Suddenly dark eyes, insane eyes, were in front of her. Without warning. She felt blinding pain shooting through her jaw into the back of her skull, more pain as her head collided with something. The floor she realized. She felt a jerk on her arm, heard a roar, and the hold on her arm was gone.
Forcing her eyes open, she could see Claybourne and Avendale crashing around the room, with flames dancing around them as though they were in some macabre form of hell. Flames. Fire. She had to get up. She had to get help.
She struggled to her knees. The room spun around her. Crawling to the desk, she pulled herself up. How long had she been on the floor? She screamed for help, but already the flames were circling the room, blocking her way to the door, the windows. She considered trying to leap across them, but her skirts would surely catch on fire.
Reaching beneath her hem, intent on removing a petticoat so she’d have something to slap at the fire, she looked toward Claybourne. He had Avendale pinned to the floor. He punched him, once, twice—
Avendale bucked, throwing Claybourne off. Something else shattered. Another lamp.
Catherine pulled off her petticoat and began beating at the flames that were racing up the shelves devouring the books, the papers, the wooden shelves—
Dear God, was there a worse room for a fire to be let loose? So many flames rose higher and higher. And they were hot, so hot. The gray, billowing smoke made it difficult to see. Her eyes stung. Her lungs hurt.
Hearing a grunt, she looked back over her shoulder. Avendale had Claybourne bent backward over the desk, pummeling him. Catherine picked up a nearby statuette.
Coughing and gasping, she staggered over—
Avendale turned away from Claybourne and with an unholy glow in his eyes, punched her again. Staggering backward, she landed once more on the floor. She’d forgotten how he relished striking women.
Growling, Claybourne flung himself at Avendale, knocking him down. Avendale’s head hit the edge of a low table and he lay still, unmoving. Claybourne bent over him, pressed his ear to his chest. “He’s alive.”
“We’ve no way out, nowhere to hide,” Catherine yelled.
It seemed only then that Claybourne realized the dangerous predicament they were in.
“This way,” Claybourne ordered. He pulled Avendale upright, folded him over his shoulder, and lifted him up as he rose to his feet. In long strides, he reached the fireplace.
“What in the bloody hell do you think we’re going to do?” Catherine yelled. “Climb up the chimney flue?”
“No. We’re going to climb down. Grab a lamp.”
She was surprised that a lamp still remained, but she spotted one on a small table in the corner. Grabbing it, she watched as he did something along the side of the fireplace—
pushed something, pressed, pulled, she couldn’t see clearly with all the smoke—and a grinding, groaning began to echo through the room as one of the great shelves shifted forward, creating a passage behind the wall.
Something crashed. She felt as though her blood were beginning to boil.
“Come on. Quickly.” He pressed his hand to the small of her back, urging her into the darkened passage.
The lamp illuminated a set of stairs.
“Go down,” he ordered.
“Where does this go?”
“I don’t…I don’t bloody well know. I just know it’s safe. Go!”
She dashed down the stairs. It was cool here, the air while musty was easier to breathe.
At the bottom she reached a tunnel.
“Keep going,” he ordered.
She ducked cobwebs, thought she heard a rat squealing—but facing a rat was better than facing a fire. She came to a fork in the passage, stumbled to a stop.
“Keep right,” Claybourne said.
She glanced back at him. “Where does the other go?”
