Even worse, the largest puddle had caught fire very near Daphne.
Skye watched with horror as the flames licked at Daphne’s skirts and began to spread throughout the entire drawing room, burning across the oil-soaked carpet and racing toward the heavy velvet draperies that covered the windows.
He was a changed man, Hawk acknowledged as his coach neared home that evening. Because of Skye, the emotion he’d never wanted to feel again had sunk its claws deep in his heart.
Not even the imminent storm could dim the anticipation of seeing Skye soon. There was no rain yet, but thunder rolled and lightning flickered outside his carriage windows, much like the night of their first encounter. Shortly later the wind picked up, buffeting the vehicle as it swept through the pillared entrance gates of Hawkhurst Castle. Despite the jarring ride, a wry smile curved Hawk’s mouth at the thought of surprising Skye with a proposal of marriage.
Just before they reached the curve leading to the castle entrance, his pleasant reflections were splintered by a muffled shout of alarm from his coachman. The jarvey’s panel slid open and there was panic in the servant’s voice when he exclaimed, “Fire, my lord!”
From his vantage point inside the coach, Hawk couldn’t see a damned thing. Hastily fumbling for the latch, he lowered the glass and thrust his head outside the window. Wind shrieked in his face as he searched the black night. Moments later a jagged white bolt crackled across the night sky, framing the front of the castle in searing light—followed instantly by a shuddering crash of thunder that shook the ground under the carriage wheels. Yet it wasn’t the threat of lightning that made dread curl inside Hawk.
It was his nightmare come to life.
Bright flames lit up a front window of his home on the ground floor, although he couldn’t tell which room was burning.
“Faster!” he commanded over the roar of the wind.
“Aye, my lord!” The coachman whipped up the horses and sent the team galloping along the gravel avenue.
Terrible images tore through Hawk’s memory. The coach careened around the curve, then slowed fractionally, but he had the door open before it came to a halt.
He heard his coachman exclaim, “God help you, my lord.” Voicing the same prayer, Hawk leaped down and raced toward the front steps. His gaze was fixed on the windows above his head—was that the drawing room? Definitely the ground floor, but the massive castle foundations raised the level nearly twenty feet above the drive—
The fire had spread to a second window, Hawk saw.
Panic churned in his gut, spurring his frantic thoughts. The height meant no access from outside, and there was no rain yet to help fight the flames—
The heavens suddenly opened up as he bounded up the entrance steps. Freezing pellets of rain lashed at his face and drenched his greatcoat, but Hawk scarcely noticed as he slammed open the front door.
His heart thundering, he ran through the great hall. Upon reaching the corridor, though, time slowed to a crawl and his nightmare took over. His legs felt like leaden weights as he struggled onward toward the drawing room, his body swimming through a thick sludge, his mind bombarded by searing memories. He could barely move—couldn’t breathe at all as he relived the sheer terror of the first tragedy.
An eternity passed before he skidded to a halt outside the drawing room door. Choking smoke obscured his vision as Hawk took stock. The floor was burning at one end, while flames licked the far walls. If Skye was in there, he couldn’t see her. Dear God, if he lost her … The devastation he would feel would rival any pain he’d felt the first time.
Bone-deep dread gripping him, Hawk roared her name. What bloody irony to have realized his love too late. How blind he’d been. He couldn’t live without Skye, couldn’t live without her love.…
Icy calm replaced fear; grim determination regained control. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let her die. Sucking in a lungful of air, Hawk covered his mouth and nose with his arm and plunged into the smoke-filled room. In the glow from the flames, he saw figures moving. Then he saw her … Skye, her pale hair faintly visible through the murk.
She was fighting the fire with every ounce of strength, trying to tear down the burning, floor-length draperies while others struggled to beat out the carpet flames with cushions and pieces of clothing.
When Hawk shouted at Skye again, she responded with a hoarse cry, “Here, Hawk!” before a coughing fit robbed her of further speech.
Dragging off his greatcoat, he fought his way toward her. Heat singed his skin and acrid smoke stung his eyes as he joined her effort to bring down the draperies, but together they managed it. The velvet fell into a heap much like funeral pyre. Hawk used his greatcoat to smother the worst of the flames while Skye picked up a small cherrywood table and threw it straight at the window, smashing the glass in a loud crash. Comprehending her purpose, Hawk grabbed the table before it could tumble over the jagged rim.
The sudden gust of outside air sent the flames whooshing, but pelting rain instantly followed, blowing into the room in cooling bursts to dampen the fiery pile.
Hoisting the table, Hawk moved to the second window to deal with the slower burning draperies there, duplicating Skye’s feat of shattering the glass and letting in the life-saving rain and fresh air. He was stamping on burning cinders when he saw her double over, her body jolted by raw, hacking coughs.
Urgently sweeping away shards of glass with his coat sleeve, Hawk grabbed Skye by the waist and made her kneel by the second window, then pressed her head through the opening. Although she was instantly soaked, she drew great gasping breaths that eventually slowed her spasms.
Behind him Hawk heard more racking coughs as well as sounds of splashing water and the sizzle of dying embers. A quick glance showed scores of servants filing into the drawing room, carrying cans and buckets of water. They formed a line and began passing full buckets to the points of the remaining fire and empty buckets back out again, with Lady Isabella calling out orders. Evidently she had taken charge of the water brigade, aided by the castle caretaker, Thomas Gilpin.
As the smoke cleared, Hawk saw Rachel and Daphne and Lord Cornelius all battling the remnants of the fire. He was more taken aback to see Baron Farnwell among their numbers, limping heavily but striving just as furiously as the others to save the room from incineration.
Just then Skye drew her head inside the window and tried to stand. Hawk carefully helped her up, then held her away so he could assess her. Her face was wet and soot-streaked and her hair was singed, but she had never looked more beautiful.
“Are you injured?” he demanded, his own eyes tearing from the smoke. “Were you burned?”
“Not badly. I wrapped strips of petticoat around my hands to protect them—”