Page 85 of Bargaining with the Devil

The smoke smell was growing stronger; he and Blackmore were running now. “’Twas a trap, the men luring us here.” They’d planned well, drawing the three of them away.

“Aye, only I fear the trap wasn’t for us.”

He should have known better. Blackmore should have known better. They’d been overconfident, thinking themselves the targets, and now Lucy might pay the price. Her sister and Rachel too. And Eva and Edmund, caught in a situation not of their own making.

No time now for self-recrimination.

In the first light of morning, a few wisps of smoke laced upwards, barely discernible as separate from the bare dawn sky. Then a handful of tendrils, curling lazily in the slight breeze, coming from the direction of the cottages.

But the main one, shared by Blackmore and his wife and daughter, or the crofter’s cottage over the hill? Lucy had refused to stay with her sister, hadn’t wanted to put Isobel and Rachel at greater risk. Unless she’d had a change of heart since last night, they’d still be in separate locations.

“We split up,” he said to Blackmore. His pistol was still loaded; he hadn’t needed it down below.

“Aye.” Blackmore, armed with his own pistol and his rifle besides, took off where the trail diverged.

He scrambled up the remainder of the hill alone, praying the entire way to every saint his mother had ever taught him that he wasn’t too late. Lymington remained loose. Of that, he was certain. But where had he gone?

Lucy. Lucy’s safety first.

He crested the rise, and his heart nearly stopped. ’Twas the crofter’s cottage, flames licking at the roof. Already the thatch had caught. ’Twould be a quick matter of minutes before the entire roof went.

For a split second he hoped she’d changed her mind, had gone to the main cottage after all and ’twas just an insult, this, but the wild hope dispersed as soon as he’d thought it. Lymington didn’t operate that way, even before he’d missed his first chance to kill her. If the cottage was aflame, Lucy was inside.

Dead already? No. Don’t even think it.

Alive but trapped, mayhap.

Something heavy prevented the door from swinging inwards. He battered the heavy wood with his fists, struck it with his feet, but ’twouldn’t budge.

The window. ’Twas glass, easily broken.

He tore off his coat. Wrapped his waistcoat securely around his forearm. Drove his elbow through the glass.

The thatch flamed higher, fed by the rush of air. Fucking hell, ’twould be no time at all till it fell in. Not much time left. Neckcloth over mouth and nose must suffice.

Heedless of remaining shards of glass, he levered himself through the window and crouched low, close to the floor as he could, down where the smoke wasn’t so thick.

The cottage interior was so hazy, the crackle and whoosh of flames so loud, that he could discern nothing. And then he heard her cough.

Lucy! Alive! Conscious? He called her name.

“Over—” She coughed again. Her voice was faint, hoarse, but blessedly hers. “Over here.” Her voice came from near the table.

He cut deeper into the thick air. “Can you follow my voice, a mhuirnín?”

“No.” Her voice was weak. “I’m—” She broke off, coughing again. “Bound. To the table.”

He made it to her, tripping over something large on the floor, shouldn’t have been there. “I’ll cut you loose.”

“Feet,” she managed. “And⁠—”

“Hush.” She was drawing more smoke into her lungs with each attempt.

I’ll get you loose.

He’d drag the whole fucking table out if he must, or he’d die trying.

He found the rope at her ankles and hacked at it with his knife. She wasn’t free after that so he touched his way up her, finding a rope at her waist besides. He sawed blindly at it. When it gave way, she slumped onto him, unable to support herself. Possibly not even conscious anymore.