Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

“Fire! Fire in the east wing!” The distant shouts pierced through Isolde’s dreams, dragging her into wakefulness.

Something was wrong. The air was thick, and an orange glow flickered beneath her door.

Smoke.

She bolted upright, her heart thundering as acrid fumes stung her eyes. The bedroom was already filling with gray tendrils that crept like spectral fingers through the gap under her door.

“Martha?” she called, but no answer came from her maid’s chamber.

The house erupted in a cacophony of shouts and running feet.

Isolde grabbed her robe, her fingers fumbling with the silk as she rushed to her door. The brass handle burned her palm, making her yank her hand back with a cry.

“Is anyone there?” she shouted, pressing her sleeve over her mouth as smoke began pouring through the gaps around the door frame. “Help!”

A crash from somewhere down the corridor made her jump. The flames must be spreading rapidly—she could hear the hungry roar growing louder.

Think. She had to think.

The window. She ran to it, throwing back the heavy curtains. Her chambers were three stories up, with no convenient ivy or tree within reach. The drop would likely kill her.

Another crash, closer this time. The heat was building, making sweat trickle down her neck despite her thin night rail.

“Your Grace!” a muffled voice called through the door. “Stand back! We’re going to break it down!”

She retreated as the door shuddered under the impact once, twice. But the ancient oak held firm.

“It’s no use!” someone shouted. “The frame’s warped from the heat!”

“Find another way in!”

“The fire’s spreading too fast!”

Isolde pressed herself against the far wall, watching in horror as orange light began to eat through the door’s edges. The smoke was thickening, making her eyes stream and her lungs burn.

“Arthur,” she whispered, though her husband was miles away, in London.

How fitting that she was thinking of him now, when it was too late. That her last thoughts were of the man who held her heart, even if he couldn’t return her love.

A thunderous crack overhead made her look up just as part of the ceiling gave way. She tried to dodge, but something heavy struck her leg, sending her sprawling to the floor. White-hot pain shot through her ankle.

The flames were inside her room now, licking at the walls like demonic courtiers at some hellish ball. The heat was unbearable, stealing her breath and making her skin feel tight.

Through streaming eyes, she spotted a gap in the burning debris near the door. If she could just reach it…

Isolde dragged herself forward, trying to ignore the agony in her ankle. The floor beneath her palms was hot enough to blister, but she kept moving. She wouldn’t die here. Not like this, not without seeing Arthur one last time.

“Please,” she prayed to whoever might be listening. “Please let me live. Let me tell him.”

Another section of the ceiling crashed down behind her, showering her with burning splinters. But there, just ahead, the gap was widening. She could see the corridor beyond, though it too was filled with flames.

With one final effort, she pulled herself through the opening, tearing her night rail on jagged wood. The corridor was an inferno, but at least she was free of the death trap her chamber had become.

Now she just had to find a way out before the entire wing collapsed on her.

She tried to stand up, but her injured ankle wouldn’t bear her weight. Crawling then—she’d crawl if she had to. Each movement was agony, but she forced herself forward, using the wall for guidance through the thickening smoke.

“This way!” she heard someone shout from far away. “The main staircase is still clear!”

But which way was the main staircase? The smoke made everything look alien, transforming familiar corridors into a maze of flame and shadow.

A support beam crashed down mere feet away, sending up a shower of sparks. Isolde screamed, more in frustration than fear. To have come so far only to lose her way…

That’s when she saw him through the smoke—a dark figure approaching with measured steps. For one wild moment, she thought Arthur had somehow found her.

But the shape that emerged from the inferno wasn’t her husband.

“Well, well…” His voice held a dangerous edge that made her skin crawl. “What have we here? The Duchess herself.”

Isolde tried to push backward, her heart racing. How did this man know who she was? Why was he here amid the flames instead of fleeing?

“Who are you?” she demanded, trying to keep the fear from her voice. “The stairs—which way to the stairs?”

