Chapter 27
“See to the remaining embers,” he said. “I want every spark dead before dawn.”
The constable nodded sharply, barking orders to his men. Buckets clattered, voices rose and fell. The air still shimmered with heat, thick with the smell of smoke and wet ash.
Duncan’s own lungs burned from it. His throat ached, raw from shouting.
But it was not the fire that set his blood alight.
It was the circumstances. Duncan understood that accidents happened.
Fires were not exactly unheard of, especially in this part of town.
But Brightwater had stood for years. There had been times when the building had been in desperate need of repair, but they had remedied that—he and Catherine.
They had restored this place so that it looked grand and was a place these children could be proud to call their home.
And someone took that security away from them.
Try as he might, Duncan could not shake the feeling that something was amiss. There was no reason the orphanage should have caught fire, and yet…
“Your Grace?” The constable’s voice cut through the noise. “What shall we do with them till the building’s seen to?”
Duncan dragged his gaze away from her. “Move them to higher ground for now. Keep them warm.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He turned away before he could say more. The chaos around him blurred—men shouting, horses stamping, the hiss of steam where water met flame—all of it dulled beside the sound of Catherine’s voice as she murmured comfort.
He had almost lost her tonight. The thought hit him with sudden force.
He could still see her in the doorway, coughing, eyes red from smoke, holding the child as though her own life meant nothing beside his.
That image would not leave him. Nor would the panic that had seized him when he saw her stumble—the wild, animal terror that she might fall and vanish beneath the collapse.
He had not known he could feel that. Not since he was a boy. Not since he lost his mother and father.
He crossed the courtyard toward her before he could stop himself. The children parted instinctively when he approached, all except one small girl who clung stubbornly to Catherine’s arm.
“Duncan,” Catherine said softly when she saw him, her voice hoarse from smoke. “They’re frightened.”
He looked down at her. “So are you.”
Her lips curved faintly, exhausted but defiant. “Not for myself.”
He wanted to argue. To tell her she’d done enough, that she was trembling so hard she could barely sit upright. But he knew that tone, the quiet steel that no command could break. So, he nodded once and turned to the nearest footman.
“Have the carriages made ready,” he ordered. “All of them. And send word to my steward—Belgrave House will be opened within the hour. It will house the children and staff till Brightwater is repaired.”
The man blinked. “Belgrave House, Your Grace? That’s—”
“Do it,” Duncan said, his tone leaving no room for question. “And fetch blankets, food, anything that can be spared.”
The footman ran off. Duncan looked back at Catherine. She was listening, though she pretended not to. Her hand smoothed the hair of a little boy asleep in her lap, but her eyes flicked to him, soft with something like gratitude.
“You don’t have to—” she began.
He cut her off gently. “I do.”
For a moment, she said nothing. Then, quietly: “Thank you.”
By the time the last embers had been doused and the night began to pale with the first hint of dawn, the courtyard had turned into a strange sort of camp.
Servants moved among the children with blankets and water.
Duncan oversaw the loading of the carriages, giving orders with the same clipped precision he used in business, anything to keep his mind from returning to the sight of her collapsing in his arms.
When the first carriage was ready, he went to find his wife.
“Catherine,” he said.
She looked up from where she sat beside a boy whose hand she was bandaging with torn linen. “Yes?”
“It’s time to leave.”
Her gaze drifted toward the building, now nothing but a shell of smoke and ruin. He saw the moment her throat tightened. “They’ll rebuild,” he said quietly. “Better than before.”
She nodded, but her hand trembled as she tied the cloth. “This place… it was my mother’s heart. I don’t know if I can bear to see it like this.”
He wanted to say something, anything, to ease the pain in her voice. But he understood there was no comfort he could provide. So, he offered what he could: certainty.
“You’ll have it back,” he said. “I’ll see to it.”
Her eyes flicked to his, and for a heartbeat, something passed between them, an understanding so deep it made his heart sing.
Then she lowered her gaze. “Thank you, Duncan.”
He cleared his throat. “Come. The children are waiting.”
