Page 11 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)

C hase spared one moment to loose a groan before rolling off the mattress. He stalked to the door, cracking it open, while using the bulk of the door to hide his unmistakable state of arousal from view.

“Briggs sent you?” he demanded of the man, dressed in worker’s clothes and smelling faintly of sweat and toil.

“Aye, milord. He said you would want to know we’re fighting a live one.”

He was acutely aware of the woman he’d left atop the mattress who now stood behind him, silent and intently listening.

To her credit, she did not attempt to interrupt or interject, nor had she succumbed to a fit of hysterics as some women might.

“Have the innkeeper saddle up my mount and wait for me on the street.” He started to shut the door.

The man went slack-jawed briefly. “My lord? Are you planning to help fight the fire, then?”

Chase frowned, tamping down his impatience. “Of course.”

The man’s expression morphed to one of near hero worship. Chase had seen such a look a time or two on the faces of his men when he’d joined them in the thick of battle. It never ceased to amaze him that many lords, many officers, held themselves as somehow above getting their hands dirty.

What commanding officer—or nobleman—would expect a man to enter into a life and death situation which he himself would not deign to enter? It made no sense.

He closed the door and pushed past Amelia, making for the bedchamber. He had no choice but to change out of these evening clothes and thin-soled shoes, both of which would put him at a disadvantage should he be forced to dismount and maneuver through thick forest.

Amelia followed at his heel, talking fast. “How bad is it? I’ll change into my riding habit and—”

He jerked to a halt and spun to face her, stunning her into silence. He grasped her shoulders. “Amelia, you will do no such thing. You will stay here and await my return.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” He spoke through clenched teeth, willing her to understand and obey without question. “Woman, I do not have time to stand here and argue with you. I will have enough to worry about without adding your safety to the list. Do I make myself clear?”

Her face went devoid of emotion. “Yes, my lord. I understand.”

He resumed his task, stripping off his waistcoat, gathering his boots and trousers while Amelia watched, neither moving nor speaking.

“If you do not want to see me dressed in nothing but my shirtsleeves and undergarments, I suggest you go into the other room.”

Without a sound, she spun on her heel, and exited the bedchamber.

Her sweet feminine scent lingered, reminding him of what had transpired not ten minutes ago, and he paused in the act of removing his shoes. Good God, why did he feel guilty now? He’d done nothing wrong. He was merely keeping her safe. He shook his head.

A moment later, prepared to depart, he stepped into the antechamber.

Amelia stood erect at the window, facing out. “The sky is thick with smoke. You will be careful?”

“Amelia.”

She did not turn around.

He had no time to waste. He needed to leave, now. Somehow, he found himself behind her, grasping her shoulders to turn her to face him.

He expected anger. Instead, her creamy complexion had gone ashen. Worry furrowed her fine brows, and her eyes were wide as saucers.

She was afraid—for him.

An odd constriction tightened his chest. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips and ran his knuckles along her jawline. “I’m sorry we got interrupted. More than you know. I’ll be back as soon as I’m able. Count on it.”

A small smile played at her lips. She wrapped him in a brief, warm embrace, then just as quickly, released him. “Go.”

The sun was fully over the horizon by the time they got the fire doused. The flames had taken another chunk of forest, but the damage could have been much worse.

For one thing, no one had died, though a few men suffered with hoarse voices and singed lungs. The fact Briggs had caught the blaze relatively quickly thanks to his patrols, coupled with a lucky shift of the winds, and the fire’s proximity to the river all helped.

Chase took in the smoldering logs and the blanket of ash on the ground. He breathed in the acrid scent in the air, swatted white ash flakes falling like snow, and felt coldly furious. Someone had deliberately started these fires, putting men, women, and children at risk, and wasting valuable, needed resources. By God, he would catch the person or persons responsible and make them pay.

“What now, Lord Culver?”

He glanced at the beleaguered, soot-covered man who’d asked. His foreman, Mr. Briggs.

He raised his voice so it could be heard by Briggs and the rest of the men. “You should all go home, clean up, eat, and get some sleep. Know that I thank you for your efforts. You saved the forest, and your swift action protected your friends and family, your homes and businesses.”

Briggs turned to address the men. “We’re lucky to have Lord Culver as our viscount’s heir and our future lord, men. He cares.”

