Page 97 of The Duchess Trap
“Catherine,” he said, voice fierce, breath ragged. “Are you hurt?”
She tried to answer, but the smoke burned her throat. Only when he pulled back slightly did he see the blood seeping through her sleeve, dark against the pale fabric.
His expression changed, the fury in his eyes replaced by something raw and unguarded. “God above,” he breathed. “You’re bleeding.”
She tried to smile. “It’s nothing. He’s safe.”
But her knees gave out, and he caught her before she hit the ground.
“What in God’s name were you thinking?” He held her by the waist. His hands were rough, strong, trembling slightly as they steadied her.
“I had to— the children?—”
“They are safe because I sent half my men here,” he growled. “You could have been killed.”
“I couldn’t leave him.” Her voice broke. The child’s faint sobs still echoed in her ears. “He was alone, Duncan.”
He exhaled harshly, pressing his forehead against hers for a fleeting second. “You did not need to dive into the flames yourself to rescue him. What would I do if I lost you?”
Her heart jolted. Even in the haze of smoke and pain, that nearness—his breath against her skin, the rawness in his tone—made her tremble for reasons beyond fear.
“I do not know,” she whispered.
“You’re hurt.” His tone softened further.
“It’s nothing.”
He caught her wrist gently, turning her arm to inspect the scrape. Blood streaked her pale skin; his thumb brushed it slowly.
“Does that feel like nothing?”
Her throat tightened. “I feel no pain because you are near.”
Something raw, unguarded flickered in his eyes. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The firelight painted them in gold and shadow, and she thought absurdly that this was what it must mean to burn without flame.
The sound of cracking wood broke the moment. A section of the roof collapsed in on itself with a roar, sending a wave of sparks skyward. Duncan pulled her close instinctively, shielding her.
She could feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek.
“Stay with me,” he murmured.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, her voice barely audible against the thunder of destruction.
As the last of the flames died, the courtyard was filled with smoke and silence. The children huddled together, coughing, weeping softly.
Catherine took a step toward them, but Duncan’s hand shot out, catching her arm. His grip was firm, urgent. “You’re not going back in there,” he said, his voice low and edged with command.
She turned to him. “I’m not,” she managed, shaking her head. “I’m goingto them.”
“They’re being looked after,” he insisted. His tone was gentle. “You need tending yourself.”
But she was already pulling free. “They’re frightened,” she said, voice quaking with exhaustion. “They need to see me. To know they’re safe.”
“Catherine—” His fingers lingered for a moment longer, reluctant to let go.
She met his gaze, shadowed with fear, and placed her soot-stained hand over his. “Please.”
Something in him yielded. His hand fell away. And without another word, she crossed the yard and sank down among the children, her skirts blackened, her arm throbbing, her heart still racing with terror and relief.
