There was an outburst of alarm from the other men. The earl seemed transfixed, and stood motionless, gawking at Gideon in almost comical consternation. “’Sblood,” he half-whispered. “I think I will find out how you learned that, you curst young puppy! And for a start, I’ll take the two jewelled men you stole.” He thrust out his hand. “Now.”
Gideon smiled thinly. “Not now.”
The earl glanced at Bill, and jerked his head.
Bill grinned. “My turn at the gent now, is it—sir?”
“Just search him,” said the earl coldly.
Gideon said, “I did not bring them with me.”
“We’ll see that,” jeered Bill. “Hold him, you two.” His search was unnecessarily brutal, but thorough. He grunted, “He ain’t got ’em.”
Collington asked gently, “Where are they? You’ll do better to tell me now, Rossiter. I dislike violence.”
“Never you fear, sir, I’ll be glad to help him remember,” offered Bill.
The north countryman, half-drunk, said thickly, “So will I. And I know how t’make the perisher tell anythin’—damned quick.” He snatched up a ragged newspaper and held it over the lamp so that it burst into flame. “If I was t’drop this,” he jeered, lurching unsteadily towards Gideon, “y’ pretty lady’d—”
Gideon sprang for him, but the vindictive Bill backhanded him hard across the mouth, sending him tumbling through a wheeling blur of light and shadow. Dimly, he heard a flurry of frenzied shouting. “Get some water!… Throw this on it!… Not theginyou idiot!”
There was a great deal of confusion, but the voices faded and faded until they were quite gone…
The colonel’s guess that this would be a major engagement had evidently been correct. The smoke was thick on the battlefield. Odd that he could hear no musketry or cannon… Someone was damning the men furiously, demanding that they “get up there!” Boots stamped past, making the smoke swirl. His eyes stung, and he coughed feebly. He’d been hit again apparently, but he must get to his feet. The men needed him. It was very hot. Unusual for spring in the Low Countries… He could hear the voices again, becoming clearer now.
“…can’t get upthemstairs, no matter what he says!… Be murder!…Listen!Them was shots!… Get out! Get out!… He’s gorn ain’t he?… Hell with Rossiter! He nigh got the lot of us! Let him burn with her!”
Her…?Naomi!
Gideon’s mind cleared in a flash. The smoke was a pulsing orange. He could hear the crackling of flames. That drunken lout must have dropped his makeshift torch and this rotted old building was ripe for fire. And Naomi was upstairs. Perhaps tied! “My God!” he gasped, and lurched to his feet.
The scene tilted. Coughing, he staggered to the side, putting out a hand to steady himself against the wall. It was hot. He was alone. The men were running away, and Collington, the cowardly swine, had abandoned his helpless daughter to the flames! Rage seared through him. Tearing out his handkerchief, he covered his nose and mouth and groped his way to the stairs. Lord, but it was hot! There were flames on every side, and when he reached the stairs he met a solid wall of fire. A glowing tongue licked at his arm and the lace at his wrist began to smoulder. Retreating, he beat the sparks out. It was hopeless, all right. He could scarcely breathe, and his eyes were streaming. Turning, he plunged blindly for the door.
He was outside, choking, dizzied, the wind buffeting him again. Distant shouts and another gunshot registered on his mind dimly. He gulped in air. Flames and smoke gushed from the lower windows. The place was going up like a bonfire. Hemustget to her.
The wheel! He raced around to the side and stepped down into the sluggish stream. The old wheel loomed above him, up and up, seemingly to the clouds. His foot broke through the first blade, and it was no use. His knees grew weak at the very sight of that soaring wheel. But he must! Hemust! He snatched at a spoke and climbed onto the next blade. It held and he went up, his right hand gripping the rim, his left clinging to one spoke until he could reach the next, since the spokes were sturdier than the rim or the thinner blades of the wheel. He kept his eyes on the small window in the loft, gritting his teeth, refusing to yield to the familiar and debilitating panic that was hammering at him, causing his heart to jolt, his legs to shake under him. His hands were wet with sweat; he could feel it trickling down his forehead and between his shoulder blades, and knew it came not from the heat, but from his lifelong terror of heights. Each movement was a battle against fear so intense that he was nauseated, but he forced his cringing body to climb higher. His love was trapped in that furnace beside him!
He was halfway up when a howling gust sent the wheel slamming against the wall of the mill. The blade splintered beneath his feet and only his hold on the spoke saved him. The impact tore his grip from the rim, and for a hideous few seconds he swung by his left hand alone, the old wound in his shoulder sending agonizing jabs through him. Consciousness reeled, but he sank his teeth into his lip and thought of Naomi’s sweet face as he grabbed frantically for the rim. His questing foot found another spoke and he was able to steady himself and seize the rim with his right hand again. Gasping for breath, fighting weakness and fear, his streaming eyes barely able to see, he fought his way doggedly upward through ever thickening clouds of smoke.
***
Naomi clambered from the chair when she heard the shot, and ran to the door, pressing her ear against the wood. There could be no doubt now. There was a battle royal going on downstairs. She could hear shouts and cursing and crashes as they blundered about.
It was quieter suddenly. A temporary hush giving way to a clamour that held the unmistakable ring of panic. Nightmarishly, she caught a whiff of something burning. She felt faint. They had set fire to this horrid place and she would be burned to death up here!
Beating her fists on the door, she screamed, “Let me out! Help me! Please—don’t leave—” But horror choked off her words. Smoke came curling under the door. She could hear a frightful sound—a crackling that grew louder by the second. Someone howled “Murder!” And another voice, fading, “Let him burn with her!”
She thought briefly that there must indeed have been a fight, and that one of them had been slain. She moaned distractedly, and tottered back to climb up on the chair. Her hands were shaking as she grasped her ladder. Taking careful aim, she threw. The loop slipped over the plank, and she held her breath, but when she tugged, down it came again. The air in the room was already growing blue with smoke, the smell of it strong and acrid, and her eyes began to smart. She knew with a sob of terror that she would have time for only one or two more tries and then she might not even be able to see the plank.
“Please dear God,” she whispered. “Help me!” She tossed, blinking tears away as she gazed upward. The mug swung down at her, but then stopped, and dangled far above. The loop had gone over the plank! With a little cry of joy and gratitude, she tugged gently, then less gently. It did not come down. She hoist the skirts of her habit, gripped the sides of the ladder—oh, how frail and fragile they felt!—and put her foot in the first rung. If it broke, or if the plank was loose and came down, she was surely doomed. But although the ladder twisted and became very narrow, it didn’t break. In her ears was a low and terrible roaring, and the air was getting warm. Praying frantically, she had to struggle to force her boot into the next twisting rung. The ladder swayed, the plank creaked. Her heart seemed to stop. Peering, it seemed to her that the plank was slanting downward. Was it going to break? Dear God in heaven—was she going to fall back?
“Naomi! Naomi! Are you in there?”
Gideon’s voice!
She was so overjoyed she almost fainted. Her throat seemed to swell shut so that her answer was a barely audible croak.
Incredibly, wonderfully, she saw his face, dirty, bloodied, and beloved, peering down at her.
