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Emily French (29 page)

BOOK: Emily French
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“Our war of love has just begun. I realize now there may be a number of small skirmishes before the decisive battle!” she said, smiling at his reflection.
He looked taken aback. As well he might, she thought, suppressing a chuckle at his expression. Not knowing the emotion, he did not know that love, perfect love, never gives up, and its faith, hope and patience never fail.
Glory! What would St. Paul think of Madame Bertine’s advice? Sophy put her cheek against his broad back and began to giggle.
A slow sense of satisfaction grew in Seth. He made a small sound that might have been a laugh. There was an honesty about Sophy, a genuineness that had touched him, transcending circumstance.
She had approached him without guile, making no bones about what she needed.
Can you give this to me?
she had asked him in the wedding bargain.
And this? And this? And I, in return, shall give you
—More than he could ever have anticipated.
Life with Sophy was never dull.
He began to shave his face. Her palm came up to stroke his neck, and he shuddered at the fiery lick the caress engendered in him. The fingers trailed along his wide shoulder, down under the armpit, and here they stopped to explore the wiry softness of hair.
Seth made a little hissing noise, his breath sharply drawn in through his teeth. The fingers continued their examination, dancing now along his rib cage as though it were a musical instrument. His shoulders quivered, as if they had a will of their own.
He grimaced as the razor scraped his cheek, and he compelled his mind to turn to other thoughts, else he would end up cutting his own throat.
“Call it what you will,” Sophy murmured beneath her breath, pressing her breasts against his back. “Whatever you may say, you are mine, and in your heart you know it. Sooner or later, sooner or later, I will make you own it.”
She couldn’t see over his shoulder to watch his reaction in the mirror, but seconds later, as her hand slid down from his chest and across his flat belly, she felt it.
Her fingers curled around him, tentative at first, but rapidly becoming more confident. His reaction when she touched him was gratifyingly vigorous. Feeling him spring to life against her palm, she was filled with a warm and secret delight. It had suddenly all become so simple.
Maneuver according to circumstance.
Seth dabbed his face with a towel, and unlocked his thoughts, allowing the keen sense of anticipation to enfold him like a cloak on a winter’s eve.
And as he did so, he smiled like a man well pleased.
Chapter Fifteen
 
 
S
ophy was just about to cross into Rivington Street when, somewhere in the vicinity, a deep-toned church bell began to ring, and soon more bells of varying degrees of pitch and resonance began to clang.
Along with most of the hurrying crowd, she halted, trying to determine what was amiss and where. An icy dart shot the length of her back when she saw a palpitating orange glare light the sky and heard someone bellow, “Hey! It’s a fire!”
Windows banged open and heads emerged, yelling for information. Residents ran out of doors, pulling on scarves and coats. A flood of shrieking, ravening humanity quickly surged in the direction of an increasingly dense pillar of gray-blue smoke, rising only a block or so away.
Cries of “Fire! Fire!” split the air.
A shout went up. “Where is it?”
A shout came back. “Somewhere in Rivington Street!”
More bells joined in, raising the tumult; billows of acrid, eye-stinging smoke thickened as the deafening cacophony increased.
“Clear the way for Hose Company Nineteen!”
Down the avenue it raced, the red-and-gold fire engine, billowing smoke and vapor from its steamer, three galloping horses abreast, nostrils wide, manes flying, the helmeted driver laying on an unfelt whip. Clinging to the stubby water tank as if to salvation itself, six helmeted fire fighters shouted futilely to clear the way.
So rapidly did the crowd thicken from all directions that Sophy was hard put to maintain her footing. She felt herself spun about, her ears numbed by the din.
Trapped by the mob, she pressed flat against a brownstone wall, watching the fire fighters dash past. Their little engines and wooden pump handles appeared absurdly inadequate.
Pandemonium increased. Terrified carriage and dray horses snorted, reared and plunged, dragging wrecked vehicles. Some of the animals broke loose, trampling and charging aimlessly about the crowd.
Amid howls, yells and the pounding of feet, it became apparent to Sophy that this was a fire of major proportions.
“It’s spreading!”
Three other big buildings had started to ooze smoke before flames burst through the upper windows. The clouds of smoke thickened, as increasing numbers of blazing brands and sparks billowed along the street.
A small space opened in front of Sophy, and she darted into the fray. The shrill screams and screeching of humans aware that flaming death was about to close in upon them now began to sound over the infernal crackling roar.
Suddenly she was free of the worst of the crowd and started to run toward Rivington Street. Her small figure was soon swallowed up amid the billowing, choking smoke.