“Oh, I’m an old friend of your husband’s.” He advanced slowly, like a cat toying with injured prey. “Though I suppose he never mentioned me. William Morton, at your service.” He executed a mocking bow. “Former tenant in Meadowell, until your precious husband saw fit to cast me out.”

The flames cast grotesque shadows over his face, turning his smile into something inhuman. Isolde’s mind raced—she’d heard the servants whispering about Morton, about his cruelty to the stable boy Tom, about his eviction. But nothing had prepared her for the madness she saw in his eyes.

“Admiring my handiwork.” He gestured to the burning walls. “Although finding you here is an unexpected pleasure. I’d hoped to destroy the Duke’s precious home, but destroying his beloved Duchess as well?” He laughed, the sound competing with the fire’s roar. “That’s a gift I hadn’t dared hope for.”

Horror dawned with terrible clarity. “You… you set the house on fire?”

“Just as I sabotaged the crops, damaged the walls, ruined the supplies.” His eyes reflected the flames with maniacal glee. “Your husband took everything from me—my home, my position, my reputation. Now, I’ll take everything from him.”

He lunged forward suddenly, seizing her arm with bruising force. Isolde struck out with her free hand, but he easily caught her wrist.

“The Duke will be devastated when he finds your ashes,” Morton sneered, dragging her closer to the flames. “I wonder if he’ll break completely like his father did after his mother died? Perhaps he’ll even turn to drink, become the monster everyone always expected him to be.”

“No!” Isolde fought harder, thinking of Arthur’s hidden wounds, his carefully built walls. “He’s nothing like his father!”

“We’ll see…” Morton’s grip on her wrist tightened painfully. “… when he finds what’s left of you.”

A burning timber crashed nearby, sending up a shower of sparks that momentarily blinded them both. Isolde took advantage of Morton’s distraction to wrench herself free, ignoring the searing pain in her ankle as she scrambled away.

But which way led to safety? The smoke was so thick now that she could barely see three feet ahead. Her lungs burned with every breath, and the heat pressed against her like a living thing, eager to destroy her.

“You can’t escape.” Morton’s voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. “The whole wing is burning. Soon, the roof will collapse, and then…”

Isolde kept moving, staying low where the smoke was thinner. She would not give Morton the satisfaction of seeing her fear. Would not let him use her death to wound Arthur.

If only she could see him one last time. Tell him that none of this was his fault. That love wasn’t a weakness, but a strength.

Another crash, closer this time. Through the smoke, she glimpsed Morton’s shape moving toward her, reaching for her with grasping hands.

“Time to die, Your Grace.”

“Your Grace!” Crawford appeared, his usual dignified manner cracking with urgency. “Thank God you’ve returned⁠—”

“Where is she?” Arthur seized his butler’s shoulders. “Where is the Duchess?”

“Your Grace!” Jessamine’s voice cut through the chaos. She stood near the entrance, her face streaked with soot. “We cannot find her. Martha made it out, but Isolde’s chambers…” She gestured helplessly to the inferno above.

Something primal roared to life in his chest. Without hesitation, he shrugged off his coat and started toward the burning doorway.

“Your Grace, no!” Several footmen moved to stop him. “The structure’s unstable⁠—”

“Get out of my way.” His voice was deadly calm. When they hesitated, he barked, “That is an order!”

“Arthur, please.” Jessamine caught his arm. “The fire brigade is coming⁠—”

“They will be too late.” He pulled free, already calculating the fastest route to Isolde’s chambers. “I won’t lose her. Not like this. Not when I haven’t told her⁠—”

He plunged into the smoke-filled hallway before anyone could stop him. The heat was incredible, pressing against him like a physical force. Flames licked at the wallpaper, turning precious artworks into ash.

“Isolde!” His voice echoed through the burning corridors. “ISOLDE!”

The grand staircase still stood, though the flames were rapidly consuming it.

Arthur took the steps three at a time, ignoring the ominous creaking beneath his feet.

Above him, somewhere in the inferno, was the woman he loved.

