Patrica Rice by The English Heiress Page A

morning. Do you think they may still be there?” she asked as Michael joined her. He’d removed his high-crowned hat, and the sun glinted off his thick locks, making them appear nearly as copper as Fiona’s. Blanche struggled to breathe evenly.
    “If not, they may have left clues,” Michael answered. “I’ll take your driver and search the place. It’s possible someone followed me, but not likely.”
    He strode off in the direction of the carriage and the parsonage, leaving Blanche to thank Mrs. Blake and hurry after him. She wanted to curse Michael for his ungentlemanly behavior, but she much preferred a man of action. She just wished he wouldn’t ignore her so completely when he acted.
    Her driver had unhitched the horses from the carriage near the water trough on the square. At Blanche’s signal, the driver led his horses across the grassy square to meet her and Michael. Holding her skirts, she was hurrying to catch up with Michael when he shouted in alarm.
    “Get down, man! Cover your head!” Michael yelled, racing toward driver and horses.
    Frightened, Blanche scanned the scene for the danger as heads popped from doorways all around, everyone eager for a little excitement to stir their day. The coachman dove for cover. And then Blanche saw what Michael had seen first: a snake of fire sizzling toward the underside of the carriage on the far side of the square.
    Her first instinct cried for water to douse the flames as Michael raced toward the horses. Michael grabbed the bridles from the coachman and ran with them down the street.
    The carriage exploded in a giant fireball.
    Screaming, Blanche stood paralyzed in the middle of the street. In her mind, the conflagration roared around her, scorching her hair, blinding her eyes, filling her lungs with breath-stealing smoke. She couldn’t bear it. She covered her eyes, screaming and praying for the fire and noise to go away, until reassuring hands caught her arms and shook her.
    “Snap out of it, Blanche. It’s just a coach. No one’s hurt. You’re all right. I won’t let the fire touch you again.”
    The words held no meaning, but Michael’s arms wrapping around her held her steady. Shaking, she clung to the cool unscorched cloth beneath her fingers.
    Michael held her close and rocked her, repeating meaningless phrases until she quieted in the strength of his reassuring embrace.
    “Come, let me take you inside. Someone will find you a glass of canary. Just hold on, my lady. It’s all right. You’re strong. You won’t let anyone frighten you that easily.”
    Michael’s words slowly sank in as he led her toward the village bake shop. The cool interior brushed her skin like a refreshing breeze. The fire had not touched her. Her clothing was unburnt. She was safe, just as Michael said. She wanted to cling to Michael’s hand, but she’d already made fool enough of herself. She sank into the chair offered and sipped from the glass handed to her. Michael’s look of concern vanished beneath his usual insouciance the moment she met his gaze.
    “You’re all right?” she whispered. “And the coachman?”
    “Everyone is all right,” he said firmly. “Even the horses. If you’ll just sit here a moment, I’ll see to everything. I suspect your driver was a trifle shaken and may need some reassurance that he did nothing wrong.”
    She didn’t argue. The coach driver had more need of him than she did. Shame washed through her, and she could not meet the eyes of the concerned villagers. The vicar rushed in, murmuring comforting phrases as he attempted to persuade her from the shop to the safety of his home until she called for a new carriage. Blanche shook her head. She didn’t want a new carriage. She wanted to childishly yell that she wanted her old carriage, but she held her tongue as an idea formed in her brain, spinning to conclusions she didn’t like.
    The driver entered the bake shop, holding his cap against his chest. “There’s naught can be done