Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(98)

“Hello, Spook,” she said softly, patting the gelding’s nose. “Don’t be offended . . . but I’m going to take my chances with Linnette tonight.”

The stars and the moon lent enough light for her to make her way through the shadowy interior of the stable, and she managed to saddle Linnette. It was perhaps inexpertly done, but at least the cinch was tight and the mare was gentle. Rosalie led the horse outside, swung herself lightly into the saddle, and hooked her knee around the pommel before urging Linnette quietly toward the village. The night air smelled of fire and burning wood the closer they came to the little community. Rosalie saw the mare’s ears twitch nervously at the sounds of shouting and screaming coming from the village, and when they were close enough to hear the roar of the blaze, Linnette began to prance agitatedly. don’t worry,” Rosalie soothed, jumping down and winding the reins around the frail branch of a small tree. They were far enough from the scene so that the mare would not be threatened by man or fire. It was easy enough for Rosalie to travel the rest of the way on foot.

The fire had a peculiarly voracious sound, and it thundered against her ears with the rush of a pounding waterfall. Rosalie’s eyes darted from place to place, encountering the blackened, smoking remains of homes and shops. Sticks of furniture and burning tufts of cushions and mattress stuffings were scattered in the streets. The fire had passed through this section of the village and had been more or less beaten out, but it seemed to be growing in strength in other parts of the community. Cautiously she walked along the outskirts of the buildings, her eyes touching sympathetically on the prone figures of the wounded. How had it all started? she wondered, and moved toward the areas ‘

where the sky was brightened into gray and purple by the glow of the strongest flames.

Suddenly a woman ran down a small street screaming, and Rosalie realized with panic-induced speed that the poor creature’s skirt had caught on fire. Whipping off her shawl, she ran to chase after the woman.

“Stop—I’ll help you!” Rosalie cried, but the woman did not listen, and it was a mere trick of chance that she tripped on a stone and fell to the ground. Rosalie reached her in an instant, beating out the smoldering cotton with her shawl. The woman was motionless even after the fire was extinguished. It did not appear that she had been burned, for although the skirts of her dress had been destroyed, there had not been time for the flames to reach her skin.

“Are you hurt?” Rosalie asked, turning her over, and the woman stared at her vacantly. Rosalie realized that she had asked the question in English. “Oh, damn . . .” she muttered, unable in situations of duress to remember a single word of French. “Are you . . . etes-vous . . . ” The woman burst into tears and then staggered up to move to the side of the street. Looking after her hesitantly, Rosalie gathered up her own skirts and the shawl before continuing down the street.

The church bell, now ominously silent, was silhouetted against the sky by stretching flames. The fire had not yet reached the church, but it was approaching invincibly. Rosalie murmured under her breath, hoping that the church would not be destroyed. It was the focus of the community, the center of most of the family and social activities in the village. The damage left in the wake of the fire was already of disastrous proportions, but the destruction of the church would be the worst part of the catastrophe.

She tried to get out of the way, for men were rushing by her with sloshing buckets of water from the well and from the feeble streams that branched from the Loire. Others were beating out the fire with small rugs. A man collapsed nearby, dropping a bucket of precious water, which soaked immediately into the warm ground. His arm had been badly burned, and did not appear to have been attended to. Two or three women rushed to drag him out of the path of the men who continued to battle the fire, and Rosalie took one of his arms to help them pull him across the ground. They reached an area where several other wounded people were resting, and one of the women patted Rosalie’s arm in silent gratitude before turning away to bandage yet another gory burn. Rosalie looked across the group but could detect no sight of Rand’s dark gold hair, and she swallowed hard before walking away to continue her search elsewhere.

The cottages near the church were now being evacuated, the sounds of wailing children rising above the curses of the men and the roaring fire. Rosalie could not see anything resembling Rand’s tall, broad-shouldered figure anywhere. Her eyes began to water and sting from the smoke, and she coughed to clear her throat of a dry, kindling itch.

She wiped her wet cheeks with the back of a hand and immediately afterward was confronted with the pitiable sight of a bawling child, who could not have been more than two or three. It was a little girl, whose hair was curly brown, her mouth nearly as wide as her face as she screamed for her mother.

“Shhh . . . little one, be quiet,” Rosalie murmured, picking the child up and casting a glance around the street. No parent or relative was in sight, and she wondered what to do as the girl clung to her like a little monkey. Patting the small, cushiony back gently, Rosalie turned in indecision and ran into what felt like a solid stone wall. The child began screaming anew, this time directly into Rosalie’s ear, and she squinted at whatever it was she had run into. A pair of hands clasped firmly over her shoulders, steadying her.

“Mademoiselle Rosalie? Is that you?”

The girl was removed from her arms and lowered to the ground, and Rosalie let out a relieved sigh as she recognized the handsome, soot-streaked visage above her.