They rode in the first coach, Catherine beside him, the rescued children huddled opposite.
The interior smelled of soot, wool, and exhaustion.
Every few minutes, a small head would tip against her shoulder, and she would whisper soft reassurances, each word a balm he didn’t know the world could hold.
He watched her in the dim light, unable to look away. Her face was streaked with smoke, her lashes damp. She held a child in her arms as naturally as if she had been born for it. Something in his chest clenched.
He turned his head, staring out at the dark fields as they passed.
The sky was beginning to lighten. The fire’s reflection had long since faded, but its heat remained lodged under his skin.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her and the way she’d run into that inferno without hesitation, the way her body had fit against his when he caught her.
When they reached his estate, the city was just waking.
Pale light filtered through a veil of smoke and fog.
Belgrave House loomed ahead, vast and elegant, long unused except for formal receptions.
By the time they arrived, servants from his main residence had already thrown open its doors.
Warmth spilled out, the smell of bread and tea filling the air.
The children filed inside, wide-eyed and silent, clutching blankets too large for them.
Their small feet scuffed against the marble floors, leaving smudges of soot on white stone.
A few stared up at the chandeliers, blinking at the light as if it were something foreign after so many hours of smoke.
One little boy began to cry— a quiet, hiccupping sound that seemed to echo too loudly in the grand hall.
Catherine was beside him before Duncan could take a step.
“Hush now,” she murmured, crouching so their eyes met. “You’re safe, love. Look—there’s a fire in the hearth, and warm bread waiting for you.” She brushed the ash from his hair with the side of her hand. “Go on. Help Mrs. Simms find your bed.”
The child nodded and shuffled forward, still clutching her skirt until the last possible moment.
She didn’t rest. When another boy stumbled on the threshold, she caught him by the shoulders and steadied him, her voice low and sure.
“Careful, darling. One step at a time.” She guided him toward the maids, then turned to the next group, pointing gently toward the corridor that led to the lower chambers.
“Two to a room,” she told the housekeeper softly. “The little ones by the windows—they’re afraid of the dark.”
Her words were calm, but her hands never stopped moving. She straightened blankets, adjusted collars, and wiped a smudge from a girl’s cheek. The children seemed to orbit her, drawn by some quiet gravity she didn’t seem to notice.
Duncan stood near the doorway, his steward beside him, taking notes as he issued instructions. “The east wing will do for the staff. Send for the physicians at once. I want cots set up by the fires—here and here.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Catherine passed through the hall again, skirts brushing lightly against the marble, a strand of hair slipping free to rest against her neck.
A child reached for her hand, and she took it without hesitation, leading the girl to a maid who waited with warm milk.
She moved with purpose, like light pouring through smoke.
He watched the soft line of her shoulders as she bent to whisper something that made the girl smile through tears. He watched the way her fingertips lingered on the child’s hair, gentle but sure. He had never seen anyone so at home in chaos.
His steward asked him a question, something about supplies, but Duncan barely heard. His throat had gone dry.
When one of the boys stumbled, she crouched beside him, speaking softly until he stopped crying. When another asked if their toys had burned, she promised they would have new ones. He saw the way her hand lingered on each small shoulder, how she smiled even through exhaustion.
“Your Grace?” His steward appeared at his elbow. “Provisions are being sent from the main kitchens. The physicians are on their way for the injured.”
“Good,” Duncan said curtly. “See that no one leaves until they’re checked.”
The man hesitated. “And the duchess, sir? She’s—”
“I’ll see to her,” Duncan said, more sharply than intended.
The steward bowed and left.
Catherine stood near the hearth, the glow painting her skin in gold. She had shed her cloak, revealing the tear in her sleeve, the faint bruise forming on her shoulder. Her fingers were stained red from tending to wounds that weren’t her own.
He crossed the room. “You should let the physician look at you first.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” He reached for her arm. The scrape was angry and raw beneath his thumb. “You’ll scar if it’s not cleaned properly.”
She looked up at him, a weary challenge in her eyes. “Then I’ll have a scar to remember tonight by.”
His breath caught. “You think I want you to remember this?”
