Chapter 23 #2
"What..." Harrington started, then his eyes widened as he saw her double over. "You're..."
"In labour, you fool! Your revenge is going to kill an innocent baby!"
"I didn't mean...Matilda wouldn't want..."
"Matilda's dead! She doesn't want anything!"
Another contraction, stronger than the first. The smoke was getting thicker, the heat unbearable. Through the door, she could hear shouting—Lucien's voice among them.
"He's coming," Harrington said, something strange in his voice. Not satisfaction, but fear? Regret?
"Good."
"He'll be too late."
"He's never too late."
"He was for Matilda."
"Matilda was already dead when he reached her. I'm still alive."
"For now."
The door burst open, but it wasn't Lucien—it was Thistle, launching himself at Harrington with all the fury of a dog who'd sensed his human in danger. Harrington went down, cursing and flailing, the lamp flying from his hand to shatter against the wall.
"Good boy!" Arabella gasped, then cried out as another contraction hit, this one bringing her to her knees.
"Arabella!" Lucien's voice, and then he was there, pulling her against him, his hands running over her checking for injury. "Are you hurt? Did he..."
"The baby," she gasped. "It's coming."
"Now? Here?"
"Now! Here! The stress..."
"We need to get out."
"I can't move. It hurts too much."
"Then I'll carry you."
"Lucien, the fire..."
"I don't care about the fire. I care about you."
He lifted her despite her protests, despite the smoke that made every breath agony, despite the flames that were now visible through the doorway.
"Very touching," Harrington snarled, having managed to dislodge Thistle. Blood ran from multiple bite wounds, but he'd found the lamp. "But you can't save everyone. Cordelia's trapped in the east wing."
"Julian's getting her," Lucien said with grim satisfaction. "And Morrison's organized the servants out of the west wing. Your plan failed."
"Did it?" Harrington pulled something from his pocket—a gun, old and probably unreliable, but deadly enough at this range. "I can still make you suffer."
"By killing us? That just makes you a murderer."
"I already am one. What's three more deaths?"
"Four," Arabella corrected through gritted teeth. "You're forgetting the baby."
"The baby that won't exist if you die here."
"The baby that's coming whether we die or not."
Another contraction, stronger than before. She couldn't help crying out, the sound echoing off the walls.
"Arabella..." Lucien started, his arms tightening around her.
"Shut up," Harrington commanded, the gun shaking in his hand. "Both of you. I need to think."
"Think about what? You've lost. Everyone's safe except us."
"Exactly. Except you. Matilda died alone and afraid. Now you will too."
"Matilda died reaching for freedom," Lucien said quietly, his voice steady despite everything. "We'll die protecting each other. There's a difference."
"Pretty words won't save you."
"No, but he might."
Harrington frowned, turning slightly. "Who..."
The vase that hit him was priceless, irreplaceable, and wielded with considerable force by Morrison, who'd appeared in the doorway like an avenging angel in butler's attire.
"That's for making me hire someone with false references," Morrison said with satisfaction as Harrington crumpled. "And for the paperwork I'll have to file."
"Morrison!" Arabella gasped. "How..."
"I've been following him through the servants' passages, my Lady. The ones he didn't know about. Waiting for an opportunity."
"With a vase?"
"It seemed poetic, my Lord. Lady Velott destroyed one in anger. I've used one for justice."
"That was priceless," Lucien observed, though his relief was obvious.
"So is Lady Blackthorn, my Lord."
"Fair point. Remind me to increase your wages."
"Perhaps we could discuss that after we escape the burning building?" Morrison suggested, already moving to help.
"Good point."
But Arabella couldn't move. The contractions were coming faster now, and she could feel pressure that meant...
"The baby's coming now," she gasped. "Actually now!"
"We can't deliver a baby in a burning hallway!" Lucien protested.
"Tell that to the baby!"
They made it out just as the fire brigade arrived—Julian had sent for them at the first sign of smoke. The manor was damaged but not destroyed, most of the fire contained to the three wings Harrington had targeted.
But Arabella didn't care about any of that because she was in labor, proper labor, and there was no time to get to the physician.
"It's too early," she gasped between contractions as they had now taken her to the library which was not affected by the fire.
"Only a few weeks," Mrs. Fielding said, having taken charge with the efficiency of someone who'd delivered babies before. "The baby will be fine."
"How do you know?"
"Because it's your baby. And you're too stubborn to have anything but a stubborn child."
"That's not medical science!"
"It's better. It's faith."
Later that day stretched into eternity. Lucien, who’d stared down riots and Parliament alike without blinking, now paced the corridor like a man possessed. Each muffled sound from behind the door felt like a blade to the chest.
Julian leaned against the wall, arms folded. “You’re wearing a groove in the floor.”
Lucien didn’t even glance at him. “If she’s in pain, I’ll...”
“Kill Harrington. Yes, I’ve heard.”
“And I meant it.”
“He’s already arrested. Again. With guards who know which end of a pistol to hold this time.”
“Then I’ll kill him in prison.”
Julian sighed. “You realise that’s still a crime?”
Lucien stopped pacing. “He put her in danger.”
“She put herself in danger,” Julian said dryly. “As she tends to do. You married a woman who runs toward burning buildings, not away from them.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “Not anymore. We’re leaving this wretched city. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. Without fires, criminals, or...”
A faint, exhausted voice interrupted. “Lucien.”
He turned so fast Julian barely caught the smirk.
“Come meet your daughter.”
Lucien froze. “Daughter?”
Julian rolled his eyes. “You might want to move before she changes her mind.”
In an instant, Lucien was at her side. Arabella lay pale but smiling, a tiny bundle cradled in her arms. The child was so small he was afraid to breathe too close, as though the world might bruise her.
“We have a daughter?” he said, as if repeating it would make it real.