Page 109 of John Eyre

But there was no sign of him. Not in the attic, nor on the roof. Only the ever-increasing smoke that burned John’s lungs and stung at his eyes, blurring his vision.

Coughing, he managed to find his way back to the third floor. He had a faint hope remaining that Stephen was hiding in one of the storage rooms. He might have been frightened after setting the holland covers alight. Perhaps even feeling guilty.

John raised his lantern. “Stephen!”

In that moment, a blood-curdling scream broke through the darkness.

John stumbled to a halt. It wasn’t a boy’s scream, thank God. It was a man’s scream. And it was coming from the tapestried room.

Good lord, it was Mr. Poole.

John’s pulse throbbed in his ears. His vision narrowed to a point. For an instant, all he could see was that open door. There was no time to close and lock it. No time to do anything but run.

And not even that.

A figure emerged from the room. Tall and lean. An elegant gentleman with black hair swept back from his brow. He was rubbing one of his burn-reddened wrists. And then he stopped, his gaze fixing on John like a wolf fixing his attention on a rabbit. His eyes glimmered red amid the smoke. “Mr. Eyre,” he said. “I’ve been waiting to make your acquaintance.”

John backed away, his heart pounding like a drum. “Mr. Rochester.”

“You know who I am? How gratifying.” Mr. Rochester’s mouth curved up in a mockery of a smile. His lips were stained with blood. “I know who you are. I’ve heard you these many months. I’ve smelled you.” His eyes blazed. “Where is my wife?”

John’s gaze darted to the storage room where the flames were now licking out of the door to run along the wall. The silk paper hangings in the corridor were curling away from the wood. “Stephen!” he called hoarsely.

“Stephen. Peter.” Mr. Rochester advanced upon him. “The first martyrs, isn’t that what she calls them? Peasant boys she saved from a fate worse than death.” He gave a low chuckle. “You mustn’t believe everything my wife tells you, Mr. Eyre. Women are prone to exaggeration.”

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a glimmer of movement in the chamber directly across from the burning storage room. A small figure in a long white linen nightshirt.

Stephen.

Relief tore through him. As he backed past the door, he held out his hand. “Now, Stephen!”

A small hand shot out of the smoke. John gripped it hard, and turning around, he broke into a run toward the stairs, with Stephen close at his side.

“Don’t look back,” he said in a litany. “Don’t look back.”

They’d nearly reached the landing when a loud thump sounded behind him, and Stephen’s hand was ripped from his own.

John spun around to find Stephen on his knees, a bunched piece of carpet tangled under his feet. His small face was white with terror. Whiter still as Mr. Rochester closed the distance between them.

“John!” Stephen cried out.

There was no time to contemplate the fact that he’d spoken for the first time. No time for emotional displays. John’s response was fueled by pure adrenaline. By a soul-deep determination to save Stephen from harm.

This inhuman monster had hurt them enough. All of them.

But no more.

Bertha and the boys were John’s family now. His to love and to protect.

And John would protect them, even at the cost of his own life.

He darted back to Stephen, grabbed him by the hand and pulled him to safety in the same instant Mr. Rochester lunged to strike.

In his opposite hand, John raised the lantern. He flung it at Mr. Rochester with all his might. The glass shattered, the paraffin oil splashing over Mr. Rochester’s ragged clothes. He looked at John with an expression of horrified amazement and then promptly burst into flames.

A sense of savage triumph coursed through John’s veins.

But he didn’t linger to admire his handiwork. Half carrying Stephen along with him, he descended the stairs to the hall and raced out onto the lawn. Bertha was already there with Mr. Fairfax, Sophie, and Peter. The other servants were nearby, milling about in various stages of undress.