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Marco yelled out loud, hoping someone would hear him raise the alarm as he ran to grab the water jug from the washstand. He threw it on the burning rug, then seized his counterpane, folding it over to pound at the fire in an effort to smother it, but it was hopeless as the flames licked outward. Dashing into his private drawing room, he threw open the door and shouted again at the top of his lungs.

“Fire!”

Running back inside, he snatched up the tartan pillows from the chaise lounge to run back into the bedchamber and beat at the flames frantically as heat and black smoke billowed up in clouds.

From the depths of the house, he heard an answering shout, echoing his alarm. “Fire! Wake up! Fire!”

He nearly wept in relief that someone had heard him, and within moments, Sebastian ran in and joined him to stamp at the flames with his boots, while smoke swirled around them. Marco dropped a pillow, burying his face into an elbow to ease his coughing as he continued to thump at the flames.

A chorus of shouts sounded in the distance, signaling that more help was coming, but Marco continued to beat at the flames as if he were the only one who could save the house. The thought of this elegant home burning to the ground was too horrible to conceive. Allowing beautiful Molly or his ill uncle or even the irritable Nicholas to come to any harm was too awful to contemplate.

Soon more arrived with buckets of water, and Sebastian dragged him from the chamber, insistent despite Marco’s resistance. “You need to catch your breath, my friend.”

Out in the hall it was chaos, bodies rushing back and forth while shouts rang out in distress until, finally, Angelo called from the interior of the room that the fire had been put out. Marco’s legs went weak with relief, and he sank to his knees to hack violently as he tried to pull oxygen into his lungs.

Sebastian tugged at his arm. “Come with me. You need a drink.”

Marco struggled to his feet, his eyes and throat burning from the smoke, but obeyed, following the Norseman down the stairs.

“I am fortunate you were up so late,” croaked Marco, gesturing to Sebastian’s charred boots.

His friend glanced down, still fully attired in the early hours except for shedding his coat and cravat, his shirt hanging open at the neck and his waistcoat unbuttoned. “I am struggling to sleep. Being home is bringing back memories.”

Marco nodded, understanding the sentiment as Sebastian led him into the library, where he threw the terrace doors open and the clean, cool rush of air eased his discomfort. He slumped into an armchair.

It was his fourth day in England and his third brush with death.

Sebastian hunted about for a drink until Marco finally reminded him that they had been told the house had been emptied of spirits after Nicholas had begun his dry spell. Cursing, the tall Englishman spun on his heel to depart the library without explanation. A few minutes later, he returned with Angelo, who hurried to look Marco over, his own face covered in soot so that the whites of his eyes glowed starkly in contrast.

“How are you?”

“My throat aches, as do my lungs,” Marco replied hoarsely.

Angelo nodded. “You will have the worst of the smoke inhalation. I shall prepare a herbal tea with honey from my supplies. That will calm the physiological effects for you and the rest who fought the fire.”

His brother handed him a thick dressing robe, which was when Marco realized he was dressed in a thin linen nightshirt that barely covered his knees. He was shivering in the draft blowing through the open doors, his body tightening instinctively against the cold, making the robe most welcome indeed.

The thoughtful gesture made him reach out to grasp Angelo’s arm in gratitude, who nodded before hurrying off. Soon after, Molly appeared with her lapdog at her heels, and Marco was grateful he was properly robed for the encounter. He assured her that he was well, maintaining a proper reserve for the French companion, but wishing he could reach out and embrace her. The vision of her trapped in hell had been most disturbing to his peace of mind. More than that, he could not shake the whimsy that it had been the divine hand of fate, embodied by Molly’s haunting presence, that had awoken him from his nightmares. He wanted to pack his trunks and leave England to end this train of death-defying incidents, but the urge to protect her and their family fought back with vehemence, leaving him drained and reeling, not to mention the searing pain of his throat, lungs, and eyes, added to the throb of his bruised ribs. Every aspect of this journey to England was turning into a veritable visit to Dante’s Inferno.