of their promise, when they had been bashful children. Then more at the dull musicales and quiet parlor visits. Then more on the summer carriage rides, when he had told her all the things he’d never told anyone else.
Lord, help me.He grabbed the iron chain and pulled. His panic escalated. He yelled and yanked again.
