Perfect in My Sight (11 page)

CHAPTER
11

Smothering the fire was not the easiest task, but they did it eventually. The last
flame was extinguished in the wee hours of the morning.

When Peter stood examining the damage in the eeriness of twilight, he saw the curtains
had been completely consumed. The interior of the room was completely charred, the
wood floors burned, the windows shattered by the heat. Even the bedclothes were singed.
Had the flames licked a little higher, the ceiling would have begun to
burn
as well, but as it was, it was only thickly layered with soot. The curtain rods were
torn
from the brackets on one side and it was obvious that they had been wrenched from
the wall. It appeared to him that Sarah had tried to put out the flame and she had
very likely saved them all. Peter hadn
’
t had to deal with a fire on the ceiling, merely a potential inferno.

By the time the fire department had responded, the fire had been contained.

Peter walked away with lungs burning and soot

covering him from head to toe. Weary as he was, his
first thoughts were for his son
... and for Sarah.

He
’
d abandoned them in Christopher
’
s room, only because it was so near to the front of the house. If his efforts had
failed, he would have retreated to get them at once, and then carried them to safety.
It was only now, however, as he walked away from the night
’
s blaze, that he realized how deadly his decision might have been.

As he contemplated the possible outcomes, he felt his stomach chum.

His head began to race with thoughts of what if...

What if he had not been able to put the blaze out?

What if he had endangered himself by going into the burning room, and somehow mortally
injured himself? No one other than Sarah had known his son
’
s whereabouts.

And Sarah..
. what the hell had she been doing with a lit candle in her room? What need had she
for light?

Weariness settled into his brain.

Perhaps someone had brought it in—Mel—and had forgotten it. But who would have been
so bloody stupid to set a candle so close to the curtains?

He
’
d found the brass candleholder on the windowsill. The window h
ad been left only slightly ajar
... enough so that the updraft had blown the flame toward the curtains, catching it
afire.

Whatever had possessed someone to do such a thing?

Someone had endangered them all with their carelessness tonight, and he had quite
a few questions to ask of his guest and her aide.

First, however, he wished to see to their comfort, and to make certain Sarah hadn
’
t been injured by the fire—thank God she
’
d awakened in time! He shuddered to think what might have happened.

He entered his son
’
s room and his heart jolted to a stop.

It was empty.

He
’
d left them both here to wait—where had they gone? It wasn
’
t so much a sense of immediate danger that made him suddenly sick to his stomach,
but the realization that had he needed to usher them to safety, he wouldn
’
t have been able to find them.

Where the hell were they?

He hurried into the hall.
“
Sarah!
”
he shouted.

There were strange people walking through his house now. The volunteer fire department,
and police as well. They peered at him through suspicious eyes, but at the moment
he didn
’
t give a bloody damn. He hurried outside, into the morning light, and sucked in a
sigh of relief to see his son with Sarah, the two of them huddled together.

Ignoring the press who were already gathering like hyenas after a kill—intrusive bastards—he
made his way toward them, shoving aside one man who approached him.

Sarah
’
s eyes were closed, and she was rocking Christopher in her arms, soothing him. There
were a few reporters gathered around her already, asking questions she didn
’
t seem able or willing to answer.

“
Sarah,
”
he whispered, not wishing to startle her.

“
Sarah?
”
She didn
’
t open her eyes, but turned her face up to the sound of his voice.

“
Peter?
”

He reached out and took her into his arms, drawing her against him, and Christ help
him, his body reacted at once as she fell into his embrace.
“
I
’
m here,
”
he told her, confused by his untimely physical reaction. His heart began to hammer
with something other than fear.

Something about the embrace triggered a longing deep within him.

Sarah held his son while he held her, and something inside him responded to that communion.

God, it felt bloody damned good to hold them, to protect them.

To protect somebody.

To know he hadn’t failed..
. again.

She seemed unable to speak, and he didn
’
t know what else to say. She looked so like a dirty little waif sitting there in her
blackened nightgown and soot-begrimed face. Her expression was one of bewilderment.

Without her dark glasses, he could see her face more clearly, and it was lovely despite
the filth. The only thing that possibly detracted from her perfection was her blindness.
And yet, did it truly? If he allowed that to influence his feelings, was he any better
than those who judged his son? Did he love his son any less for his disability?