A chorus of hear-hear s sounded from the men.

Chase waved and nodded his thanks, not entirely comfortable with the praise. Any man worth his salt would have joined the fight.

Briggs continued, “Lord Culver’s got an idea for protecting the land from a runaway fire—by preclearing areas. Know there’ll be a lot of work for any man who’s interested.”

The men nodded, eyeing each other and murmuring their endorsement of the plan. Soon after they began disbursing.

Chase wanted nothing so much as to go back to the hotel and scour off the soot and stench coating him head to toe. But first, he would search the grounds for any clue as to who was behind this.

He started on foot toward the riverbank, where the horses had been corralled.

Nearing the clearing, he saw a rider approaching on a tall gray steed from the direction of the village. A woman. He squinted, noting the rider’s raven-dark hair, pale skin, and elegant form.

Bloody hell . Could the woman not mind one simple directive?

Amelia had not slept a wink all night. She had tried, but found herself repeatedly standing at the window looking out for any sign the fire had been extinguished, for any sign of her husband returning.

When no plume of smoke rose over the particular stretch of forest she’d stared at all night, she finally grew convinced Chase and the men helping him had the fire doused. Her relief dwindled when an hour passed with no sign of Chase.

She had to know he was all right. She could not pace the inn chamber one minute longer worrying the blasted, honorable, courageous man she’d married had been burned alive.

She dressed in her most practical gown, which was not saying much, and ordered her horse tacked up.

A quarter of an hour later, she set out along the river in the general direction of where she’d seen smoke from the fire.

She spotted the place they’d made their base—and, her husband. There was no doubt about it. He stood several heads taller than the few men in the vicinity, and then there was the way he moved. Even from this distance she recognized the power and elegance in the way he carried himself and his confident stride.

There was also no doubt he had noticed her. He would not be pleased by her arrival.

That was fine. She’d dealt with a man’s displeasure many times before.

She watched him mount up in one lithe move and started toward her. Raced was more apt a description.

She drew to a halt, chin held high, preparing herself for a thorough set-down. She did not care what he said. The relief pouring through her, seeing him hale and hardy, more than made up for any discomfort a stern talking-to might cause.

He slowed to a trot when his lead was mere feet from hers. His face bore signs of his night’s work. Soot, fatigue.

He did not halt until his horse carried him directly beside her. His dark eyes flashed as they met hers. A muscle in his hard jaw ticked, and his voice, when he spoke, was a hoarse growl. “Amelia, what the devil are you doing here?”

Her pulse raced a little more than she anticipated at his roughly spoken words, but she kept her expression impassive. “I needed to see for myself you were all right. The fire’s been out for nearly two hours and I—” Her voice cracked. Hers, not his. The lapse of control testified like nothing else how trying the last few hours had been.

She silently berated herself. She hated being unable to mask the fear that had consumed her over his well-being.

He looked away—but not before she saw his expression soften.

Damn the man. Now she was on the verge of tears. She clenched her teeth against the inane impulse.

He reached for her gloved hands, still holding her horse’s reins, but stopped short of touching her. “I’m filthy. Every square inch of me has at least one layer of ash and soot.”

She swallowed. “I don’t mind.”

His mouth curved and he huffed out a laugh. “What am I going to do with you, Amelia?”

“Perhaps I can help in some way. Help…tidy up, or…”

He closed his eyes and appeared to be fighting another bout of amusement.

She cleared her throat. “You didn’t mean now, did you?”

He shook his head.

“Oh.” She thought a moment and decided to redirect the conversation. “May I ask what it is you intend to do now? I mean that literally. You’ve been up all night. You must be exhausted.”

He heaved a weary sigh. “I am. But I need to peruse the perimeter for any clue as to how this particular fire started. If I delay, I may miss something. I learned long ago to trust my gut. My gut is telling me I have to look now.”

“I see. Then I shall aid you.”

A mulish expression hardened his face in a flash.

She held up one hand, palm out. “Before you order me to return to the inn, consider this. I have a fresh set of eyes.”

“Some of the logs will still carry enough heat to burn right through your pretty gown.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“On no sleep? You all but told me you spent the evening holding vigil.”

He had her there. “True. But I’m still a sight less weary than you. Also, have you considered the person who started the fire may yet lurk about? Do you really think it wise I ride back on my own?”

