He also took a lamp to light his way and an iron bar to pry open the boards that had blocked the burned corridor for nearly a decade.
The fire had almost destroyed the farthest end of the wing, beginning on the second floor and burning through the servants’ quarters and attics above, before collapsing the roof in places. Only a deluge from a massive thunderstorm had kept the flames from incinerating the rest of the mansion and the surrounding outbuildings.
Hawk’s gut was tied in knots as he worked the boards loose until he created a wide enough opening for him to squeeze through. The musty, mildewed stench that hit him was mixed with the faint, acrid scent of smoke—although that could have been his imagination playing tricks.
As he slowly negotiated the cluttered floor, shadows played over the walls, sending agonizing memories winging through his mind, making him relive the terror that still haunted his dreams.
Calling on the control he’d so mercilessly taught himself, Hawk banished the images as he carefully picked his way through the ruins. When he reached the end of the corridor, a gaping hole in the floor prevented him from going farther.
This was where the nursery had been.
A great, raw pain surged through Hawk. He’d thought he was mostly over his grief, but he was wrong; it was merely bottled up inside him. Just now it felt as if all his limbs had been severed from his body and his chest had caved in.
Putting his back to the wall, Hawk sank down till he met the charred floor. Memories flooded him with relentless force: The flames, the suffocating smoke. Half-blinded, he’d staggered through the burning rooms like a madman, shouting hoarsely for Elizabeth, for Lucas, smashing windowpanes as he went, letting the drenching rain pour in. Yet he was too late.
He had been crawling on his hands and knees when he spied their bodies huddled in a far corner of the nurse’s bedchamber.
They’d been overcome by smoke, not burned, his sole reason to be thankful. He could imagine their screams, though. How terrified they must have been in their final moments …
Hawk raised the brandy bottle to his lips and drank deeply, futilely trying to numb the pain.
Lady Skye found him there some time later—how long he wasn’t certain.
“Why’re you here?” he demanded, slurring his words. “To shatisfy your morbid curios’ty?”
“I … it has nothing to do with curiosity.…” She spoke hesitantly, in a low voice, fumbling her words. “I did not want … you to be alone at a time like this.”
But he wanted to be alone. He deserved to be alone. He deserved to have perished with his family.
She sank down beside him, not touching but close enough for him to feel her warmth. He didn’t want her warmth, either, damn her.
She was silent long enough that he lost patience with her quiet patience.
“Do you wanna know how I losht my wife and child?”
“Only if you wish to tell me.”
Hawk dragged a ragged hand over his face. There were streaks of wetness on his cheeks, tears he was hardly aware of crying. “ ’Twas my fault.”
She turned to gaze solemnly at him. “That is not what I was told. I heard that you tried desperately to save them.”
“I should’ve been here.” He drank again, relishing the burn in his aching throat.
“What happened, my lord?” she asked in a soft voice.
He drew an unsteady breath. “The fire shtarted in the nurs’ry. My son’s nursh dropped a bloody candle an’ the drap’ries caught fire. Sh-she fled, leaving Lucas in his crib. ’Lizabeth went in to rescue him.”
“I am so terribly sorry,” Skye said after a moment.
“I dragged out their bodies, did ju know?”
“Yes … I know.”
“They acshually looked peaceful when I found ’em. Carried ’em both out of the flames. Shomeone took ’em from me just before the sheeling fell in.…”
“So I heard,” she whispered, as if holding back her own tears. “When the ceiling collapsed, you lost consciousness and the servants pulled you from the burning wreckage.”
Hawk nodded and brought the bottle to his lips again, annoyed to discover it was almost empty. “When I woke ev’r’thing I cared ’bout was gone.” His sharp, humorless laugh was laced with bitterness. “Y’ want t’ hear the real irony? There was a damned storm that night! It shlowed my carr’age enough so I was delayed reeshing home. Too late for my family. If only I’d been a half hour earl’er …”