Page 44 of John Eyre

It froze John to the heart.

He thought at first that the unnatural sound had come from outside of his door. But then it sounded again, this time as amorphous and disconnected as a phantom. It could have come from anywhere—the floors below or the floors above.

Good God, was it Mr. Poole? And was he possessed of some devil?

John’s fear rapidly gave way to anger. Rising from his bed, he lit a candle and swiftly pulled on a pair of trousers and a linen shirt. If he was to confront the man, he’d rather not be in his nightclothes. Opening his bedroom door, he ducked his head out and looked up and down the hall.

His candle cast a dim halo in the darkness. There was no sign of Mr. Poole, but what John saw in the hazy light was far worse. The door at the end of the long hall was cracked open, and smoke billowed out from within.

It was Mrs. Rochester’s room.

John thought no more of Mr. Poole and his demonic laugh. He flew down the hall with a single-minded intention. In an instant he was inside of Mrs. Rochester’s chamber. She was asleep in her four-poster bed, the air all around her thick with smoke. One of the windows was open a fraction, and it seemed that the smoke was emanating from thereabouts. Had the curtains caught flame? It was difficult to see.

His sense of smell was equally obstructed. There was no acrid scent of burning wood or fabric. Nothing to sting at his eyes and nose. Indeed, the smoke seemed to have no fragrance at all. All John knew was that it had sucked all the oxygen from the room. It was impossible to breathe.

Gasping and sputtering, he went to Mrs. Rochester’s side, only vaguely registering her state of undress. “Wake up! There’s a fire!” He shook her by the shoulder, but she didn’t move. For one horrified moment, he feared that she’d already succumbed to the smoke. That she’d suffocated there in her bed.

But no.

Her eyes opened in a state of bleary confusion. A cough racked her body. She brought her hand to cover her mouth. “What’s going on?”

There was no time to explain. No time to ask her permission—or to beg her forgiveness. John gathered her up in his arms and carried her from the room. It was only a few strides down the hall, the danger of the fire spurring him on. But the urgency of the moment didn’t numb him to the feel of her against him. Her unpinned hair falling about her shoulders, and her body free from the rigid constraints of a corset. She was warm and soft and inescapably feminine.

He’d have carried her a mile if he had to. Anything to secure her safety.

She came fully awake then. “John? What in the—?” She struggled against him. “Put me down!”

Stopping outside of his bedroom door, he set her on her feet. Only then did he register that she was clad in nothing but a sheer nightgown—a scrap of fine linen trimmed in lace. His already pounding heart thumped even harder. “Your room is on fire,” he said. “The smoke—can’t you see it?”

She stared down the hall at the smoke billowing from her chamber. Her face paled in the candlelight. “How?”

“I don’t know how it started,” John said. “I heard Mr. Poole laughing outside of my door and—”

“Mr. Poole?”

John nodded grimly. But there was no time to sort out the particulars of who was to blame. For all he knew, the fire was still blazing. “Have you any water in your room? I suspect the bottom of the window curtains may have caught fire. I’m not certain, but if you’ll wait, I’ll try to put the fire out.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort. Give me your candle. I’ll investigate. You remain here.” She flicked a glance at the closed door. “Is this your bedchamber?”

“It is.”

“Go inside, light another candle, and shut the door. I shall be back directly.” With that, she disappeared down the hall, her bare feet padding quickly along the carpet.

John hesitated only briefly before striding after her.

Mrs. Rochester may be his employer, but he was still a man. It went against his every impulse to remain behind while she faced the danger alone.

He arrived at her room bare seconds after she’d entered it. Covering his nose with his arm, he followed after her. Some of the smoke had cleared. He could just make her out on the opposite side of the bed. She was heading for the window.

He seized the silver water pitcher from her washstand. “Is it the curtains?”

She turned on him with a start. Her eyes blazed. “I told you to wait!”

“And let you walk into a raging fire? Not bloody likely.”

“Infuriating man. This is the moment you choose to be a hero?” Coughing, she reached up to close the window. It slammed shut with an audible crunch of splintered wood. “Blast it. The latch is broken.”

“Never mind the latch. What about the fire?”