It seemed as if an eternity had passed before he was finally tearing through the streets of London on Aristides, the investigator’s horse doing his best to match the swift pace.
An eerie, orange glow on the horizon caused Roarke to spur his horse even faster. Rounding a corner, his heart suddenly lodged in his throat as he saw the flames shooting out of the familiar, ramshackle apartment building. His veins turned to ice, for his worst imaginings were quickly turning into reality.
A fire crew had only just arrived, along with a gathering crowd, but Roarke was oblivious to it all. He brought his mount to a skidding halt and leaped to the ground. Ignoring the shouts of protest around him, he was oblivious to the raging inferno, his focus on only one thing—Mara.
He covered his mouth with a handkerchief as he rushed into the building, for smoke was dense on the stairs. Finally making his way to the top, he slammed his shoulder into Mara’s front door, the wood instantly splintering apart. But the rolling, black cloud that rushed out at him made his eyes water and his lungs burn fiercely. “Mara!” His voice was little more than a croak as he called her name. “Mara!”
He crouched down, sweat and soot already sticking to him and blurring his vision, but he refused to give up.
Then he saw her.
She lay on her back in the doorway of the kitchen, where the fire’s greedy, orange flames were tearing up the walls with surprising speed. Nearly crawling, he managed to reach her still form. A bruise was starting to form at her temple, but what worried him most was the shallowness of her breathing.
Sending up a prayer that they might both make it out of this alive, Roarke struggled to pull her into his arms, the smoke already starting to affect his strength. Holding Mara close to his chest, Roarke clenched his jaw and began to head back the way he came, the heat and smoke making freedom seem miles away.
He faltered several times, but after what seemed like ages, Roarke finally stumbled outside. Falling to the ground, he coughed and breathed in the wonderfully clear air, closing his eyes in momentary relief as Mara began to do the same. Her face was smeared with ash, her luxurious blonde hair escaping its pins in total disarray, but Roarke thought she was the most beautiful creature on earth because she was still alive.
He hadn’t lost heragain.
One of the fire crew ran over to them. “Is there anyone else inside?”
Mara blinked and shook her head, though her eyes were still glazed over. “Bentley…gone,” Mara’s throat worked convulsively to get that much out before her lashes fluttered back down.
Davis rushed over to Roarke, where the viscount gave the man further instructions. “Inform Mr. Andrews and the rest of the men that I need them to assemble at Eversleigh House as soon as possible.”
“Of course, my lord. Is there anything I can do for you now?”
Roarke nodded wearily. “Yes. We are going to need a hackney.”
The investigator took off, returning moments later with the requested cab. Helping to lift Mara into the seat beside Eversleigh, Davis tied Aristides to the back before they set off.
Roarke leaned his head back against the squabs and was almost lulled into an exhausted slumber before they came to a shuddering halt at his townhouse. His groom quickly set to work taking care of his mount, while Winston’s careful reserve turned to shock. “My lord! Whatever happened…?”
Roarke, in turn, merely replied, “See that Miss Miller is given a room posthaste and that my physician is sent for.”
Reluctantly handing off Mara’s limp form to a footman, Roarke watched the servant’s ascent up the stairs with a decided tightness in his chest. “I’m also expecting Mr. Andrews and his men shortly. Inform me the moment they arrive.”
Roarke turned toward the stairs, intent on cleaning up and changing.
The butler suddenly recovered his senses. “Of course, my lord. However, I should mention that Lady Weston is waiting in the parlor.”
That halted Roarke’s progress. He frowned. “Lyra is here?”
“Yes.” The butler paused. “Should I tell her you are not receiving at the moment?”
Recalling the shape his sister had been in the last time he’d seen her, Roarke shook his head grimly. “No, that’s fine, Winston. Just see that a bath is prepared in my chamber when we have concluded our business.”
“Very good, my lord,” the butler said and rushed off.
Roarke walked into the parlor. He hesitated when he noticed Lyra standing by the mantle. Her back was to him, although it was her attire that gave him pause. She was dressed in a long, black cloak and a bonnet with a veil, but when she turned to him, she lifted the concealed netting to show that nearly the entire right side of her face was bruised and swollen.
With a tremulous smile, Lyra’s dark eyes welled with unshed tears. “I’m sorry to intrude, but…” She took note of his dirty appearance. “Is this…a bad time?”
For a moment, Roarke forgot about everything else as he felt a surge of fury rise up in him. Walking toward his sister, he gently brushed a lock of hair away from her disfigured cheek. “I’m going to kill that bastard,” he vowed quietly.
Lyra’s lower lip trembled. “I think I already did.”
* * *