Yes, loved. He could admit it now, with death and fire all around him. He loved her courage, her gentle heart, her ability to see past his carefully constructed walls. He loved the way she smiled when he played the piano, the way she touched him with such trust, the way she made him want to be worthy of that trust.

And he would tell her all of this if only he could reach her in time.

A support beam crashed down before him, showering him with burning debris. He jumped over it, barely feeling the sparks that singed his shirt.

The smoke grew thicker as he neared the family wing, forcing him to crouch low.

“Isolde!” he called again, straining to hear any response above the fire’s roar.

There. Was that a scream? He changed direction, following the sound. The heat was nearly unbearable now, but he pressed on. Each second counted. Each breath could be her last.

The corridor ahead had partially collapsed, but he could see movement through the flames. His heart stopped.

Isolde was there, trapped against a wall. And before her stood a familiar figure—Morton, his face twisted with vengeful madness.

Everything in Arthur went cold despite the inferno’s heat. All his self-control, all his restraint burned away, leaving only one primal truth: no one—no one—would harm his wife while he still drew breath.

He surged forward through the flames, his rage and love lending him strength he didn’t know he possessed. He would save her. He would tell her that he loved her.

And God help anyone who stood in his way.

The smoke filled his lungs as he forced his way forward. Behind him, the grand staircase finally gave way with a thunderous crash, cutting off any retreat.

But Arthur didn’t look back—couldn’t look back. His entire world had narrowed to the space ahead, where Isolde was trapped.

Another burning beam crashed down, forcing him to dive and roll. His shoulder struck the wall hard, sending pain shooting through his arm. The same arm that bore his father’s scar. But while that old pain had taught him fear, this pain fueled his determination.

“Your Grace!” A footman’s voice carried faintly through the roar of flames. “Come back! The roof is about to⁠—”

The rest was lost in the inferno’s thunder. Arthur pressed on, keeping low where the smoke was thinner. His eyes burned, and tears streamed down his face, but he refused to slow down.

How many times had he walked these corridors? He could find his way to Isolde blindfolded if necessary.

A portrait of his father crashed down beside him, the painted face seeming to mock him even as flames consumed it.

“Love is weakness.”

“You were wrong,” Arthur growled, shoving past the burning frame. “Love is strength. And I will prove it.”

The heat grew more intense as he neared Isolde’s chambers. Paint bubbled on the walls, and the carpet smoldered beneath his feet.

The very air seemed to waver, distorting his vision like a fevered dream.

But this was no dream. This was his chance to prove what kind of man he truly was—not his father’s son, hiding from emotions behind walls of ice, but someone worthy of Isolde’s love.

Through gaps in the smoke, he caught glimpses of the night sky where sections of the roof had already collapsed. The entire wing could crash down at any moment. If he didn’t reach her soon…

No. He wouldn’t think about that. Wouldn’t consider failure. Not when he could finally see her through the flames, could hear her voice rising in defiance despite her fear.

Morton’s answering laugh ignited something primal in his chest. How dare he threaten her? How dare he bring his vendetta into their home, endanger the one person who had taught Arthur that love wasn’t a weakness but the greatest strength of all?

His father had ruled through fear. Had taught him that power came from making others afraid. But Isolde… Isolde had shown him a different kind of strength. The courage to be vulnerable. The power in gentleness. The strength it took to offer your heart, knowing it might be rejected.

He would not let that light be extinguished. Would not let Morton’s darkness destroy everything beautiful in his world.

Arthur surged forward, past burning debris and through curtains of flame. His clothes smoldered, his skin blistered from the heat, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered except reaching her, saving her, and telling her all the truths he’d been too cowardly to speak before.

He could see them clearly now. Morton’s hands were on Isolde, who desperately struggled against him despite her injured leg. The sight sent fresh determination through Arthur’s veins.

Time seemed to slow down as he closed the distance between them. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he counted down the seconds until he could hold his wife in his arms again.

I’m coming, my love. Hold on just a little bit longer.