She could hear Nicky pounding on the carriage door and crying her name. His loud sobs crescendoed, tearing at Emma's heart like knife-edged talons. She dragged in a breath, wondering why she smelled smoke.

She glanced at Cookie, and with a renewed burst of strength, she dove at her, grabbing for the leads.

"Nicky!" Emma yelled, forcing the air from her lungs, through her larynx, desperate to project enough volume that the child would hear her. "Unlatch the door! Push up with all your might. Then jump! Jump when the coach slows! Jump, Nicky! Jump and run! Run away, Nicky! Run!"

With all her might Emma pulled up, trying to stop the horses' mad dash. She felt the coach slow.

"Now!" From the corner of her eye she thought she saw a small form hurtle out into the dark night.

Then Cookie was upon her, the back of her hand catching Emma across her cheek. Falling back, Emma strove to turn and search the ground, to see if Nicky had escaped. The carriage door was open, the jolting ride sending it crashing against the side, banging it back and forth.

"Run, Nicky!" she screamed, sobbing now. "Run!"

Emma struggled as Cookie s.n.a.t.c.hed the reins from her hands. The carriage tilted crazily to one side and she slid, her head slamming hard against the edge of the seat. Pain lanced through her. The coach listed even further and Emma scrambled to right herself. Too late, she thought, as the world pitched and rolled, the smell of smoke stronger now, burning her nostrils.

She was flying, hurtling through the darkness. A great crashing sound rent the air, and an endless scream pierced the night. The ground rose up to meet her and she felt a sharp pain before the blackness closed in.

The light hurt her eyes. Emma opened her lids, and then snapped them shut against the pain. Cautiously, she eased them open once more, frowning. It was night. Biting back a moan, she turned her head. Odd. It was night and the light was so brilliant.

"Nicky," she said softly, a whisper, a prayer.

"Miss Emma."

She felt his soft hand touch her brow and tears pooled in her eyes.

"Oh! Thank G.o.d!" She pushed herself to a sitting position, ignoring the terrible agony that streaked through her head and the vile nausea caused by her movement. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled Nicky into her lap. She buried her face in his soft hair, inhaling the scent of him.

"Are you hurt?" she asked in a strangled voice.

Nicky shifted in her arms, angling his leg so she could see the tear in his brown velvet breeches.

"I have a sc.r.a.pe." He sounded so forlorn.

Nearly sobbing with relief, Emma tightened her embrace. "Oh, what a brave boy you are."

Suddenly, the enormity of their situation hit her. A finely honed shaft of terror shot through her and Emma raised her eyes and scanned the vicinity, searching for Cookie. A short distance away were the remains of the coach, flames licking at its sides, but of the cook there was no sign.

Oh, she thought, blinking at the growing blaze, so that was the source of the light. Then she frowned, unable to force her sluggish mind to comprehend where the flame had originated. She recalled no lantern, no candle. Nicky made a small sound of protest as she hugged him tightly.

"Miss Emma," he began tentatively. "I think I made that fire."

"You did?" she asked, angling her head to look into his face.

"Theodore, my soldier." He held up one hand and showed her the tin toy. "He didn't like the dark." He paused for a moment, and then went on in a rush. "Papa doesn't like me to play with his Lucifer matches. He caught me once and was very angry. But I had a tin in the pocket of my coat. It's an old coat. Cookie put it on me to keep me warm. I forgot the tin was there, only when I put my hand in, I found it. Theodore was so afraid. I thought if I lit the match it would be light, it would help. But I dropped the first one, and the seat started to burn with a cheery flame, and I lit a second one and tossed it at the first, and when you yelled for me to jump-" Nicky began to sob in earnest. "I didn't mean to!"

Emma tightened her arms around him, even as she glanced about, searching for some sign of Cookie. She did not trust that they were safe here.

"Oh, Nicky. None of this is your fault. None of it. Of course you were afraid-"

"Not me. Theodore," he interjected.

"Yes, of course. Theodore." She kissed the top of his head. "But you, Nocholas, are a brave boy indeed. You saved yourself, and you helped to save me."

He looked at her, his eyes wide. "Truly?" he whispered.

"Truly. But now we must be away from here. We must find our way home."

"But what of Cookie?" he asked.

Yes. What of Cookie?

Emma set the child on his feet and struggled to rise, pressing her hands against the rough ground. They must be away. They were not safe here.

