She whirled around, to see the form of Stephen Bonnet looming out of the darkness.
“Run!” he shouted at her. “For Christ’s sweet sake, why have ye not gone?”
“Because it’s safe here,” she said. She had laid the musket down on the floor beside Grey’s body; she stooped and picked it up, lifted it to her shoulder. “Go away.”
He stared at her, mouth half open in the gloom.
“Safe? Woman, you’re an eedjit! Did ye not hear—”
“I heard, but you’re wrong. It’s not going to explode. And if it did, it would still be safe down here.”
“The hell it is! Sweet bleeding Jesus! Even if the cellar doesn’t go, what happens when the fire burns through the floor?”
“It can’t, it’s brick.” She jerked her chin upward, not taking her eyes off him.
“Back here it is—up front, by the river, it’s wood, like the wharf. It’ll burn through, then collapse. And what happens back here then, eh? Do ye no good for the ceiling to hold, when the smoke comes rolling back to smother ye!”
She felt a wave of sickness roil up from her depths.
“It’s open? The cellar isn’t sealed? The other end of the corridor’s open?” Knowing even as she spoke that of course it was—he had run that way, heading for the river, not for the stairs.
“Yes! Now come!” He lunged forward, reaching for her arm, but she jerked away, back against the wall, the muzzle of the gun trained on him.
“I’m not going without him.” She licked dry lips, nodding at the floor.
“The man’s dead!”
“He’s not! Pick him up!”
An extraordinary mixture of emotions crossed Bonnet’s face; fury and astonishment preeminent among them.
“Pick him up!” she repeated fiercely. He stood still, staring at her. Then, very slowly, he squatted, and gathering John Grey’s limp form into his arms, got the point of his shoulder into Grey’s abdomen and heaved him up.
“Come on, then,” he said, and without another glance at her started off into the dark. She hesitated for a second, then seized the lantern and followed him.
Within fifty feet, she smelled smoke. The brick corridor wasn’t straight; it branched and turned, encompassing the many partitions of the cellar. But all the time it slanted down, heading toward the riverbank. As they descended through the multiple turnings, the scent of smoke thickened; a layer of acrid haze swirled lazily around them, visible in the lantern light.
Brianna held her breath, trying not to breathe. Bonnet was moving fast, despite Grey’s weight. She could barely keep up, burdened with gun and lantern, but she didn’t mean to give up either one, just yet. Her belly tightened again, another of those breathless moments.
“Not yet, I said!” she muttered through gritted teeth.
She had had to stop for a moment; Bonnet had disappeared into the haze ahead. Evidently he’d noticed the fading of the lantern light, though—she heard him bellow, from somewhere up ahead.
“Woman! Brianna!”
“I’m coming!” she called, and hurried as fast as she could, waddling, discarding any pretense of grace. The smoke was much thicker, and she could hear a faint crackle, somewhere in the distance—overhead? Before them?
She was breathing heavily, in spite of the smoke. She drew in a ragged gulp of air, and smelled water. Damp and mud, dead leaves and fresh air, slicing through the smoky murk like a knife.
A faint glow shone through the smoke and grew as they hurried toward it, dwarfing the light of her lantern. Then a dark square loomed ahead. Bonnet turned and seized her arm, dragging her out into the air.
They were under the wharf, she realized; dark water lapped ahead of them, brightness dancing on it. Reflection; the brightness came from up above, and so did the crackle of flame. Bonnet didn’t stop or let go of her arm; he pulled her to one side, into the long, dank grass and mud of the bank. He let go within a few steps, but she followed, gasping for breath, slipping and sliding, tripping on the soggy edges of her skirts.
At last he stopped, in the shadow of the trees. He bent, and let Grey’s body slide to the ground. He stayed bent for a moment, chest heaving, trying to get his breath back.
Brianna realized that she could see both men plainly; could see every bud on the twigs of the tree. She turned and looked back, to see the warehouse lighted like a jack-o’-lantern, flames licking through cracks in the wooden walls. The huge double doors had been left ajar; as she watched, the blast of hot air forced one open, and small tongues of fire began to creep across the dock, deceptively small and playful-looking.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, and whirled, looking up into Bonnet’s face.
“I’ve a ship waiting,” he said. “A little way upriver. Will you come with me, then?”
She shook her head. She still held the gun, but didn’t need it now. He was no threat to her.
Still he didn’t go, but lingered, staring down at her, a small frown between his brows. His face was gaunt, hollowed and shadowed by the distant fire. The surface of the river was aflame now, small tongues of fire flickering from the dark water as a slick of turpentine spread across it.
“Is it true?” he asked abruptly. He asked no permission, but set his hands on her belly. It tightened at his touch, rounding in another of those breathless, painless squeezes, and a look of astonishment crossed his face.
She jerked away from his touch, pulling her cloak together, and nodded, unable to speak.
He seized her chin in his hand and peered into her face—assessing her truthfulness, perhaps? Then he let go, and stuck a finger into his mouth, groping in the recesses of his cheek.
He took her hand, and put something wet and hard in her palm.
“For his maintenance, then,” he said, and grinned at her. “Take care of him, sweetheart!”
And then he was gone, bounding long-legged up the riverbank, silhouetted like a demon in the flickering light. The turpentine flowing into the water had caught fire, and roiling billows of scarlet light shot upward, floating pillars of fire that lit the riverbank bright as day.
She half raised the musket, finger on the trigger. He was no more than twenty yards away, a perfect shot. Not by your hand. She lowered the gun, and let him go.
The warehouse was fully ablaze by now; the heat from it beat against her cheeks and blew the hair back from her face.
“I have a ship upriver,” he’d said. She squinted into the glare. The fire had nearly filled the river, a great floating slick that bloomed from bank to bank in a fiery garden of unfolding flames. Nothing could come through that blinding wall of light.
Her other fist was still closed around the object he had given her. She opened her hand and looked down at the wet black diamond that gleamed in her palm, the fire glowing red and bloody in its facets.
PART TWELVE
Je T’Aime
63
FORGIVENESS
River Run, May 1770
That is the most stubborn woman I have ever met!” Brianna huffed into the room like a ship in full sail, and subsided onto the love seat by the bed, billowing.
Lord John Grey opened one eye, bloodshot under his turban of bandages.
“Your aunt?”