Page 55

When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.

The brewery and abbey burned, flames shooting from the upper windows, scattering ash and sparks into the night. Wood cracked and moaned, the ancient structures going up in an unholy blaze worthy of Hades’s underworld.

After Mr. Whittle and Mr. Spencer rescued us and used my knife to saw at the ropes, we all fled the brewery and rushed to the courtyard, alight with the ghastly glow of the fire.

Rafe stood beside me, his broken face enough to summon more tears. I reached for his hand and clung to it. He glanced at me, his eyes blackened and swollen and his mouth bruised beyond recognition.

“Can we save the abbey?” I asked him. My heart seemed to cleave in half at the idea of him deprived of the last bit of fortune he had fought so hard to save. “I don’t want you to lose it.”

“Maybe,” he answered as he raised my hand to his mouth, lingering long enough to brush a gentle yet searing kiss against my knuckles. “But I have not lost everything.”

My tears flowed freely. I, too, felt the same, regardless of whether someone had stolen the amethyst necklace and mosaics from Mr. Perry and me. I had found something far more valuable than any gold jewelry or recognition, and I never wanted to lose Rafe.

As I glanced at the second-story windows, a form darted away and melted into the shadows. My blood chilled as I struggled to comprehend what I had just seen. I yanked on Rafe’s sooty sleeve and pointed to the glass panes.

“There is a man inside. I swear I saw him in the window.”

He squeezed my fingers to offer reassurance, but the jut of his jaw suggested he would not remain by my side where we would be safe.

“I’m going in, Bridget. I can’t let your antiquities or the abbey burn. Wait for me here.”

“Rafe, don’t! No ring is worth your life,” I cried, but he pulled me in for a quick embrace, pressing a kiss against the top of my head before merging into the crowd forming near the entrance to the abbey.

Mr. Spencer had brought as many tenants as he could from the surrounding farms. He and the other farmers rushed to the well with any bucket they could find. They ran into the open door of the hallway, splashing what they could.

Rafe’s broad back disappeared through the crowd of tenants. Pushing past the men, I hurried after him, all the while wishing for a handkerchief to cover my nose from the smoke. My throat tickling, I coughed, betraying my presence.

“Bridget,” he all but growled when he whipped around to face me. “You can’t come with me.” Regardless of his tone, he gently put both hands on my shoulders, pinning me in place.

“I am coming,” I protested. “Two are better than one, wouldn’t you agree? We seem to make a good team, and I should hate to lose you now.”

A rueful smile crossed his split lips. “Quickly then. If I tell you to turn back, you’ll heed me, won’t you?”

I gave him a lopsided smile to reassure him, even though my pulse beat wildly thanks to the surge of strength coursing through my veins.

“And you’ll do the same for me, no doubt, should I spy trouble first.”

He snatched my hand, his strong fingers curling around mine as we dashed into the great hall and raced up the magnificent staircase as the abbey groaned. How many fires had someone started inside?

Meanwhile, Mr. Whittle shouted orders, and I glimpsed Lucy staggering below on the main level, her arms lugging a sloshing bucket as well.

God bless the men and women of the abbey who stood beside Rafe no matter what happened.

Rafe and I ran down the hall to his chamber, past the dusty tapestries and walnut paneling.

As we entered Rafe’s room, I gasped. There, amidst a growing pile of linen-clad records and ledgers, stood Mr. Barron.

His candle’s flame flickered wildly in the smoky gloom, casting eerie shadows on his round face.

Under one arm, a stack of records threatened to topple, and in his other hand, the rusted handle of a lockbox.

With a roar, Rafe hurled himself at the form. Startled, Mr. Barron whirled just as Rafe engulfed him. The innkeeper dropped the beeswax candle on the floor, which I rushed to kick at with my slippers, stomping out the flame.

A crack of a fist against a jaw, a man’s shout, the clatter of the lockbox as both men collapsed to the floor with Rafe straddling Mr. Barron while the books slid away.

“Quick, Bridget. My pistol’s in the desk.”

I dashed to the desk and yanked on the nearest drawer. My cry at spying the pistols was all the encouragement Rafe needed. He pressed his hands against Mr. Barron’s throat.

“Yield!”

Mr. Barron gurgled a response, bucking wildly beneath Rafe, but Rafe’s huge frame easily overpowered the smaller man. I aimed the pistol at Mr. Barron and cocked it.

“Stop your thrashing, Mr. Barron. You resemble a fish out of water.”

