Page 95 of The Duchess Trap
Duncan looked back at her. “Get your cloak.”
She was already running for it. The tremor in her hands made it hard to tie the ribbons, and he took them from her, knotting them with a sure, decisive tug. When he opened the door, the cold night air rushed in—sharp and biting, laced with the faintest trace of smoke.
Catherine’s pulse faltered. She couldsmellit already.
“Please,” she whispered, not sure to whom she spoke — to Duncan, to God, to the memory of her mother who had once founded Brightwater with such faith. “Let them be safe.”
Duncan’s hand settled against the small of her back, guiding her toward the waiting carriage. “They will be,” he said, voice low and certain, as if his will alone could bend fate.
But as the horses lurched forward and the city gave way to the dark road ahead, Catherine pressed her palm to the window and saw it— a faint orange glow on the horizon, swelling brighter with every passing second.
It looked, she thought with horror,like dawn coming too soon.
The carriage wheels roared against the cobbles. Catherine sat forward, gripping the edge of the seat until her knuckles whitened. Duncan’s presence beside her was solid, immovable,a quiet storm barely contained. He said nothing for a long moment, only stared ahead, jaw locked, as the horses galloped toward the orphanage.
Then his hand came to rest over hers. It was a simple touch, but it steadied her more than she expected.
“We’ll save them,” he said, voice low but certain. “Do you hear me, Catherine? Whatever it takes, we’ll save them.”
The words sank into her like breath after drowning. For a heartbeat, the terror loosened its grip. She turned to him, seeing not the cold duke the world knew, but the man who would ride through fire if she asked.
“I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
He gave the faintest nod, and the pressure of his hand lingered, strong and grounding, until the carriage slowed and the first trace of smoke filled the air.
When they arrived, Brightwater was half-shrouded in smoke. The night glowed red behind it, a monstrous light, alive and ravenous. Flames licked at the roof, throwing sparks into the air like cruel stars.
Catherine’s breath caught. For a moment, she couldn’t move. Her mother’s orphanage was burning before her eyes. The familiar windows she had opened so many mornings werenothing but squares of black and orange. The air itself trembled, thick with heat and terror.
“Dear God,” she whispered, one hand pressed to her chest. It felt as though her heart was trying to break free from her ribs.
Catherine jumped from the carriage before Duncan could stop her.
“Catherine!” His voice thundered after her, but she was already running, skirts gathered in one hand, the other shielding her face from the heat.
Children’s high, terrified cries filled the courtyard. A crowd had gathered at the gates—neighbors, servants, a few of the older boys from the home. Their faces were pale in the firelight, their voices a blur of shouting and prayer. She could hear the children crying inside.
A line of servants and older boys was passing buckets from the well to the burning side of the building. Mrs. Simms, pale and frantic, saw her and rushed forward.
“Your Grace! You shouldn’t?—”
“Where are they?” Catherine’s voice cracked, the smoke clawing her throat. “Where are the children?”
“They’re coming out now—the east wing is clear, but the nursery?—”
Catherine didn’t wait to hear more. Her heart lurched violently, every thought narrowing to that single word.The place where the youngest slept, the ones who couldn’t even tie their own boots. She lifted her skirts and ran, ignoring the matron’s cry behind her.
The moment she crossed the threshold, the smoke struck her like a wall. It stole the air from her lungs, hot and heavy, tasting of ash and ruin. Her eyes burned, watering until the world blurred. She pressed a sleeve over her mouth and forced herself forward, step by step.
The hallway she’d walked a thousand times was unrecognizable, its walls blackened, portraits half-melted, the familiar smell of soap and porridge replaced by the stench of burning timber and despair. Flames snarled along the ceiling beams, their light flickering like demons’ tongues. Somewhere above, a beam cracked, the sound splitting through the roar like thunder.
Her body trembled, but she refused to stop. Each step was agony, her lungs screaming for clean air, but the memory of small hands clinging to her skirts, of laughter echoing down these halls, drove her onward. She thought of her mother, of the woman who had built this place with her own kindness, and felt that same fierce love igniting within her.
“Mary? Thomas?” she called, voice hoarse already, the words barely carrying over the din. “Can you hear me? Henry?”
No answer. Only the sound of fire devouring what had once been a sanctuary. She swallowed her fear and called again, louder this time, desperate.
“Henry? Mary? Thomas?” she called again, coughing.
