Forsaking the Prize (The Wild Randalls 2)

He ran his fingers through her hair, content at last with his decision. If they could come together like that, he’d be mad to wait a moment longer than necessary to ask her to be his wife. He would do anything she wanted, turn himself out like

a prattling popinjay if it made her as happy as she’d made him tonight.

This was what he wanted in his life and what he would wait for if she said no immediately. He would live as a celibate bachelor if he couldn’t convince her to accept straight away. There was no one else for him.

A church bell tolled the hour and when the sound continued, he looked toward the window. He eased Blythe onto the mattress as the sound disturbed her, blinking sleep from her eyes like a sleepy kitten.

The sound stopped, then began again. He glanced toward the faint light. “Warning bells?”

He threw himself out of bed and hurried to the window. When he peeled back the drapes completely, a burst of firelight illuminated a group of people milling about before the inn.

“What’s going on? Is the inn alight?” Blythe stood and picked up her abandoned nightgown.

“No, not the inn.” Tobias dropped the drape and then he fumbled to light a candle. “There are people milling about outside though. I’ll go and see what it is.”

Blythe tossed her nightgown aside and reached for her clothes. “I’m coming with you.”

“Blythe, this isn’t a soiree we are attending.”

“I won’t be left behind to wonder. I have a pair of hands capable of passing a pail of water if necessary.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Fine. Here, I’ll help you dress, but you must promise me to stay away from the blaze.”

“Yes, Tobias. I have no desire to cause more problems for anyone.” She swiftly plaited her tangled hair, wincing at the odd snare and tied them off. When she was dressed, he caught up her cloak and slipped it around her to ensure she stayed warm. “What time do you think it is?” she asked.

“Close to dawn.” He pulled her toward the door. “Let’s go, but remember your promise.”

They swiftly made their way downstairs, through to the inn yard to where others had gathered. He caught the arm of the first man he encountered. “What’s to do?”

“Skepington is alight. Those poor souls.”

Tobias looked up. A thin column of smoke stained the clear night sky.

Blythe gasped. “What do you mean by poor souls?”

The innkeeper frowned. “Most are locked inside. We’ll never reach them before the flames do.”

Tobias ran for Skepington.

“Toby no!” Blythe screamed as he sprinted out of the inn yard and cut across the field. Ahead, Skepington was ablaze with light and sound, a beacon of hopelessness and fear. He hurtled a low stone wall and hurried through an orchard, threw himself over another fence, and stopped before the burning building. The entire right side had caught, and he knew those trapped inside were as good as dead already. Glass smashed and fell to the ground, hands stretched for help. Tobias started toward them, but then noticed that bars had been fixed to every lower window. He couldn’t get in that way.

He cupped his hands around his mouth to scream. “Oliver.”

No one called in answer. He looked about him and spied a man moving away from the house. The fellow staggered a few steps and then fell, his clothing steaming in the cold. Tobias rushed to him and rolled him over. His blackened visage proved he’d narrowly escaped death, but he had no eyebrows or hair left on his head. “Sir. Do you know Olivier Randall? Is he still inside?”

The man lying on the ground giggled and scuttled away, spit drooling from his mouth. But his arm lifted toward the burning house and pointed. A window high up, the same one as in the painting at Romsey, glowed with feeble light. Could Oliver really be here?

Time was against him. He’d have to trust luck that he could save his brother from the blaze. He drew in several deep clean gulps of air and then ran at the building. He leapt for the first window sill, balanced on the edge, and then kicked at the glass with his boots. Pieces splintered, shattering on stone as they fell, but there were bars behind the glass, and he couldn’t gain entrance that way. He looked up to the next window above him, stretched for handholds to reach it, and hauled himself up the face of the house. This window, too, was barred on the inside. He could also see the glow from the quickly spreading fire.

He glanced at the higher windows. One had drapes hanging through the narrow gap. He looked for handholds and saw few in the space between. His muscles burned as he stretched.

“Tobias!”

Blythe. He couldn’t look over his shoulder to reassure her he was well enough and he hoped she kept her distance. He passed a darkened window, found it barred too and continued up to the one he hoped was open.

Success. He lifted the pane, shifted the drapes aside to get a clear view and stuck his head and shoulders through. An old man with cropped greyed hair sat with his back to the window, pouring over a book by the weakest of light.

“I say, my good man, the house is afire. Why have you not fled?”