Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(101)

Fire licked up from a broken window, the room beyond entirely golden with flame. The crowd had quieted, as if in awe, as the roar of the fire had grown louder. The bucket line was still struggling heroically, but their efforts had no visible effect on the flames.

There was a sudden shriek, and Temperance watched, detached, as the Ghost of St. Giles dragged Mother Heart’s-Ease from inside the neighboring house. It was a bizarre sight. Mother Heart’s-Ease fought like a maddened wolf, but the Ghost had his hand locked about her upper arm and easily contained her. He shoved her at Mr. St. John, pointing with a gloved finger first at the burning home and then at the screaming woman, as if any of them needed an explanation. St. John’s face hardened, and he called over two loitering footmen to help him hold the murderess.

Then the Ghost of St. Giles simply walked away into the crowd. No one gainsaid him.

Temperance didn’t care.

“I must go in,” she said to no one in particular, and started forward, only to find her arm in Winter’s firm grip.

“Let me go.” She turned her face to his, pleading.

She could see tears in his eyes. “No, sister. You must remain here.”

“But he’ll burn,” she whispered, turning back to the fire. “He’ll burn and I don’t know if I can bear it.”

Winter said no more, even when she collapsed to her knees. She was bereft, here on the muddy cobblestones, watching her love die. He was her love, she knew it now that it was far too late to tell him. Caire was both stronger and more vulnerable than any man she’d ever known before. He saw her flaws, saw her anger and sexual need, and her pretense of being someone better than she really was, and he didn’t care. It was odd; she’d always thought she’d love someone who saw only the best in her when all along it was the man who saw everything—the good and the bad—who she loved.

And now it was too late.

Her throat was raw, and Temperance realized she was screaming, trying to crawl forward, Winter’s hold on her arm preventing her.

And then a small form appeared, walking from the smoke and flames. Mary Whitsun emerged from the burning home like a miracle. She saw Temperance and ran to her. Temperance hugged her close, crying and kissing her face, squeezing her much too tight in her sorrow and joy.

Until Mary Whitsun raised her tear-streaked face. “He’s still inside, Lord Caire. He came for me, but he shoved me down the stairs. He’s still inside.”

Something crunched and then gave way, and the entire front half of the house collapsed in on itself.

Chapter Twenty

King Lockedheart was very pleased with this demonstration. To reward Meg, he offered to give her anything she asked for—anything at all.

Meg smiled. “I thank you, Your Majesty, but all I wish for is a little pony and a pack of provisions, for I long to see what the wide world is like.”

The king frowned at this, for he’d become rather fond of Meg. But no matter how he argued, Meg was quite firm: She would leave on the morrow to go exploring. This put the king into a foul mood, and he was terribly curt with her for the rest of the wonderful meal. Meg for her part was cheerful, ignoring the king’s more sarcastic comments.

And at the end of the evening, she left the king sitting all alone in his dining room….

—from King Lockedheart

The rain was gentle at first. It drifted down, as soft as a mother’s kiss on a sleeping child. Temperance didn’t notice the drops falling from above until the fire began to hiss. And then, all at once, the clouds above opened up, pouring rain down like a waterfall, the drops so hard that they ricocheted off the cobblestones, splashing back up as they hit. The fire fought back, hissing and spitting its defiance, great waves of steam rising up. But the rain was stronger, more relentless, and the flames began to fall back.

And in the midst of all this, a figure in a black, swirling cloak emerged from the clouds of steam, limping but walking steadily.

Temperance rose to her feet, a cry strangled in her throat. His silver hair was tarnished by the smoke, but it was him. It was Caire. She pulled away from Winter and ran, slipping on the wet cobblestones, blinded by the rain and her own tears, rushing toward her heart. As she neared, a black singed cat struggled from under his cloak and streaked straight to Mary Whitsun.

Caire coughed. “I loathe cats.”

Temperance sobbed once.

He caught her hard, pulling her under his cloak, kissing her with a smoke-filled mouth, there in the rain in front of everyone.

“I love you,” she sobbed, rubbing her hands over his face, his hair, his chest, making sure he was solid and real. “I love you, and I thought you were dead. I couldn’t bear it. I thought I would die too.”

“I’d walk through fire for you,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and broken. “I have walked through fire for you.”

She choked on a laugh, and he kissed her again, his mouth hard, tasting of smoke and fire, and she’d never tasted anything so wonderful before, because he was alive.

He was alive.

He broke their kiss, resting his forehead against hers. “I love you, Temperance Dews, more than life itself.”

He would’ve said more, but she kissed him again, softly this time, trying to convey everything she felt with just her lips.

“Ahem.” Someone cleared their throat nearby.

Lazarus pulled back from the kiss enough to mutter, “Yes, Mother?”