Page 54

Fire tests gold and adversity tests the brave.

SENECA

“Wake up! Oh wake up, Rafe! Fire! Fire!”

So hot. I tried to lick my lips and failed. They felt strangely misshapen and swollen, refusing to move. Even my teeth ached, which was odd.

Why was I on the blasted ridge at Bussaco again? I raised my saber as the morning fog crept like a living thing through the mountains, up and over the ridge, flowing like a bridal veil. Instead of a damp mist enveloping my feet, the stench of smoke filled my nostrils, forcing me to cough.

Any moment now, I would sound the signal for the cannons to belch fire. I glanced at my soldiers, who looked to me for guidance. In vain I searched for Lewis’s steady presence, but I could not find him.

“Rafe! Don’t you see the flames? If you do not wake up, we’ll die.” The voice sounded like Bridget’s. She let out a sob.

My eyes flared open. I blinked rapidly at the orange glow emanating from the southern wall with flames licking the freshly painted plaster. I winced, my head throbbing to a wicked tempo as I scanned the inside of the brewery.

I sat on a wooden chair, clad only in my shirt, trousers, and shoes. The once-white fabric of my shirt was stained with splatters of blood. My own. My wrists were tied behind my back.

And that voice that demanded I wake up...

Surely this was just another terrifying dream.

“Bridget?” I rasped.

“Rafe!” she exclaimed from behind me. Dread flooded through me when I tried to jerk free and couldn’t.

“I was so afraid for you. Mr. Beaumont dragged me here. I yelled until I was hoarse, but I fear the Whittles and Mr. Spencer are indisposed. The Dilettanti and Mr. Barron are setting fires to distract the tenants. And Mr. Cobb...” Her voice broke.

“He was shot dead outside his cottage by Mr. Barron. They’re all in on it together, plotting to take the mosaics and the estate. ”

A hiss escaped me at the news. Men with their faces covered had rained down blow after blow until I couldn’t remember anything. I’d known Beaumont would prove an enemy, but I had not anticipated his evil.

“Mr. Cobb is dead?” I gingerly tested the ropes.

She stopped wiggling, and the back of her head brushed against mine. I twisted as much as I could to see her, only catching a glimpse of a fiery lock mirroring the climbing flames. She tensed, suddenly silent.

“He argued with Mr. Barron regarding the profits. And... and... Mr. Cobb said Mr. Barron is your half brother. I suspect he plotted against you from the moment of your arrival.”

A brother? The word hammered through me, a jagged breath catching in my throat. All Bridget had said blurred as this truth cut deeper.

“Now we will die together if we cannot break free.” Bridget wiggled against me, her desperation piercing through the fog of my mind.

The weight of her words settled like lead in my chest. Cobb, dead. Beaumont, Ainsley, and Barron, traitors. They had beaten me until I couldn’t remember how I ended up here. And now they were trying to take everything.

“I don’t intend for us to die in this inferno,” I grunted, again pulling at the ropes binding me. They bit into my wrists, tight enough to draw blood, but I didn’t stop. I had to free us. I would not let her burn. “I won’t let you die.”

She shook against my back as if she were crying.

With her back pinned against mine and cords of rope wrapped around us, we were trapped. The flames crept ever higher, licking the lower portion of the walls. How long before it reached the ceiling and the massive beams overhead? How long before the smoke rendered us unconscious?

A surge of hopelessness threatened to steal my courage. As a boy, I had not been able to protect my mother. Then Lewis, who fell at Bussaco. And now Bridget. She would suffer in these last moments, and I would be helpless to prevent it. Why must I always lose those I cared about?

A desperate prayer came to me. To keep her safe. To escape this furnace.

Bridget twisted, her back brushing against mine. “They’ll never find us in time. I dropped a handkerchief out in the fields, but Father won’t know we are here.”

The ancient wooden beams lining the walls groaned and a shower of sparks scattered, a brutal reminder of what would happen if we didn’t hurry.

“We have a minute before the smoke overtakes us,” I told her grimly.

“I have a knife in my apron,” she admitted. A sob followed. “If only I could reach it.”

My fingers, nearly bloodless, grazed her lower back, and there, as I fumbled, I felt for her apron strings while gritting my teeth.

“What if I tug the string and pull the apron around?”

“Do it,” she commanded.

I tugged, undoing the bow at her back.

“I see the fire now. It’s spreading so quickly,” she choked out.

“Would you believe your father gave me advice on courting you?” I asked to keep her distracted from the crackling fire. Smoke billowed in black clouds while the heat scorched my skin, promising further torture if we didn’t hurry. A ragged cough tore at my throat.

A horrified gasp sounded behind me. “He did not!”

“Oh, he did.” I could not help my smile as I pulled the string, cramping my fingers. “Lean away from me. I need more room.”

At last the apron circled round. I slid my fingers into the pocket, grasped the cool edge of a handle, and lifted it out—and felt it slip from my fingers to the floor with a clatter.

“Blast!” I cried. “I’ve dropped it.”

A pounding on the brewery door echoed loudly.

Bridget screamed. I yelled. On the other side, a man sounded frantic, and I had never been so relieved to hear Mr. Whittle’s voice.

“Bang the door down, gents!” Then, “Hold on, my lord. We’ll get you out!”