The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

Oliver grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and dragged him to his feet. “Where is Miss Asprey?” He shook the dazed lord again and again. “Tell me. Where is she?”

Mosgrove raised a limp hand and pointed to the house. “She … she was behind me.”

“You left her in there?” He released the pathetic excuse for a man and climbed through the open window.

Smoke wafted down the stairs to add to the increasing blanket that made it impossible to see. The roar of flames above filled his ears as the fire devoured everything it touched. The intense heat stung his skin.

“Nicole!”

Please, God, let her hear me. Let her be safe.

The sharp pain in his chest felt like a knife to his heart, ripping and tearing the tender organ to shreds.

Putting a hand to his mouth, he crept out into the hall. He kept his head bowed and almost tripped over her lifeless body lying sprawled on the floor.

“Save me,” she’d said at their first meeting, when she clutched his arm at the spot where she now lay motionless, dying.

Strange creaks and groans emanated from upstairs as if the house were crying out in pain, too.

Oliver bent down and scooped Nicole into his arms. He held his breath for fear of sucking in the choking air and hurried to the window. Mosgrove was sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the courtyard, staring up with a blank expression.

Holding Nicole tight to his chest, Oliver climbed through the window. Once his feet were firmly on the ground he ran, eager to put some distance between them and the glowing timbers that would soon come crashing down.

“Nicole,” he said placing her gently on the ground and smoothing her hair from her face. “Can you hear me?” With some trepidation, he felt her pulse. “You’re alive,” he said as a torrent of emotion erupted in his chest.

It might have been his imagination, but her lids fluttered. “Oliver.”

“I’m here, Nicole.”

Beneath hooded lids, she looked briefly at the manor before turning to him. “I’m not … not sorry to see it burn.” She coughed again and again, struggled to catch her breath.

“Don’t speak. You need to rest. We’ll go to the inn.”

“My … my head hurts.” She closed her eyes.

Panic flared as he ran his fingers gently through her hair and touched the hard lump above her temple.

“Then stay awake, love. Just for a while.”

Don’t leave me.

“My lord … my lord,” Jackson’s breathless voice reached his ears. He came running up to them. “Forgive me, my lord.” He glanced at Mosgrove. “That fool left his carriage in front of the barn door. His coachman only let me out when he saw the flames.”

Oliver wasn’t surprised. But he didn’t want to

think of what had happened in his absence. “Mosgrove is a conniving bastard. A good beating might bring the man to his senses.”

“I’m happy to oblige.” Jackson gazed up at the manor. The timber beams supporting the roof collapsed into the upper floor.

“Thank you, but it is something I intend to see to myself.”

Nicole coughed, though did not open her eyes.

“Fetch the carriage. There is nothing we can do here. Miss Asprey needs a doctor.” And he needed a stiff drink to calm his racing heart.

Jackson nodded and hurried off into the night while Oliver held Nicole in his arms, praying she’d recover. The thought of losing her was too painful to contemplate. Bollocks to passion and lust, and to all the other pathetic things he’d rambled on about to convince himself true love did not exist.

Given a chance, he’d gladly swap places with her. He’d take whatever punishment the Lord saw fit just for the opportunity to see her smile again.