Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

He searched her eyes. “Your cottages…” He did not continue. There was nothing more to say.

Her heart squeezed in her chest. Jamie had been trying to save her cottages. He’d been fighting for her. And still, the homes were lost.

Cat waved her hand. A gesture that said nothing. Nothing about her heartbreak. Her gladness at seeing him. Her fear for the future. “At least the Warners’ home still stands.”

The wind shifted, smoke and ash choked the breath from her lungs. She raised a handkerchief before her nose and tried to breathe.

Men shouted and Jamie looked over his shoulder, then back at her. “The Warners’ cottage is all that remains between the fire and the rest of the village.”

Pricks of pain stung her eyes. “What are you saying?”

“We have two options. We can fight the fire as is, and hope for the best.” His face looked grim. The best was not going well so far. “Or we can pull down the Warners’ cottage. Create a firebreak.”

Pull it down?

What of the family, gaunt and haunted and desperate for a new future? Of the tidy home with lovely curtains and warm beds? “They have nothing else, Jamie. Can we not save the cottage?”

His eyes were serious beneath lowered brows. “I do not know. Perhaps. Fire is not predictable.”

Again, a gust of wind blew a thick cloud of smoke across the crowd. Cat mopped at the tears coursing down her cheeks.

“The decision is yours, darling. I will honor whatever you choose.”

Shouts lifted up, and men ran down the street.

It was a terrible scene.

A living nightmare.

And she had to choose. Ruin or ruin. There was no good option. “Do you think it will work?” she asked. “The firebreak?”

“We have no other ideas.”

Ideas were often in short supply during times of crisis. Cat knew this. Had lived it before. “Then do it. Pull down the Warners’ cottage.”

Jamie brushed the tears from her cheek. “I’m sorry, Cat.”

She straightened her spine. Now was not the time to mourn. “What can I do?”

“Stay back. For God’s sake, don’t go near the blaze.”

“But—”

“You must listen to me on this. I am not lecturing you. Your skirts could catch a spark and easily set to flame.” He grabbed her upper arms. “I’m sorry I was gone last night. The bridge was washed out and I couldn’t get back before today. Please, stay safe. For me.” He pulled her to him for a quick, hard kiss, then turned toward the angry blaze.

Cat couldn’t watch him go. She whirled away from him and the danger he faced. On the far side of the street, women and children huddled together and observed the men. She couldn’t help fight the fire, but she could help the villagers.

She grabbed a footman whose livery was ruined by soot. “Run up to the Abbey and tell them to fetch the doctor in Giltbrook, then to send any food and drink they can find to the village. I will be waiting for it.”

“Yes, my lady.” The boy hurried off.

“And salve and bandages,” she called after him. “For burns.”

It seemed a paltry thing, to worry about food and comfort now. But the men were exhausted and the children scared. And the women, the women silently endured it all, as they always had. The least she could do was offer the villagers strength for their bodies. And perhaps their spirits as well.

It seemed forever before the wagon arrived from the Abbey with refreshment. A farmer’s wife passed food to the women and children while Cat brought ale and bread to the men fighting the fire. They came to her blackened and sweating and exhausted, with minor burns on their hands and arms.

She watched the crowd for Jamie, listened for the sound of his voice. There was no sign of him. With each breath, she fought down her panic. Inhaled through the lump of fear that wanted to close her throat.

“The marquess?” she asked the men who stopped for a drink.

They shrugged, or pointed vaguely, or told her what she did not want to hear. “In the back. Where the flames are worse.”

Cat would not think on it. He had to be safe.

She loved him. With every part of her being, she loved him.

She could not lose him again.

Still the men came to her. They needed water. Bread. Bandages. She held herself together by sheer will and helped them.

By now, the fire had caught up to the Warners’ cottage, which lay in shambles on the ground. Flames licked across the ruins. Men scurried by with hoses and shovels, trying to protect the firebreak.

Somewhere, her husband was in the midst of it all.