As Seth turned stiffly into Delancy Street, each step carefully measured, his heart was filled with a double joy. He was meeting Sophy at the agent’s office in Rivington Street in fifteen minutes, and he had discovered today he could manage without the aid of his walking stick.
Every night, Sophy diligently massaged his wasted muscle, and every day he exercised assiduously. Somehow, the unorthodox treatment had restored his sense of balance and poise. He was still too slow, too awkward, but given time...
He grinned into the wind that nipped at his ears. For the first time in too many years to count, he felt free. Happy and free.
Bells clanged, coming nearer and nearer. A horde of people came yelling, tearing down the street past him. All around him arose a frightening series of yells, whoops and drunken cries.
“Fire! Where’s the fire!”
Now, unbidden, Seth felt fear flutter his heart. Gray, woolly clouds of smoke came belching up Allen Street. Giant flames leaped and spewed into the darkness of the smoke like the corona of the sun seen close up in a primitive dance. People were running in every direction, screaming.
Seth felt the skin on his forearms beginning to chill and tingle when he realized where the fire was situated. His heart clenched. Abruptly, the force of his feelings for Sophy broke the surface of his mind, like a geyser rupturing the glass surface of a still pond.
The comprehension came, not from his mind, not from reason, not even from knowledge, but from somewhere in a region of his heart that he had held so long at bay.
His heart gave a wild leap and stood still as a ball of flame lit the sky. Red and orange lights led toward the East River, bulking blackly against the skyline, the bloated billowing flames twisting like fiery gymnasts.
There was a confused babble, the scurrying of many feet. The next moment he had pushed through the surge of onlookers. Rivington Street was red and ablaze.
Seth ran.
Sophy halted halfway up the stairs and leaned against the rail to catch her breath. Then she went on. She gained the office door, took a step or two inside.
Chairs lay on their sides. Drawers had been wrenched open. Papers lay scattered, giving the place the rather disconsolate air of a deserted carnival.
“Seth?” Where was he? A red eye glowed ahead of her, the opalescent glow of fire reflected in the window. She could hear the sound of harsh breathing. Her own?
The door banged shut, dislodging a piece of plaster. A distinct shiver of fear began at the base of her spine and worked upward.
“Richard?”
Every nerve in her body shrieked when, like a red lance flung into the sky, a tongue of flame caught the curtain, leaping red and gold in the window. Higher soared the flames, until the wallpaper curled. Now it was a fierce, throbbing glare that singed the feathers in Sophy’s bonnet.
She wrenched open the office door. Flames raced along the baseboards of the wall and began to lick at the steps. Her knees wobbled. She closed her eyes and held her breath but she could smell it anyway. The acrid thick odor of burning timber and paint, slick and heavy as oil, filled her nostrils and stung her skin.
No way to get out.
She couldn’t breathe right. Her lungs were on fire. The smoke was inky thick. She opened her mouth. “Seth! I love you!”
 
Seth crashed into the solid bulk of Richard Carlton. “Where’s Sophy? Have you seen her?”
“No. The place has been evacuated.”
“Seth!” And now he heard her, her voice clear above the din. Shouting her name, he ran into the building. Fire raced behind him, straining at his heels.
Sophy was perched on the rail at the top of the steps, limned in firelight and fear. She was balanced there, ready to jump.
He stretched out his arms to her. She hesitated, then launched herself, striking him with such force that they both went down, rolled.
He helped her up, his face white. Neither of them spoke. Words were unnecessary and impossible. The very air around them had been sucked into the backdraft. There was nowhere to go.
Seth’s brain seethed in its struggle with this new problem. His eyes fastened on a narrow stairway. He pointed at the opening, grabbed Sophy’s hand, and together they raced down into the smoke-filled kitchen.
He shot back a brace of stout brass bolts. Throwing open the door, he pulled her out into the rear courtyard. Coolness hit her face. The noise in her ears changed. The smoke was gone, not completely, but thin enough so they could breathe without choking.
Gasping, drawing great mouthfuls of air, Seth suddenly realized the courtyard exit was locked. They were trapped. An unnatural silence descended, broken only by a savage, spine-tingling roar of flames beating at the walls behind them.
“What is it?” Sophy managed with a steadiness that surprised her.
Seth rubbed his palms across his face and stood ramrod straight, concentrating on controlling his breathing. “It’s a Yale pin tumbler lock, impossible to break.”
“Is there no way it can be picked?”
He shook his head once, slowly. “Not without a flat metal tool.”