She jerked as a terrible pounding slammed through her head, and the earth seemed to shake with its force. She knelt in the dirt and reached for Nicky's hand, the two of them adrift in a sea of noise. Nicky's head snapped up and he went still, like a small animal scenting the air. Then his face lit with a smile and he bounded away.

"Papa!" Leaving Emma on the ground, he ran toward the source of the sound.

Again, she made to rise, to follow him, but the world swam dizzily before her eyes. Pressing her fingers against her forehead, Emma felt a sticky wetness. Blood, she thought.

And then she saw a carriage and Anthony leaped down from the seat to catch his son against his chest. Her vision went hazy. She blinked and he was before her, Anthony, the bonfire illuminating the night, casting flickering shadows across the chiseled angles of his face.

His beautiful, beloved face.

With Nicky squirming in his arms, he squatted at Emma's side, cradling his son.

"Anthony."

His name was a sigh on her lips.

He took her chin between thumb and forefinger, turning her head firmly toward him. His touch was warm and solid, and in his eyes she saw a blaze of emotion so deep, so stark it stole her breath. Tears of relief clogged her throat, and she could not force words past the blockage. They were not yet safe, she reminded herself. There was still the specter of Cookie, her madness, her bilious irrational hatred.

"You are bleeding. Here, press this against the gash." Anthony's voice, so calm, so cool washed over her, and her gaze snapped to his. His walls were firmly back in place. He pressed a folded square of cloth against her temple, then lifted her hand and guided it to the spot. "Press."

She wanted to grab his hand, to press her lips to the knuckles, to babble her relief in a shining torrent of words. Taking over the ch.o.r.e of pressing on the cloth, she managed to croak only a single word. "Cookie."

Anthony rose, scanning the vicinity. The wind caught his coat, billowing the tail like great black wings.

"Where?"

A shrill scream pierced the night.

At the sound, Anthony's head jerked up and he stared at the flaming wreckage. Then he sprinted toward the source of the cry, his greatcoat fanning out behind him.

Emma struggled to her feet. The world tilted precariously. Holding both arms out from her sides she fought for balance, then stumbled after Anthony. She reached him as he pulled his coat from his shoulders and tossed it to the ground.

A second scream echoed from the growing flames, more shrill, more frantic than the last.

"I'm trapped! Oh, G.o.d! My foot!" Cookie's voice, laced with terror.

Anthony did not hesitate. Emma watched, her heart in her throat, as he strode toward the conflagration that threatened to destroy all it touched.

Cookie lay on the ground with a huge section of the carriage collapsed upon her, pinning her beneath its weight. The edges of her jagged prison were aflame, and she struggled to free herself, her eyes rolling back in her head as panic overwhelmed her.

A small hand clasped her own, and she looked down to see Nicky at her side.

"Will Papa save her?" he asked, his voice trembling.

Why should he? Cookie had murdered Anthony's wife and daughter, stolen Nicky away in the dark of night. She pulled Nicky against her, turning the child into her skirt, hoping to spare him the worst of what would follow. And when she spoke, she knew without a hint of doubt that her words were true. "Yes. He will try and save her."

Anthony would try and save even this woman, she who had cost him so much. His wife. His daughter. His good name, seeing him branded a monster, a murderer.

Looking back toward the flames, she watched as Anthony grabbed the woman's defenseless form, tugging and pulling in a desperate bid to free her. Cookie screamed and batted at his hands, hindering his every effort.

"Let me die," she cried. "This time, let me die."

With a snarl, Anthony seized the edge of the wreckage, struggling to pull it clear as the flames danced closer, higher.

Emma could see now that Cookie was covered in blood, a thick hunk of wood protruding from her belly. She sucked in a breath, her heart pounding as Anthony renewed his desperate bid to free the woman who had cost him so much.

Like a man possessed, Anthony jerked on the wreckage, using a broken piece of the wheel to hack frantically at the walls of the flaming cage. And then Emma realized that the dark shadow beneath Cookie's suddenly still form was a pool of blood, that even if Anthony succeeded in freeing her, she would die, her wounds too terrible to heal. Perhaps she was already dead. Emma thought she was.

"May G.o.d grant you peace at last," she whispered.

Anthony reached one last time into the fire, his fingers resting on the side of Cookie's neck. Then he made one last attempt to pull Cookie free, but from his expression, Emma suspected the woman was already gone. She watched, her belly clutching with fear, terrified now that the licking flames would take him from her.

"Stay here, darling." She gave Nicky's shoulder a firm squeeze, and then she wove unsteadily toward Anthony.

