Page 57 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
He had no further time for thinking, because, as he pushed through the door and into the room, his eyes started burning with the smoke. The crackling sound of the fire was awful, and he breathed in, gasping for breath. He looked around.
The room was full of smoke, but the only place he could actually see flames was in the right-hand corner, where furniture and curtains blazed. The rest of the room seemed unharmed thus far. His gaze darted around, looking for Ophelia.
“Ophelia?” he shouted.
He hoped for a moment that she had gone upstairs, that she hadn’t been in the room when it started burning, but something prompted him to keep looking and his gaze roved over the place, nonetheless. He stepped forward, intending to go towards the blaze and start his search from there, but then he looked down.
She was lying on the floor, about two paces away, motionless. If he hadn’t been looking where to place his feet, he wouldn’t have seen her. His heart almost stopped, and he threw himself to his knees beside her.
“Ophelia. My dear. My sweetling...”
He brushed her forehead, tears starting to fall that had nothing to do with the acrid, horrible smoke. He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up, staggering back as he gulped in smoke and started to cough. A terrible crashing, rending crack sounded as he stumbled to the door, and he cried out in terror. Part of the roof had collapsed, the wooden beams that held it giving way in the fire.
God, please, help me. I need to get her to safety.
He took one step back, then another. The smoke choked him, great hacking coughs weakening him as he stumbled to the door. He needed to get her out before he, too, succumbed to it.
One more step.
The door was really only a few paces away, he knew that, but the billowing smoke and the noises of the room collapsing were disorientating and he felt confused but kept walking slowly backwards. As he did so, he felt coolness and he stumbled out into the hallway, which was now choked with smoke.
“Help!” he shouted aloud. “Mr. Crane! Somebody help us.”
He stumbled down the corridor, cradling Ophelia in his arms. He could hardly see, the smoke blinding him and making tears run down his cheeks. He walked on, finding his way with an outstretched hand in the dark. The hallway was not long, andthe door that led into the main house was on the left, he knew that. He slowly walked up, trying to graze along the left wall with his side so that he could find the door.
“There.”
He bent down and pushed it, the door handle under his elbow. The door slowly creaked inwards, and Owen stumbled through. He drew in a gulp of air. It felt indescribably good to breathe air that was not choking him.
“Ophelia.”
He looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, and she looked as though she was sleeping. Her hair had come loose from its elaborate style and framed her face. He put her down gently on the floor, stroking the hair from her face. He couldn’t breathe, but it wasn’t from the smoke.
“Ophelia,” he whispered.
Tears ran down his cheeks, impossible, wrenching sobs. He couldn’t stop crying. She wasn’t breathing, or not visibly, and his heart felt as though it had stopped.
I never told her.
That was the only thought in his mind—that he had never said that he loved her. He had delayed, thinking that he would scare her, or just being too scared to risk saying it and opening himself out to whatever she might say in return. He had been too afraid of the results. And now he couldn’t do it anymore.
“No.”
He sobbed aloud, his hand on hers. She was so still, so beautiful, and he couldn’t bear it. He held her hand and rocked and sobbed.
“My lord? My lord!”
Mr. Crane called him. Owen looked up, dully. Nothing made sense anymore. His brain had collapsed under the horror, and he couldn’t think.
“My lord. The west wing is burning. Mrs. Crane saw fromthe kitchen gardens. What...” He looked down at Ophelia. Owen nodded.
“She was in the west wing. She...I can’t see her breathing.” He started to sob again. “We need to get help. A physician...” Part of his brain had started to work again with the arrival of help, and he realized that perhaps there was still something they could do.
“Yes, my lord,” Mr. Crane replied at once. “But we need to get you to safety first. This house isn’t safe. Everyone should go outside immediately.”
“Yes.” Owen stood up, lifting Ophelia in his arms. He had a plan, now, some guidance, that cut through the horror that had built up inside him and made it possible to do things again.
He walked to the front door, smelling the scent of smoke. It was thicker now, billowing through the house, and he realized distantly that more than the parlor was burning. The flames must have caught another part of the house, because the smell of smoke was intense and if he listened, he could hear the distant roar of fire.
