Page 13 of The Autumn Wife (King’s Girls #3)

She’s coming.

In the shadowed edge of the woods, Theo sat at the foot of a maple tree, watching as Cecile left the convent schoolhouse and strode across the sunset-streaked field toward the stable, where the children waited for lessons.

At the sight of her, Theo sagged against the rough bark, exhaling long and slow though he hadn’t been aware of holding his breath.

He couldn’t fully say why he was lurking here in the forest shadows, guts bunched in knots, wondering if she would keep her promise and resume lessons.

He knew only one thing—his relief at seeing her wasn’t solely for the children.

Now, digging his fingers into the leaf-litter, he drank in Cecile Tremblay in a way he would never do when she could see him.

The toes of her boots jutted from under the hem of her gray novice’s dress with every kicking stride.

Her head bowed over that lovely neck, where her hair lay coiled so tight that he couldn’t help fantasizing about yanking out the pins and watching it tumble down her back.

As she neared the stable, Theo flattened a hand on the ground and considered pushing himself up and shouting her name—no, not her name.

Calling her Cecile unsettled her more than anything.

Her throat would flush rosy. He suspected she would blush in other places, too, but that damn nun’s habit covered her from neck to wrist to ankle and silently screamed— Stay away, you violent brute.

He closed his eyes as frustration tightened into a spiny lump in the pit of his stomach.

Despite their talk yesterday, he knew she was still wary of him, but why did her opinion bother him so much?

He’d long shielded himself from caring about such things, yet here he was, lurking, when he should be bedding down in the laborer’s cabin for the night—and reminding himself that, once he was free, he had a life to resurrect and family back in France depending on him.

None of his plans allowed room for Cecile.

Six weeks and five days.

The porcupine pup, tucked into a tuft of grass at the foot of the tree, snorted in her dozing, as if she could sense Theo’s unease.

Twice, he’d carried the pup into these deep woods to set her free.

Twice, she’d followed him back by scent and stubbornness.

She wouldn’t even stay in the stable with the kids, who’d tried to win the pup’s favor by feeding her acorns, twigs from maple and oak trees, and the occasional slice of green apple.

The critter hadn’t shot a quill at anyone yet, but more than once she’d ruffed up when startled.

Bringing to mind another prickly female he knew.

The faint creak of leather hinges brought his head back up, just in time to see the flash of Cecile’s heels as she entered the stable.

Inside, Jeanne squealed, and the boys shouted greetings.

Yes, he’d done the right thing in keeping his distance, if only for the kids’ sakes.

He should get up and cross over to the laborer’s cabin now, get some sleep, but his backside remained on the ground.

Stewing over the matter longer than he should, he scratched the little spot the porcupine liked, just under her chin, before leaning back against the rough bark and closing his eyes in frustration.

When he lifted his head again, the bright sunset had given way to the gloaming.

He must have dozed. Church bells clanged in the distance.

At first, he thought they were vesper bells, maybe compline.

But the ringing was less rhythmic and more discordant than for ordinary canonical hours.

He pushed away from the tree, stepped out from under the canopy, and squinted west. Past the thick stand of pines that separated the convent grounds from the outer edge of the settlement of Montreal, a red glow bathed the sky.

From the road came a shout.

Fire!

Panic kicked him. Theo dropped into a run, bolting across the field.

He knew the wooden buildings on Saint Paul Street sat cheek by jowl, which made Montreal a tinderbox.

Against his cheek, he felt the gust of a northeasterly breeze, the kind that might carry sparks to the stand of pines, or even to the convent schoolhouse itself.

As he passed the stable, he saw Francois and Jeanne burst through the door, shouting and pointing west. A bewildered Cecile emerged last, fumbling with gathered slates.

He shouted to the children while in a full run. “Get buckets. All the empty ones you can find.”

“There’s some in the laundry.” Cecile tossed her burden of slates aside. “I’ll fetch those.”

She charged across the field, the golden roll of hair bobbing, the kids following in her wake.

Then, forcing all thoughts of Cecile Tremblay out of his mind, he continued his race toward the road, shouting to the laborers pouring out of the log bunkhouse to join him for the quarter-mile sprint to the settlement.

As stabbing pains dug into his lungs, he approached the outer edge of Montreal.

Theo noted that the fire raged closer to the fort, on the far western end of the settlement.

But as he’d suspected, the wind had carried sparks east. Those sparks had landed on the thatched roofs of several buildings, roofs that had not seen rain in weeks.

Madness, it was, that after thirty years of settlement and dozens of infernos, these wooden houses hadn’t been replaced with stone.

He jogged down the riverside Saint Paul Street into the eye-watering burn of falling ash. Women with babes in their arms ran in the opposite direction. Older people were being pushed in carts.

Beams cracked, and a house caved in just ahead.

Embers rained down, searing his forearms and hair.

He paused, assessing the situation. The house that had just cratered was lost, and the one beside it, nearer to him, was already aflame.

But the merchant shop next in line was still intact save for one flickering flame on the roof.

“Here,” he shouted to the milling crowd and the laborers arriving in his wake. “Form a line from the river’s edge to where I stand by this shop.”

Fortunately, only a narrow strip of grassy common separated the Saint Lawrence River from Saint Paul Street.

The crowd fell into a rough line, some heading toward the river to fill their buckets.

Within a few moments, the man beside him thrust a pail into his belly, water sloshing over the rim.

