Through the Smoke

“It is getting late,” Wythe agreed. “And you wouldn’t want to keep the mighty earl waiting. I will even escort you, since he did not deem you worthy enough to send his carriage.” The earl’s cousin stood next to his horse, watching her struggle with her own animal without moving to help. “Better yet”—he stepped forward, his hand closing over hers where she grasped the donkey’s lead—“perhaps you will give me the first toss. We could slip into my room, where it will be warm and dry. I would ride you easy and pay you well since I can think of no better revenge than sending you to my dear cousin with the smell of me still on you.”

The crudity of Wythe’s words hit Rachel like a fist to the stomach. “Let go!”

His expression grew more purposeful instead of less, and his fingers tightened. “Surely you can afford me a few minutes of your precious time,” he said and leaned in as though he’d kiss her.

Rachel didn’t wait to find out whether that was his intent. Swinging her lantern in a great arc, she brought it crashing down on his head.

The sound of breaking glass grated on the air.

A second later, he collapsed and the light winked out.

Shocked by what she’d done, as well as by the results of it, she blinked until her eyes grew accustomed to the sudden darkness. It wasn’t easy to see, but soon she could make out the twinkle of broken glass and the darker shape of Wythe, who was beginning to moan and rub his temples.

He wasn’t dead.

Thank God.

But what would he do to her when he recovered?

Moving quickly, she found Gilly’s rope and attempted to lead him out of the trees but, once again, the ass refused to budge.

What was she going to do? If she couldn’t get the donkey to cooperate, she’d have to flee on foot. But that would be futile. Wythe had a horse. He’d catch her in a matter of minutes, even with a head start.

Spouting one curse after another, the earl’s cousin tried to stand, but he was unsteady enough that Rachel was able to push him back into the snow. After that, she captured the reins of his horse and, mumbling some soothing words that were more of a prayer for her own safety, led the spooked animal to a fallen tree.

As Wythe staggered to his feet, she wedged her foot into the stirrup and used the saddle to pull herself off the ground. But she wasn’t encouraged by the results. She hung suspended for what felt like an eternity before managing to settle astride the beast.

“Don’t even think about taking my mount,” Wythe warned, but she was committed to her escape. Squeezing her eyes shut, she gave the animal a panicked kick.

The horse reared up and launched into a full run. As the ground rushed past her, she could hear Wythe’s voice echoing through the trees behind her: “You bloody whore. You’ll pay for this!”

Rachel hung on for dear life, but it wasn’t long before her knuckles hurt too badly to grip the horse’s mane. She’d lost the reins the moment she climbed into the saddle. They dragged on the ground, hopelessly out of reach.

In an effort to ease the terrible cramp in her hands, she adjusted her hold and looked ahead.

Between the indistinct scenery flying past her, the rush of wind that brought tears to her eyes and the patches of deep darkness, where the towering trees blocked even the moon’s light, everything was a blur. But she didn’t have to see much to know that she was perilously close to the edge of the cliff. As the animal surged on, she could hear the surf below.…

Dear God… She tried to steer Wythe’s horse away from land’s end, but the spooked animal had had enough of human intervention. It charged heedlessly on, sending frozen dirt clods tumbling over the edge.

Rachel’s pulse pounded as rapidly, though far less rhythmically, than the animal’s hooves. What have I done?

Using her thighs, her hands, anything she could to hang on, she looked behind her but saw no sign of Wythe. Her plan had worked far too well. There was no one to check the horse’s wild flight, or to get help.

Blackmoor Hall materialized in front of her like a giant falcon with wings spread. As overwhelming as it could be, the house was a welcome sight tonight—offering, as it did, a modicum of hope that the horse would merely return to its stable. There was a moment when Rachel thought she might be fine, but that hope disappeared when her mount cut away from the road to jump the stone fence.

Rachel screamed as she came out of the saddle. She could feel the mane slipping through her fingers.… Once it was gone, the exhilaration of free fall lifted her stomach into her throat and the ground caught her with a solid and unyielding thump.

The door to Truman’s bedroom was always shut late at night to hold in the heat of the fire the maids lit before hurrying to their beds.

He entered the welcoming comfort of that warmth and removed his stock and shirt before leaning one hand against the mantel and staring into the fire smoldering in the grate.

I’m getting closer, he thought, closer to the truth. And Linley would help him uncover the rest of it.

At the side table in the corner of the room, Truman poured himself a brandy. Holding the first swallow in his mouth to savor the rich taste, he stood with his back to the black night beyond his window, once again contemplating the flames and what his dream two nights ago had revealed.

Everyone was gone that Sunday when the fire broke out—except Katherine. He’d found his wife wearing nothing but a delicate wrap and sitting in front of her boudoir, brushing her hair. He remembered thinking it was so typical of her. The mirror and the image it projected were all-important to her. Even pregnant and ill, she worked to protect her vanity.

But he’d grown to expect nothing more. He’d told her he wanted a divorce. She’d gone hysterical and followed him into the library, threatening, pleading, cajoling. It was there that she swore she still loved him. That she told him her family would do everything possible to stop him from obtaining the Act of Parliament a divorce would require.

That had caused such an upwelling of emotion he’d never realized his father’s favorite painting, Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, was not on the wall where it had hung for years—not until that detail had surfaced from somewhere deep in his subconscious.

An original by Pieter Bruegel, the painting was part of a much larger collection that had been on display throughout the manor. The place where it normally hung should have jumped out at him the moment he entered the room.

Maybe it had. Maybe he’d lost that detail in the haze of darkness that soon followed.