Devil Takes A Bride Read Free

was worlds away from the murder of a fellow peer. Strathmore was a quiet man, but universally esteemed.
    Dry mouthed, the blood pounding in his veins, Carstairs glanced around for some means to make this whole debacle go away. He knew that if he did not cover up Quint’s blunder immediately, Strathmore’s death would be investigated; Carstairs, being part of it, would also be placed under the microscope, but God knew he could not afford anyone probing into his personal life. There were still ancient laws on the books that decreed hanging for so-called sodomites, and he was not about to be publicly disgraced and executed on account of his taste for pretty young boys.
    He saw Johnny still waiting obediently in his carriage, but as his frantic gaze swept the courtyard, Carstairs spied a delivery wagon parked on the side of the inn, near the entrance to the taproom. It was loaded with barrels, and the painted block letters on the side of the cart read BRANDY AND FINE SPIRITS .
    An idea stirred in his mind. He looked at the inn’s wooden galleries, dry as tinder; the thatched roof; the black shutters, mostly closed for the night. He glanced again rather evilly at the barrels of highly flammable liquor.
    And he knew what he had to do.
    A few minutes later, he, Quint, and Staines were working in swift, ruthless silence, each hefting a barrel, pouring and splashing brandy, whiskey, and port all over the perimeter of the building, locking the metal teeth of the window shutters as they went. Johnny looked on from his perch on the carriage.
    â€œWhat about Ginny?” Staines grunted, bringing the torch. “Do you want to get her out of there?”
    â€œThat bitch can go to hell,” Quint growled. “This is all her fault.” Then he lit his torch from Staines’s and they set the place on fire.
    The three racing-drags thundered away from the scene a few minutes later, flames climbing into the black night sky behind them.
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    â€œHold on, Stephen. I’ll get you out of here. Darling, try.”
    The fire raced through the hotel. The two women had barely noticed it at first in their panic over Lord Strathmore, but now smoke was filtering up through each tiny seam of the floorboards. Mary held the screaming four-year-old in her arms and tried to urge the child’s mother to come with her, but the viscountess would not leave her husband’s side. He was still alive, vaguely conscious now, whispering, “Katie.”
    â€œCome, Stephen. You’ve got to get up. Lean on me.” The woman struggled to pull the tall, muscular man to his feet. Mary helped, too, but he could barely stand.
    â€œI’m sorry, Katie. Go,” he pleaded. “Take Sarah—”
    â€œI’ll not leave you!” His wife spun to Ginny. “Get my child out if you can.”
    â€œBut, ma’am, you must—”
    â€œSave my daughter!” she cried.
    Mary nodded, abashed, for it was her fault the Good Samaritan had been struck down in the first place. Throwing her cape over the little girl to shield her from the smoke and fire, Mary left the woman to her continued efforts to save her husband and carried the bawling child down the stairwell. As she approached the ground floor, the fire roared, the screams growing louder as thick, black smoke choked the air.
    The lobby and taproom were ablaze, the guests stampeding, trying to find a way out; a burning beam had crashed down in front of the only door, and every window seemed to be blocked from the outside. Someone broke a window with a chair to get out, but the inrush of air only made the flames explode with renewed fury.
    It was like being in Hell.
    Mary looked around in sweeping horror, no doubt in her mind that Quint and his evil friends had brought this about. Her heart was pounding, the heat becoming too intense to bear. The ash in the air stung her eyes so she could hardly see where she was going; coughing and choking, she could