Sophy fumbled under her voluminous dress. Her cage-like extension skirt dropped to the ground and she thanked heaven for Charles Worth, the French fashion king. With difficulty, her small hands began to work one of the springy metal bands free from its tape casting.
There was another explosion and the whole building seemed to shudder. An uneasy silence fell. Like scarlet serpents, flames began writhing out along the doorway until the whole area was flooded by a hellish, throbbing light.
Seth’s strong capable hands took over the task, wiggling the strip of metal back and forth until the dainty braid holding the two edges together gave way. Now, thanks to the French modistes and the modish Madame Bertine, they had a lock-picking tool!
In no time at all, he had inserted the improvised key, jiggling and twisting until the internal mechanism clicked. Then they were racing to safety. As they stood there gasping, Sophy noticed with wonder that large snowflakes were beginning to fall.
Shadows danced madly around them, the central pillar of the flames still burning. In beautiful contrast with the lurid masses of flame and smoke, an arch of rainbow, brightening and fading as the northwest wind fell, formed on the spray of the engines.
Sophy sagged against the shock wave of relief, her body leaning into Seth’s strength for support. His weight was like a shield, a ward against panic. She put her hand against his chest so that she could feel the breath going in and out of him.
It was real, this road, this air, this sky. They were safe and, miracle of miracles, the orphanage children were all safe and accounted for, although four citizens and three horses were later found to have been killed.
Seth’s arms closed about her, and he drew her tight against him.
Sophy
. Her name sang in his bones.
Sophy Weston
. The thread of emotion had grown till it was as wide as a road, as blindingly brilliant as the fire around them. He drew a slow breath, hesitated, searching for the right way to express his feelings, his newly discovered knowledge.
Sophy let him hold her close for a few minutes, sensing his need for the quiet communion. There was a silence. All about them the air was throbbing as if with winged heartbeats. Then, with a quick, nervous laugh she released herself, her words prosaic.
“It’s snowing! Let’s go home.”
 
Seth knew that he should be tired, but he wasn’t. He had never felt better. He felt that somehow tonight he had opened a door, and had entered an entirely new world, though he could not for certain say what that world was. It was like the trumpeting echo of dreams.
He smiled as he bathed, and whistled as he poured himself a glass of Madeira. Then, humming, he donned a silk dressing gown. How long, he wondered, taking a generous swallow of the wine, since he had hummed a tune?
Seth shrugged mentally. It was as if a great weight bad been lifted from his shoulders. He laughed, a soft sound. Excitement soared inside him. He was a fiercely painted kite riding the feral winds. His whole body seemed to be on fire with desire. This new and undreamed-of desire for Sophy, his own, his beloved, whom he had not until today realized
was
his beloved.
The truth racked him with its force. His pulse beat hard in his temples and he felt a sudden rush of blood to his head. He had never wanted any woman as he wanted her. She was made for him. She was perfection.
His hands knotted, unknotted. She must know. He shook his head slowly, struggling to do what he must do and say what he must say. It was all framed and ready when he entered her rooms.
Sophy grimaced at the reflection in the vanity mirror. Grimy tendrils of hair that had come loose from its coil hung around a face that was sweaty, dusty and smudged with ash. Her expensive couturier dress was ruined, all torn and filthy.
“The bathwater’ll be cold and so will yon chocolate, if ye don’t stop admirin’ y’self, lass.” Tessa stomped out of the room.
A bath. Bliss unalloyed. Clean hair, clean body. A smile on her lips, a sense of peace in her heart, Sophy was leaning back in the tub placidly contemplating the bright brass fittings when the bathroom door opened.
Seth stood before her, his hand on the door handle. The fat wedge of lemon light from the bedroom gilded the bridge of his nose, glinted off his eyes, turning their deep blue opaque. He stopped short. His gaze was riveted to hers, tension in every muscular inch of him from the tips of his bare toes to the jut of his newly shaved chin. It was obvious he was naked underneath a carelessly fastened black silk robe.
Sophy’s head swung around to look at him, the gaslight soft on the sharply defined curve of her cheekbone, her lips. Seth’s gaze slipped, and all coherent thought fled.
It was like moving through a dream. All senses were assailed relentlessly until he felt as if he had stumbled upon the atelier of one of the great artists. There was the same sensation of being in the presence of a great legacy, an immortal statement that transcended human experience.
Stillness shielded his features for a moment, then he smiled almost shyly. For just an instant Sophy thought she had caught a glimpse of him as a little boy. She found herself smiling back at him.
BOOK: Emily French
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