The answer was no.

“
Daddy?
”
Christopher whined sleepily.

“
Yes, son,
”
Peter answered, and reached out to take him from Sarah
’
s arms.
“
Everything is all right,
”
he assured Christopher. His son latched his little arms about his neck as the newshounds
began to gather en masse. He shook Sarah.
“
Come, Sarah.
”

“Mr. Holland…
William Neil with—
”

“
No comment!
”
Peter snapped out, and urged Sarah up, dragging her gently to her feet. It wouldn
’
t look good to the press for him to throw her over his shoulder like some medieval
savage with his stolen bride, but he wasn
’
t about to stand about answering questions for a bunch of reporters with their own
bloody priorities. They hadn
’
t had the least compunction about ruining his reputation once before, nor had they
given a second thought to dragging his dead wife
’
s name through the proverbial mud.
“
Sarah,
”
he urged her once more, and she followed his lead as though she were in some hypnotic
state.

He led her into the house.

“
T-tea,
”
she stammered.

“
How did you get outside?
”

“
It was the t-tea,
”
she repeated, and swayed a bit on her feet,
scarcely
able to stand. If Peter didn
’
t know better, he would suspect her drunk or drugged. Perhaps she was drugged? Some
women, he knew, were quite fond of laudanum as a remedy for all ailments. His sister
was. But Sarah Hopkins somehow didn
’
t seem the type.

Ruth met them at the front hall.
“
Good God!
”
she exclaimed.
“
What is that child doing outside?
”

“
I don
’
t know how they got there,
”
Peter answered.
“
Take Christopher to his room and stay with him while I see to Miss Hopkins. She doesn
’
t seem well.
”

“
Certainly,
”
Ruth replied at once, and pried Christopher out of his arms.
“
And fetch
Mrs. Frank
as well,
”
he directed her.
“
Send her to Mary
’
s room.
”

“
Mary
’
s room!
”

“
Where else?
”
he snapped, and with his son in good hands, he lifted Sarah into his arms and carried
her to his suite.
“
And bring some tea,
”
he added.
“
She seems to be asking for it.
”

“No... head
aches,
”
she said. As they entered the master
’
s suite, Sarah moaned softly, lifting her hand to her head.

Good Lord
... her lungs ached
too
.

They no longer burned but were sore, and she felt as though the chill of the night
air had crept into her very bones.

“
Everything is fine,
”
he assured her once more.

Sarah was aware enough not to look him in the eyes. She closed her eyes tight, trying
to regain her bearings, trying to think. She had to think.

The entire night had been like a terrible dream, and still she had yet to awaken.

She clung to Peter as he laid her down in the bed, afraid to release him. He appeased
her by kneeling at the bedside
and allowing her to retain the
sleeve of his nightshirt in her fist.

“
Sarah,
”
he said.
“
How did you get outside?
”

“
I went
outside
... with Christopher,
”
she explained, her thoughts still too fragmented to construct sentences.

“
I know. But how?
”

“Don’t know
,
”
she explained.
“I was
... afraid.
”

His tone was firm, but not harsh.
“
Do you realize how dangerous that was?
”
he asked her.

Sarah didn
’
t answer. She hadn
’
t been thinking straight... but neither had he. The least dangerous place for them
to be had been outside.

She had known that at least.

“
Was afraid... Christopher,
”
she told him.
“
Safer
outside
...
”

He couldn
’
t argue that point and didn
’
t—thank God, because Sarah couldn
’
t think clearly enough to defend herself. Raw fear had set her in motion last night,
but whatever she had been drugged with worked with sheer fatigue now to bring her
to the edge of oblivion.

She needed to sleep. Exhaustion held her firmly in its grip.

She peered up into his face.
“
Need to,
” she pleaded
,
“sleep.
..
”

He was staring down at her, frowning. Maybe angry? She didn
’
t know what she had done, but she couldn
’
t think about it right now. She turned away.
“
Need to sleep.
”

“
Very well,
”
he relented.
“Sleep, then
.
”
He pulled the bedsheets out from beneath her and drew them up to cover her.
“
We
’
ll talk later,
Sarah,”
he whispered softly against her cheek as he tucked her beneath die covers.