The woman in her arms had the pale color of death, but she didn’t appear to have suffered an injury. The flames were closing in on them, but he knew panic wouldn’t move Emma.
“What happened?”
“She broke her neck,” Emma said simply. “She was so terrified she fell on the stairs. I can’t leave her here, Brandon.”
“All right then, love, we’ll take her with us.” He rose, caught the nearest piece of furniture, and crashed it through the window. The flames burst into the room, fed by the air, but he’d had no other choice. “Let me have her.”
For a moment Emma wouldn’t release her, but there was no way he could carry them both. Finally she let go, and Brandon scooped the dead woman up into his arms.
He’d carried dead weight before, always a fellow soldier, and this woman seemed light as a feather. He moved toward the window, planning to drop her onto the surrounding grass as gently as he could, but people were already there, arms reaching out, and he placed the body into them, then turned to Emma.
She was still sitting on the floor, a bloody, smoky, stunned mess, and she’d never been more beautiful. “Shall we go?” he said gently.
She looked up at him, and then nodded, trying to rise to her feet. Her legs wouldn’t hold her, but it didn’t matter, he simply scooped her up, and there was no way he was ever letting go of her again. The men outside had brought a pump machine, and they were working on the front of the building, dowsing the flames, so he simply climbed through the empty window frame, dropping down, Emma still in his arms. He had her, and she was safe, and nothing else mattered.
Chapter 30
They had taken her away from him. Brandon would have hit any man who tried, but they were women—the Gaggle and his sister-in-law—and he had no choice but to release her into their loving arms, to turn back and join the men fighting the inferno.
It hadn’t been just men. Those of the Gaggle who weren’t tending to Emma, had joined the bucket brigade, along with his supposed fiancée and her companion. Frances Bonham’s sleeves were rolled up, her hair mussed, she was looking efficient and determined, and for the first time he’d admired her. She and Miss Trimby would make an admirable couple, even if they had to hide themselves from the world.
But three days later, he still hadn’t set eyes on Emma. He paced his room for the seventh time, his booted feet loud on the floor. Melisande had put him in the old bachelors’ quarters, a wing of the building that some previous owner had added to keep young men from young women, and it was doing an admirable job of keeping him from Emma. He was in the furthest room from the main house, and for the first day he’d allowed others to constrain him, his hands clumsy from the bandages that covered them, his throat and chest aching from the smoke he’d swallowed. It suited his appearance admirably, the good side of his face now covered with bruises, burns . . . but then, Emma didn’t think it was his good side, did she?
He stopped pacing abruptly, and Noonan looked up from his seat across the room where he was carving a piece of wood, dropping shavings all over the valuable Persian carpet. “What’s on your mind, me boy? Mooning over your tart again?”
Brandon glowered at him. “If my hands weren’t useless I’d give you the thrashing you deserve.”
Noonan simply laughed. “You wouldn’t hurt an old man, now, would you?”
“I thought better of you.”
Noonan didn’t have the grace to look abashed. “You really have a desperate case of it, don’t you? You always jump to the bait like a starving trout. I don’t hold the girl’s past against her—women in her line of work are among the most honest I’ve ever known. I’m not as impressed with her since then, of course. I don’t hold with ‘good works’ and surgeons are nothing but butchers. I’d be watching myself around her. She could slice off something vital if she got mad enough.” He chuckled to himself.
Brandon shook his head, giving up. He knew what Noonan was doing—of course he did. It was exactly what he had done for the last three years—taunt him, goad him, insult him and everything he held dear in order to get him moving. It had always worked. But now he was strangely reluctant to break the stalemate. Emma would be safe as long as Melisande was looking after her, and Benedick had sworn to him that Emma’s injuries, were healing rapidly. She should be ready to travel by the end of the week.
But travel where—that was the question. She loved him. They both knew it, and yet he still wasn’t certain he’d won her. She’d run off that morning after they’d made love, clearly not intending to return, and even though she’d ended
in his arms, the truth was he hadn’t been able to rescue her. She’d had to do that herself. She’d fallen into his arms like a woman coming home, but still he wasn’t convinced.
She must know his ridiculous engagement was ended—Frances had requested a visit with him, and with Miss Trimby an impassive observer she had quietly but firmly broken their short-lived engagement, saving him the necessity of doing it himself. But Emma had made no effort to see him, though Benedick said she was already up and about, and every time he inquired after her he was informed that she wasn’t up to receiving visitors. He wasn’t a visitor, God curse it, but he had no intention of making a scene, and that strange lassitude still had him in its grip. If he didn’t force the issue there was still hope.
“So are you just going to stand there moping?” Noonan demanded, sounding exasperated. “Are you too much of a coward to risk an answer, or even ask the bloody question?”
Brandon looked at him without expression. The old man knew exactly what he’d done in the Afghan War, what he’d seen—cowardice had nothing to do with it. “What do you think?” he said, his voice even.
Noonan snorted. “Then do something about it! She’s too good for the likes of you, but she seems to fancy you, so stop wasting time. I’m sick of this soft southern climate!”
Neither of them mentioned that an icy rain was falling, neither of them cared. “Screw my courage to the sticking post, is that it?” Brandon murmured, straightening his shoulders.
Noonan scoffed, no fan of Shakespeare. “That’s about the only thing ye’ll be screwin’ if you don’t get a move on.”
Brandon laughed, hiding his uneasiness. “You’re a pig, Noonan.”
“Bog Irish and proud of it,” Noonan replied, setting down his carving and rising. “Let’s go win the fair lady.”
Brandon raised an eyebrow. “You’re coming with me?”
“Someone’s got to speak for your good character, since you’ve made a piss-poor effort. Besides, everyone knows when a woman marries she marries the man’s man as well.”