His eyes narrowed. “Interesting the idea of encountering a villain did not occur to you before now.”

“Yes, quite silly of me, in fact,” she murmured, affecting a bemused expression.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

She bit back a smile.

“Come along, then. Stay close.” He started to turn his horse. “And Amelia?”

“Yes?”

“We will discuss your poor impulse control, later. In detail.”

Amelia held her kerchief over her nose as they picked their way over the dividing line between the fire ravaged wood and that which showed no signs of damage, save for a smattering of ash and debris that had blown in.

Even in the cleared section, the air smelled rancid.

The poor animals and birds. With an effort of will, she banished the thought of how those who made their homes in the wood must have suffered. She could not do anything about what happened, and Chase would not thank her for adding to his troubles.

They’d ridden a good three quarters of an hour with neither Chase nor she noting anything of record. Meanwhile, her strapping, vital husband was showing signs of wear—broad shoulders slumping until he caught himself and forced them back, dark eyes drooping, pace slowing to a crawl as if he half-dozed in his saddle.

She hated to be the one to suggest they turn around, however. She didn’t want him to regret having allowed her to join him any more than he already did.

“What’s this?” He sat up, his manner alert, as if he had not shown all the signs of exhaustion a moment ago. “Stay back.”

He urged his mount into the burned section, careful to avoid brushing against the blackened remains. He approached a cluster of trees which had somehow survived mostly unscathed, though they stood in the section of wood which had burned during the night.

Tamping down her impatience at being ordered to wait, she craned her neck searching for anything out of the ordinary. Finally, she spotted what he had—a pile of twigs and branches braced over what looked to be a mound of rags.

Chase dismounted. He pulled a branch from the pile and used it to unearth a bit of the fabric underneath. He held it to his nose and recoiled. “Rancid. Smells as if it’s been coated in beef tallow.”

He grasped the rags and began shoving them into his saddle bag.

“May I have a look before you do that?” she asked.

He sighed but moved toward her. “Do not touch it.” He extended his hand so she could peer at the cloth.

She leaned closer. “Very interesting.”

“Yes,” he said, his tone brisk, and turned back toward his mount.

“You noticed the quality, then?”

He paused and glanced at her over his shoulder, a flicker of unwitting curiosity in his dark eyes. “Quality?”

“The blue material you hold there does not comprise your average rag, sir. It’s silk, and by the look of it, quite fine silk.”

He gave an indeterminate grunt.

“Is that a handkerchief there?”

Brows furrowed in concentration, he pulled the square of now-dingy white linen free to examine it. “It is.”

“Looks to be of higher quality, too, does it not? Is there a monogram?”

The dubious look he sent her told her found her question ridiculous. “No.”

He moved to his horse and stuffed the cloth into the saddlebags, leaving her feeling a tad foolish.

“I do think it odd whoever set the fire used such costly cloth.” She sniffed. “Your average villain is unlikely to have bolts of imported silk at his fingertips.”

He paused in the act of buckling the bags, eyes narrowed on something in the distance.

“What is it? Do you see something else?”

He resumed cinching the bags. “No. It occurs to me I am clearly overtired and you are absolutely correct.”

She grinned. “I am?”

“Yes. If Dodd is behind these fires as I suspect, how did he get his hands on the expensive cuts of fabric—scraps, or no—that he soaked in accelerant?”

She considered his question. “Perhaps a member of his family works as a seamstress?”

“Perhaps.” He slipped his booted foot in the stirrup and, with seemingly no effort at all, remounted his horse.

“Where to now?” she asked.

His saddle leather creaked as he shifted in his seat to fix her with a steady eye. “Now, we return to the inn, where you will gather your things and return home in the coach.”

She stiffened. “And you, sir?”

“I mean to question Dodd—after I have slept. I will join you at home later tonight.”

“I could—”

“No.” The implacable undertone in the single-syllable word told her she’d pushed him as far as she could for one day.

“Very well.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied. He set off for the road into town.

She glared at his back and urged her mount forward. She had assumed after he rested and bathed, and perhaps after some food, they would talk about what transpired in the bedchamber last night before he dashed off to fight the fire.

Apparently he had other plans, or perhaps he had simply forgotten the incident all together.

No matter. He wanted her out of his hair? So be it.