My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(36)

“Please fall in love with me,” Jane whispered. It shouldn’t be totally out of the realm of possibility. After all, Mr. Darcy fell in love with the nearly destitute Elizabeth Bennet. It could be like one of those stories Charlotte and the other girls at Lowood were always telling—the ones with rich, handsome suitors, not the ones about murder.

Wait.

Murder.

The bed was still on fire.

During her admiring, the flames had grown onto the canopy, and one burning piece of fabric had dropped to the bed, igniting the blankets.

“Sir!” Jane screamed. “Sir, wake up!”

She wanted to shake him, to rouse him, but she couldn’t reach him without becoming engulfed in fire herself. “Helen,” she cried. “Help me!” She didn’t really believe Helen would come, though, as Helen was more afraid of getting hurt than anyone Jane knew.

But suddenly, Helen leapt through the flames and onto the bed. She looked at Jane. “What do I do?”

“Jump!” Maybe, if she was afraid enough, she could shake the bed, as she’d done in their room not ten minutes ago.

Helen nodded frantically and began to jump, but she was only able to jostle the sheets a bit.

“Sir!” Jane exclaimed again. Mr. Rochester didn’t budge. How could someone sleep so heavily through a raging fire? Perhaps he’d had too much wine at dinner.

The flames crawled across the bed, closer and closer to the master of the house.

Jane rushed to his washbasin. Fortunately, it was filled with water. She carried it over and deluged the bed, hitting Mr. Rochester’s face as well. Still, no movement. Jane hurled the basin up and over the flames.

It hit Mr. Rochester squarely on the forehead.

“Ah!” he grunted. “What the devil?”

It took him a moment to figure out what was happening; then he was on his feet, ripping off sheets and curtains and using them to smother the remaining flames.

The room fell into smoky darkness.

“Jane Eyre, is that you?” he said gruffly. He coughed a few times.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you just hit me with something?”

Helen scoffed. “That should be the least of his worries right now.”

“You were almost burned alive,” Jane said. “I heard a noise, a laugh, and I followed the smoke to your bedchamber.” She squinted, willing her eyes to adjust to the dark. Then she remembered the lit candles down the hall. “Be right back.”

“You’re leaving me here alone to stumble about?” he said.

Jane rushed out the door, followed closely by Helen.

“Stumble about,” Helen said. “As if he’s never walked in the dark before.”

Jane shushed her and fetched both candles from the corridor. She returned to Mr. Rochester’s room and handed one to him.

Their candlelit faces stared at each other for a long moment. The glow had a certain way of illuminating his features that made Jane decide then and there that his face should only ever be lit by candlelight.

Much better than bed-firelight.

Helen glanced from one face to the other. “What are we looking at?”

Jane ignored her. “Sir, someone’s tried to kill you. You need to find out who. Shall I fetch Mrs. Fairfax?”

“What the deuce is Mrs. Fairfax going to do about it? No, let her sleep.” He grabbed his robe and draped it over himself. “Stay here, Miss Eyre. Stay here and I’ll find out what’s going on.”

“But . . .” Jane shivered.

“Are you cold?” Mr. Rochester asked softly. He took the robe from around his shoulders and placed it on Jane’s. He then led her to the chair in the corner of the room, sat her down, and put her feet on the stool. “I’ll be back momentarily. Please, stay here until I return.”

With that, he left.

And Jane’s racing heart began to slow.

Helen plopped down on the stool beside Jane’s feet. “How odd,” she remarked.

“What’s odd?” Jane said.

“What’s odd?” Helen repeated. “Um, maniacal laughter, scratching at our door, bed fire. And now he wants you to just sit here and wait?”

“Of course he does. It makes perfect sense.” Jane grabbed the robe and held it to her face, inhaling his scent, as she gazed wistfully out the door. Reader, it smelled of fire.

“How does it make sense?” Helen waved her hands above her head. “A lunatic attempted murderer is on the loose inside the walls of Thornfield, and he leaves you here, at the scene of the crime, by yourself, unprotected.”

“Everyone knows the arsonist would not return to the scene of his crime so quickly.” Jane felt her cheek at just the spot where Mr. Rochester’s hand grazed it. Her skin was warm under her fingertips. Was it from the excitement or his touch?

“I don’t think that’s true,” Helen said. She flapped her hands and glanced nervously at the door.

“You don’t think what’s true?”

Helen groaned. Jane stared at the door, each second growing longer and longer. The hallway beyond was pitch-black. Where was he? Did the culprit catch up to him in another part of the house? Was he lying on the floor, bleeding somewhere?

At last Mr. Rochester appeared, and Jane sighed in relief. She stood and went to him. She felt strangely weightless every time she was near him.