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An oppressive heaviness sat in her chest. She was tired, hungry, and frightened.

It took every gram of fortitude she possessed not to succumb to tears.

She clenched her jaw, in her mind imagining the texture of her Ice Witch cloak.

She draped it about herself, willing the rents and tears it had suffered of late to disappear. She took a deep breath.

Sir Helmsdon laid his bound hands over hers.

He gently squeezed her hands, giving her what silent support he could.

If Georgie and Sophie succeeded in marrying him to Jane—though what threat they would use if either said no, he was reluctant to consider—he would not be the winner he’d once anticipated.

He found he admired Jane and that he truly loved her.

His past protestations of love sounded hollow and false in his own ears.

He knew now that it was because he loved her that he did not wish to marry her.

He eyed Sophie as Georgie went up to the cottage.

There was a grim set to her mouth that warned against unwarranted heroics.

If he proved too recalcitrant, he did not put it past them to find the first available plowboy to stand as Jane’s groom.

There had to be a way to avoid this situation.

He’d learned when the duns pressed the worst, there was always a way to avoid them.

Something came about. He didn’t know what it would be, but he had to be ready to grab for it when it came his way.

Then Georgie was back, hustling them into the dimly-lit cottage.

Jane and Helmsdon strained their eyes against the gloom.

There, standing by a faintly smoking fireplace, stood a stooped, straggly-haired man dressed in rusty black.

He stared at them with sharp, beady eyes reflecting red coals from the hearth.

He looked more like one of those religious zealots than a Church of England clergyman.

“So, this is to be the bride and groom?” he said with a laugh to match his attire. Stooped and nearly hunchbacked, he shuffled forward, cupping Jane’s face between long dirty fingers.

Jane jerked her head back, glaring at him.

He laughed again and turned his attention to Sir Helmsdon. "I’ve heard of you, sir. You will stand to profit the most from this, ah, transaction.” He canted his head slowly toward the other shoulder. "Why do you resist?”

“For the reason that I am being forced,” he ground out, “which is a circumstance that should be abhorrent to you as a man of the cloth.”

“A reg’lar little fire-eater, ain’t you? A pocket knight,” he observed, laughing again.

“Enough chatter,” Georgie growled. "Will you do it or not?”

“For a price, my friend, only for a price.”

“Well, of course! I ain’t so lost to reason.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” the man murmured, patting his pockets for the spectacles that rested among grizzled locks on his head.

He finally found them and pulled them down on the bridge of his nose.

He stooped to pick up a worn black Bible.

"Eh, what price?” he asked, looking at Georgie sideways, a ghoul in the dim light.

“Fifty pounds,” Georgie growled.

The scraggly man putted about, muttering to himself; then he straightened, staring Georgie in the eye. "Not enough,” he said.

Georgie’s mouth worked with rage. Nothing this day was working out right. They should have been far away by now, on the road to London. He seemed ready to slug the man until Sophie laid a staying hand on his arm.

“One ’undred pounds, you old robber, and not a penny mor’r you’ll find word of your not-so-Godlike activities lodged with Bow Street,” she threatened.

Crawley scratched his whiskers. "You have a right persuasive way about you. All right, one hundred it is. But I still can’t do it if you don’t have a license.”

Sophie reached into her reticule and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. She unfolded it and smoothed it out, then handed it to him. " ’Ere, this’ll make it legal-like."

He took it from her and shuffled over to the lamp, leaning down to read by its weak light.

A horrible coldness began to grip Jane. It spread throughout her body, working its way toward her heart.

The oppressive dread made her limbs lead weights.

Her mind struggled against the invading cold.

Her eyes were drawn repeatedly to the single lamp and the warmth of its flame.

She began to feel she needed that flame, that she required its warmth to melt the icy haze of gloom.

She scarcely heard what the others said around her.

She walked forward like a puppet to stand by the table, facing the hearth, as Crawley read the marriage vows.

His voice was like a bee buzzing in her brain.

She hung her head down, concentrating on that pure flame burning in the glass globe.

Next to her, Sir Helmsdon was tense, but she couldn’t tell him what she intended, couldn’t warn him.

Suddenly Crawley was at the part where they must answer.

He was muttering words of honor and obedience.

“ NO !" Jane shrieked as she threw herself against the round oak table, pulling Sir Helmsdon with her, knocking him off-balance.

He fell to his knees. The table was heavier than it looked.

Watching it tilt and topple, Jane felt like she was watching something in a dream.

It seemed so slow. The lantern finally crashed to the floor, shattering.

With a whoosh, a bright yellow and orange flame shot up.

It caught the fabric of the greasy, stained tablecloth.

Behind her, Sophie screamed. Sir Helmsdon struggled to stand up.

He pulled at Jane to get her away from the flames.

Swearing, Georgie picked up a pillow and began beating at the fire, shouting at Crawley to help him, but Crawley had other interests.

He ran to a cupboard and pawed frantically through the contents, throwing things every which way.

Thick smoke stung Jane’s eyes and burned her throat when she breathed. She coughed, stumbling after Helmsdon toward the door. Georgie saw them escaping, and his rage blossomed. "Witch!” he yelled, dropping the pillow and abandoning his fruitless efforts to stop the spread of the blaze.

He grabbed for Jane, using his bulky weight as an anchor.

Suddenly caught between Helmsdon and Georgie, Jane felt her arms would tear from their sockets.

She fought, twisting and turning. Helmsdon charged Georgie like a bull, butting him in the stomach.

Georgie fell back, letting go of his grasp.

The edge of his coat caught fire. He screamed, beating at his clothing like a madman.

Crawley retrieved a heavy sack from the cupboard.

Clutching it closely to his chest, he scuttled toward the door.

Sophie was in front of him. He would have pushed her out of his way, but she fought like a wild thing.

Finally, together they pulled the door open to be confronted by two large black shapes with pistols pointed straight at them.

But they all gave way before the screams and the terrifying image of a burning man, a denizen of hell, charging toward them.

With even his hair on fire now, Georgie ran screaming past them to fling himself into the long grass outside the cottage.

He rolled frantically to smother the fire.

Jane, with Helmsdon in tow, ran after him.

With her bound hands she beat at the remaining flames on Georgie.

She scarcely noticed when the rope binding her to Helmsdon parted until the last of the fires on Georgie were out.

The smell of burned flesh rivaled that of burning wood, causing the others to gag. A blackened, distorted mass of flesh and bone lay on the ground, barely conscious. Tears welled in Jane’s eyes. "Oh, Georgie,” she murmured.

His cracked lips parted, blood-red against black. "I just wanted to show my Mama . . .” he rasped, straining to get the words out. A gurgling sounded in his throat, then silence.

Gentle hands pulled Jane up and away. Sobbing, she found her face pressed against a broad chest with a familiar masculine scent.

Her head was stroked as soothing words were murmured in her ear.

Behind her, the fire burned hotter. A loud boom and crash warned everyone that the cottage was doomed.

Barely conscious, Jane found herself lifted off her feet and carried away from the heat and smell of the blaze.

She curled against the solid warmth that held her. She whimpered as she was carried to a nearby horse. Like a mechanical puppet, she waited docilely by the animal while her benefactor mounted and lifted her into the saddle before him.

A wail pierced the quiet of the crackling flames.

With dim surprise, Jane realized the sound came from her.

A choked sob caught in her throat as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her.

She pressed her face against the solid masculine warmth, clinging while he kept up a litany of soothing words.

Slowly Jane relaxed her muscles. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Then everything went black.