Page 42 of How to Tempt An Earl
‘Have you come alone?’ Roan’s eyes looked left and right without his head moving.
‘I’m sorry if that disappoints you.’ It took all his patience not to shoot Roan where he stood and dash into the house. There were flickers of flame visible now at the far end of the east wing.
‘I didn’t think the Horsemen worked alone,’ Roan drawled as if this were a leisurely conversation between gentlemen. Then again, Roan knew he had time on his side. This whole interaction had been designed to favour him. So, that was the first level of the game, Kieran thought—time against speed.
‘Only when needs must,’ Kieran replied tersely.
Roan made a show of reaching for a cigar and lighting it. Kieran slowly counted to five in his head, giving Roan time to realise his trap had not closed.
‘Was the cigar supposed to be a signal?’ Kieran took some satisfaction from Roan’s paling face when the expected shots didn’t come. ‘I think you’ll find your men have been relieved of duty. It was the reason for my delay.’
‘It doesn’t matter. There’s still one gun in play.’ Roan recovered from the news. ‘Celeste controls it. I gave her the option of a single shot she could fire to warn you.’ Roan nodded. ‘She can probably see you from the window even now, and she’s wondering if she has the courage to pull the trigger, the love to pull the trigger.’
He tapped ash from the end of his cigar while rage rocketed through Kieran.The bastard.Of all the cruelest tricks to put her through… What she must be feeling right now—grief, fear, self-recrimination because she couldn’t pull the trigger or because she could. He didn’t want to think of her doing the last. He couldn’t afford to wallow in the morbid image of it.
Be patient, my love. I am coming.He willed his thoughts to her.Yes, you are my love. Both of us walk out of here alive today, or neither of us will.
It took all of Kieran’s willpower not to look to the upper floor, to focus his attentions searching for a glimpse of her face.
‘It’s quite the Orpheus and Eurydice dilemma, isn’t it?’ Roan tapped more ash from the cigar. ‘Do you dare risk looking for her? Or in that time will I pull a gun of my own? Or possibly even a glance from you will give her the courage she needs and you can watch her die for you.’
All true. All reasons why he fought the temptation to look up, desperate as he was for a sight of her. That was what Roan wanted—for him to break his concentration both physically and mentally. But Roan had given important information away: Celeste was currently alive. She was in the house. She was upstairs. Those details mattered when time was racing.
‘Surely, the longer I stay here, the more obvious it will be to her that your plans have gone awry? And the less tempted she’ll be to pull that trigger.’ That was what Kieran hoped. He also hoped he sounded cool enough to be convincing with that argument. Inside, he was seething with a dozen different emotions that were waiting to boil over and he couldn’t allow it. A berserker rage would not help him, or Celeste.
Roan gave a shrug of contemplation. ‘There is merit to what you say but the longer you sit there on your horse, the longer my fire burns and the closer it gets to her. The smoke may already have reached her.’ More information: that meant she was in the east wing. In his smug certainty that he held the upper hand, Roan was giving himself away. Roan could tell him little more that would keep him alive. Kieran could take the shot now.
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Roan laughed coldly, guessing his thoughts. ‘I know who the Ottoman sympathiser is. I know where you can find him—the man responsible for organising Wapping and subsequently your brother’s death.’
Did Roan think that would keep him alive? Kieran shrugged. ‘I have the list. I will find the man eventually.’
‘Maybe. These are men who are good at hiding, at changing their names and their entire identities. I think a name is not enough. You will need more than that. Celeste does not understand that a list is not as powerful as she thinks. A list is just words.’ This was the second game: Roan wanted him to choose between his brother or the woman he loved. There was no time for this. Kieran raised his pistol.
I am sorry, Stepan. You are already dead, but I might still save her.
A clear, single crack sounded and Kieran went still, his own pistol unfired as Roan crumpled on the front step. Caine was running forward from the east side, pistol in hand, yelling instructions, but Kieran was already off Tambor and sprinting up the steps as Caine knelt beside Roan.
Inside, Kieran could smell smoke even on the lower level. Was it a second fire or had the smoke drifted this far already? He took the stairs two at a time, calling her name, letting Celeste know he was coming, that help was coming. She just had to hold on a little longer. Smoke, not Roan, was the enemy now. It was thick in the east wing and growing thicker the further down the corridor he went.
Kieran tore his cravat from his neck and fastened it around his nose and mouth. It was harder to call for her now, the smoke turning his voice hoarse. It would be hard, too, for her to answer. He’d been counting on her being able to make some sort of sound, so that he didn’t have to waste time opening each door.
A hulking shape loomed in the middle of the hall. Kieran recognised Ammon Vincent. He carried a bulky mass over his shoulder and a gun in his other hand. Was the man pillaging already? Kieran squinted against the smoke, new dread filling him. That wasn’t bulk, that was a person: Celeste. Ammon Vincent was risking much to come up and get her. Or perhaps Ammon Vincent had seen Roan fall, and knew the others were gone, that he was on his own. If he had Celeste, he could barter for his own freedom and his own life.
There was only one way for Vincent to go and that was to come towards him. The back staircases at the end of the hall were lost to him. Vincent would be near enough to see him soon. Kieran raised his pistol and stepped into the centre of the hall. ‘Put her down.’
A moment’s surprise flickered in Vincent’s eyes, red and watery from smoke like his own. ‘Or you’ll what—shoot me? I don’t think so. Not while I’ve got her. The risk is too great you’ll hit her instead.’
Kieran blinked, trying to clear his vision. Celeste was so still where she lay over his shoulder. Another tremor of fear ran through him. Was she conscious? Was she alive? She must be. He didn’t imagine Vincent would risk himself to haul out a body. He coughed, a reminder that time was running out. There was no time to think, only time to do; to take action and sort it out later. He would have to take Vincent in two stages. A lethal shot was not possible without risking Celeste but a disabling shot was. He gave himself over to the Horseman within and fired, taking Vincent in the leg.
Kieran was already running forward, slipping his knife from his boot as the big man went down, dropping Celeste and his weapon in his pain and in his need for self-preservation. Kieran was too fast; he didn’t give the man time to draw a weapon. He slid his blade between the big man’s ribs and thrust up. He knew he need not linger over Vincent; confident his blade would do its work.
His concern was all for Celeste. He lifted her in his arms and raced for the stairs, his breathing laboured, the air stinging his lungs. Someone was coming up the smoke-clogged stairs.Luce!Luce threw an arm around him, lending him strength as they made their way to the door, towards fresh air.
‘Take her into the drive,’ Luce instructed when he would have laid her down on the front step. ‘We want her far enough from the fire if it should spread.’ The extra steps seemed like miles. He wanted to lay her down and see her face, to assure himself she was breathing.
‘I don’t know if she’s alive,’ he gasped hoarsely, his thoughts jumbled, his fear giving him the power to make the last steps of the journey. He set her down at last, pressing a finger to the pulse that ought to beat at her neck, a pulse that had beaten fast and hard for him but now seemed non-existent. ‘I can’t find it, Luce, I can’t…’
His voice broke, a thousand terrors racing through his mind. He’d been too late. He should have ridden faster; he should have killed the men on the perimeter faster; he should never have let her leave; he should not have put off urging her to stay and should have promised her whatever it took. He loved her and he needed her. Let the house go, he thought—he’d build another. But there wouldn’t be another her, another love for him—never.