Her gaze softened. “I’ll remember that you came.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. Words tangled in his throat. He wanted to tell her he would have torn down the building with his bare hands if it meant finding her.
Her breath hitched. The silence between them grew taut. He could feel the heat radiating from her, smell the faint trace of smoke in her hair.
She stepped back first, as if sensing the desire building inside him. “The children need food,” she said softly. “I’ll help the staff prepare it.”
“Catherine—”
But she was already turning away, gathering herself, hiding whatever had flickered in her eyes. He watched her cross the room, graceful even in exhaustion, and something in him twisted painfully.
He wanted to follow. To pull her back, to tell her what it meant—that he’d never known a woman who could make him feel both unmade and whole. But the words stayed trapped in his chest.
Because love, he reminded himself, was perilous. Love was chaos disguised as beauty.
When she disappeared down the corridor, he exhaled, long and unsteady. The ache in his chest did not ease. He had saved her, yes. He had saved them all. But somewhere amid the smoke and ruin, something in him had caught fire too, and he feared there was no saving himself from it.
Hours passed. The house had quieted. The physicians came and went.
Children slept in borrowed beds, the younger ones clutching the toys his steward had hastily procured.
The matron and servants rested in adjoining chambers.
Only Catherine remained awake, moving quietly from room to room, adjusting blankets, whispering comfort in her smoke-roughened voice.
Through the nursery’s half-open door, he saw her bending over one of the smaller beds, smoothing a blanket with careful hands. The candlelight cast her in soft gold, her shadow moving gently across the wall as she tucked each child in turn.
“There now,” she murmured, her voice low, warm. “You’re safe, all of you. Sleep, my darlings. The fire can’t reach you here.”
A small hand caught hers, and she paused, brushing the child’s hair from their forehead before pressing a faint kiss there. “Rest,” she whispered. “It’s over.”
He stood in the doorway, unseen. Watching her speak such peace into chaos made something shift in him — something that frightened him more than any flame. But she turned, and the thought vanished.
“Duncan,” she said softly, surprised to find him there. “They’re settled.”
He nodded once. “You should be as well.”
“I will,” she said. Her voice was steady, though the tremor in her fingers betrayed her exhaustion. “Just one more check.”
He might have smiled if his chest didn’t hurt so much. “Of course.”
He stepped back as she passed, the faint scent of smoke and soap trailing after her. Once she was gone, he turned to find Mrs. Simms waiting in the corridor, her hands clasped before her apron.
“Your Grace,” she said, eyes red-rimmed but grateful. “I don’t know how to thank you. We’d have been lost without your help.”
“It’s my wife you should thank,” he replied. “This is the least I could do.”
“She’s an angel, that one,” the woman said softly. “The children worship her. We all do.”
Duncan’s gaze drifted toward the end of the hall where Catherine had disappeared. “Yes,” he murmured. “I’m aware.”
Mrs. Simms hesitated, as though unsure whether to speak, then added, “No one seems to know how it started, Your Grace. The south wing caught first, but the lamps there were turned out hours before bedtime. We can’t make sense of it.”
He frowned, the familiar pull of suspicion grounding him, reminding him of the inkling that had occurred when he stood there and watched the flames consume the structure. “Were there visitors today?”
“None that I saw. Just the usual staff.”
“Any new hires?”
“No, Your Grace. All ours.”
He nodded slowly. The logic in him, the man who had learned to trust nothing that came easily, stirred awake. “I’ll have it investigated. Every worker, every account. If it was malice, we’ll find who’s responsible.”
Mrs. Simms bowed her head. “Thank you, sir.”
Duncan nodded at her slightly, then hurried down the stairs. When he encountered one of his footmen, he said brusquely, “See that the doors are locked tonight. Keep watchmen posted until morning.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He stood in the hall for a long moment listening. He heard nothing, and that silence brought him a modicum of contentment.
“Brightwater will rise again,” he said under his breath, as though speaking it aloud might make it so. “And it will be stronger.”
He meant it as a promise to the children, but it sounded, even to his own ears, like one meant for his wife.