With his trachea under pressure and his mouth gaping open, he most certainly gulped for air.

Rafe eyed me with some alarm, but I handed him the gun before I smelled the horrible scent of fabric burning.

“Dash it all!” I cried in the most unladylike language. Snatching a handful of the dusty bed-curtains, I yanked on them with all my might and threw them to the ground, stomping on the flames while holding my skirts up to my calves.

Only when I finished did I realize both men watched me with startled eyes.

“I could hardly let your bed burn down,” I muttered as I dropped my stained gown to cover my ankles.

Rafe grabbed Mr. Barron by the cravat and pulled the man to his feet. I snatched the lockbox. How heavy it felt within my shaking grasp.

“I have a constable who will be eager to chat with you,” Rafe warned Mr. Barron.

“But before he does, I have questions of my own. I understand that you and I have the misfortune of being related.” He grasped Mr. Barron by the cravat and shirt collar and shook him.

“You tried to kill us, Barron. You’ve sabotaged everything from the start.

Releasing my sheep and horses, digging on my land, sneaking through the halls, intercepting the letters to the magistrate, and endangering Miss Littleton with that bur under her saddle. ”

Mr. Barron gurgled until at last Rafe let go, allowing the man to collapse onto the floor with a thud.

“I deserve the Hawthorn name just as much as you do,” Mr. Barron wheezed.

“Randall Hawthorn abused my mother, a tavern maid, at an inn. When her husband caught him in the act, he killed Randall without hesitation. And he hung for it, I might add. Your family owes me, Lord Hawthorn, for each sin they committed. Your payment was to be whatever hides in this lockbox—the ring, I suspect, not to mention the farmland and your title.”

Rafe’s jaw slackened with the torrid admission. “Your father was... the stable hand who killed Randall Hawthorn? The man tried and hung for the murder?”

Mr. Barron closed his eyes as if utterly spent as he lay sprawled across the hardwood floor. “Yes.”

Rafe shot me an anguished look. He lowered the gun to his side. “You have my sympathies. My mother fled for her life. A pity yours could not escape.”

The tavern owner fingered his throat, his cravat mussed and ridiculous. Emotions played across his face as his lip curled back to reveal a pair of crooked teeth. His hand slid into his pocket.

No matter how awful the story, I could not forget that this man had used Abigail, murdered Mr. Cobb, and would have killed Rafe and me.

Rafe must have sensed the danger too, and he leveled the pistol once again at his half brother.

“Enough games. You will leave with us before you burn to death. A fate you wished upon us. Instead, your future will be decided through the courts. Consider mercy your payment. I am nothing like my father, even if I bear his name and likeness. Let the past go instead of allowing it to poison you.”

My heart swelled for the man before me who chose forgiveness and refused to be tainted by his family’s past.

Mr. Barron could do nothing with Rafe’s pistol pressed against his side. Even so, the whites of his eyes rolled from me to Rafe.

“You don’t just want me. You’ll want the Dilettanti as well. They paid Cobb and me to steal the mosaics. I won’t hang for their crimes. Nor will I take the blame for Cobb setting fire to the abbey. Why, even your sweet Miss Perry had a hand in the affair.”

“You have plenty of sins to answer for,” I said, though my voice wavered. Abigail’s betrayal cut deep, especially after all I had done for her. I dreaded facing her again, but if Rafe could choose mercy, I wanted to do the same.

We marched through the hall with Mr. Barron. At the end, in the west wing, the slender form of a man skidded to a halt near the guest bedrooms.

Mr. Beaumont.

Had he come for Rafe’s lockbox as well? To my dismay another fire, one far more advanced, devoured the walls, outlining the elegant silhouette as it raised its arm.

I cried out just as the pistol went off with a puff of smoke. Rafe dragged Mr. Barron with him, lunging to the left while I stood in the center of the hallway like a deer paralyzed in the forest at the first sight of a hunter.

The bullet whistled past me, thudding into something. Or someone, considering the cry.

Mr. Beaumont missed me. Muttering a curse, he reached into his crimson waistcoat and plucked out a second pistol.

I had seen the devil in the Bacchus mosaic and had once chuckled at it.

But now, the handsome Apollo at the opposite end of the corridor, the very image of Satan highlighted by flames, raised my hackles.

His blue eyes, ever so lifeless, sent a shiver through me as he raised the new pistol and aimed it straight for my heart.

“You little viper,” he breathed.