Jules, Theo realized, recognizing the fire-bronzed hair, sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed.

Theo hauled up the bucket and hurled the water onto the now-growing flame on the thatch before swinging the empty back into Jules’s hands.

Soon, townspeople joined the line, a crowd of merchants, servants, laborers, Abenaki who were camping in the field behind the settlement, children from the lime ricks, Etienne, convent novices, and…

Cecile.

There she was, standing between Jules and Etienne.

His vision sharpened and narrowed. Her blond hair—loose in a braid that danced against her back with every exchange of buckets—might as well be a net for sparks.

And her swinging skirts made for too-easy kindling.

The buckets were heavy, and as she sank under the weight of one, Jules relieved her of it.

Theo opened his mouth to shout for her to leave—they had enough men on the line—but Jules’s full bucket hit him in the solar plexus, turning the shout into an oof.

Grunting, Theo swung it up and emptied the water over the thatch.

When he thrust the bucket back into Jules’s hands, he glared at Cecile over the ruff of Jules’s red hair in an effort to catch her eye.

When he did, he willed her to read his mind.

Get out of here.

Her dark eyes flashed before she showed him her back, defiant in this as in so many things.

He knew the Reverend Mother had tasked her with paperwork, but he’d seen Cecile scrubbing laundry with the novices, shouldering food sacks into the storehouse, and hauling platters of meat from the convent kitchens to the table set outside for the laborers’ midday meal.

But, damn it, a woman who looked as fragile as glass shouldn’t be hauling full water buckets in the midst of an inferno.

Go back. Fetch more buckets, he mentally screamed.

She didn’t look up at him again.

Seizing another bucket from Jules, he aimed with all his might, making the best of his frustration.

Droplets of water dripped from the eaves—a sign that even his best efforts were not effective to douse the far side of the roof, which needed just as much soaking.

He glanced around, spied a mason coming late to the fire, and shouted for him to return to the building site to fetch a ladder.

The sound of cracking wood came from the house next to the shop he was trying to save, and the roof collapsed with a thud.

Grit fell from the sky, edged with fire.

He was about to throw the latest bucket of water upon Cecile to soak her skirts and hair when a cry rang out.

A figure shot out of the narrow alleyway between house and shop.

Her skirts trailed fire as the screaming woman ran, tripped on a rut, and sprawled.

He shot the contents of the bucket meant for Cecile at the woman instead. Jules followed with another bucket. Cecile shot to the woman’s side and doused the last of the flaming skirts. Dropping her empty pail to the ground, she fell to her knees beside the woman.

Jules pointed to the shop’s roof. “New flames!”

Theo turned in time to see an ember catch, flaring up from the other side of the shop roof’s peak.

He stepped back into line and grabbed another full bucket just as someone planted a ladder against the shop.

Seizing a rung with one hand, he climbed up until his head poked above the edge of the thatch.

Heaving the bucket onto his shoulder and setting one hand flat beneath the bottom, he hurled the bucket high enough that it hit the peak and spilled its contents down the other slope.

The lick of flame dimmed. A curl of smoke rose as the bucket rolled back down toward him. Catching it, he handed it back to Jules and exchanged it for a full one, launching the contents high. He did it again with a new bucket. And then again.

“Hey!” Jules, standing on the third rung of the ladder, shouted after they’d exchanged a dozen or so more buckets. “Switch places!”

Theo thrust an empty bucket at him. “Shut up and keep the water coming.”

“You want me to ignore your orders?”

What orders? “No time for this, Jules.”

“We need maximum effort, right?”

Theo glowered, a look that had zero effect on this damn foolhardy mason.

“You’re always going on about taking shifts so we don’t get injured.” Jules glanced back to exchange his empty bucket for a full one from Etienne, then bent his elbow to make his bicep swell. “So put fresh muscle into this job.”

Theo frowned. “I’ll switch in a minute.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

Jules held up the full bucket, grinning, Theo grabbed it and aimed the water over the peak again. He supposed this was as close as Jules would ever come to apologizing for what an ass he’d been. But Theo wasn’t in the mood to share a tankard of ale with him yet.

After he’d thrown a half-dozen more buckets, he glanced Cecile’s way and found her standing with her hands on her hips, shouting something to the crowd. The burnt, injured woman was shaking on the ground behind her.

“Take over.” He thrust an empty bucket at Jules and kicked off the ladder, landing hard on the flats of his feet. Three strides shortened the space between him and a distressed Cecile. “What do you need?”

“A blanket.” Black spots marred her light gray skirts where sparks had burned the fabric. “The woman has burns and is soaked and cold.”

Cold, while an inferno blasted? That didn’t bode well for her recovery, nor did the angry red blisters visible under the burned holes of her still-smoking stockings.

Frowning, he seized the collar of his shirt, measured the value of his pride, and then yanked the hem free from the waistband of his sagging breeches. Hauling the shirt over his head, he thrust it at Cecile, who’d gone still.

“This will have to do,” he said, “until you can fetch a blanket from the convent.”

She dragged the cloth from his hands. For pride’s sake, he waited until she was shifting her attention back to the woman before he turned toward the bucket line, exposing to her—and all of Montreal—the shame of his naked back.

Despite the roar of the flames, the rattle of buckets, the collapse of beams, and pounding feet, he heard Cecile’s gasp.