The flames would soon reach his clothes, but he remained determined, seemingly unaware of the danger to his own life and limb. With a cry, she threw herself against him, sending them both to the ground, rolling away from the blaze.

He was warm and solid against her, his breath coming in harsh gasps. She could smell ash and the stink of burning hair and flesh.

"I'm sorry, Emma. Christ. I'm sorry." His arms came around her, holding her so tight she could barely breathe. He stroked her hair, his fingers tangling in the long strands, and then he tipped her face, his mouth swooping down in a hard kiss that tasted of smoke and desperation.

Together, they rose and staggered toward Nicky, who flung himself into their outstretched arms.

Emma wrapped her arms around Nicky, holding him close, both of them surrounded by Anthony's loving embrace, cast in the flickering light of the dancing flames.

Looking toward the wreckage, Emma felt as though she had walked through the fire herself, so raw and vulnerable was her sensibility. Tightening her hold on those she loved, she held them close and wished that she could wake and find it all a terrible dream.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

"Have you stopped bleeding?" Anthony asked, pulling back to examine Emma's head. The mere sound of his voice was a soothing balm after the frightful trauma of the past hours.

"Yes," she whispered, running the tips of her fingers along his soot-stained cheek. "How did you reach us so quickly?"

"Meg," he said. "Smythe is the father of her babe." Emma gasped, but held back her questions as he continued, "He told her of an encounter with Cookie. Called her a raving lunatic. From Meg's scattered account I managed to piece together something of the story."

"But how did you know which way to go? The road forked. If you had taken the wrong path..." She could not stop touching him, or Nicky, who nestled sleepily in his father's arms. She ran her hand along the child's soft cheek, tears clogging her throat, and then traced the strong column of Anthony's throat, the hard line of his jaw.

"Oh, G.o.d." Tears clogged her throat. "And now? How is Meg now?"

"Now, she lies wracked by a labor that came too early."

"You must return." Emma gnawed on her lower lip, anxious to question him about all Cookie had revealed, to share her suspicions and certainties, yet she knew that her questions must wait.

"I-"

She pressed her fingers to his lips, stopping whatever protest he meant to make. "You must, Anthony. Free yourself of the past, of the ghosts who haunt you. The time is long overdue."

He was silent so long, she thought he would balk, would refuse to do what must be done. And then he turned and strode toward the waiting coach to place his sleeping son on the bench and hand Emma in along with him.

He closed the carriage door, leaving her alone with the child, and the dark. She could hear a soft huff of inhalation and exhalation, and she closed her eyes, tears p.r.i.c.king the backs of her lids. Full circle. She had come full circle, riding a coach in the blackness of night to a fate she could not be certain of.

The coach creaked and shifted as Anthony climbed up on the bench, and then it began to move, eating up the distance to Bosherton. She thought she might have dozed, for in the s.p.a.ce of a heartbeat they drew up before a small cottage and Anthony came round to pull open the door.

She glanced at the sleeping child.

"Leave him," Anthony whispered. "Griggs is here to keep an eye."

She nodded and climbed out just as Mrs. Bolifer hurried from the cottage.

"You are back, Lord Anthony, and none too soon. My store of knowledge is exhausted. Meg needs you now. Come," Mrs. Bolifer said brusquely.

If Anthony was offended by the housekeeper's inappropriate tone, he gave no sign.

"I think Meg is not long for this world," she urged. "The sheets are soaked with blood, and the girl's barely conscious. She is calling for you." Looking at the ground, the housekeeper hesitated, and then whispered, "She says she does not want to die."

He blanched at her words, and Emma could sense a strange current pa.s.s between master and servant.

"I cannot, Tabby," he said, looking away to stare at the horizon. "You know I cannot."

Emma was startled to hear Mrs. Bolifer's given name pa.s.s his lips. She was even more amazed when the woman stepped forward and laid her hand on his arm, as though she were friend rather than servant.

"I brought your instruments. Even now they are in the kitchen, sitting for the past hour in a pot of boiling water, just as you used to instruct me." The housekeeper's voice was firm, bracing. "I know you can do what needs to be done. The girl will die without you. She doesn't deserve that. Doesn't deserve to be sacrificed to your demons."

"I am no longer a physician and surgeon," Anthony snarled. "I do not deal in life. Only death."

Emma rushed forward and drew abreast of the housekeeper, and standing side by side with the older woman, she faced him down.