Was it intuition that urged that she wasn't safe, that she was, in fact, walking into danger? Or was it instinct, elemental, primal, that insisted she was not truly safe except when in his care?
Or was it simply panic, the black fear that, at any time she was out of his sight, she might be taken from him?
He thrust the questions aside and tried to make sense of Phyllida's directions. The old Drayton cottage stood some way north of the fields bordering the lane to Dottswood and Highgate. He'd heard it described as abandoned. While his logical mind reiterated that all would be well, that the murderer could not know that Phyllida was out walking alone that way, even his logical mind had to admit the Drayton cottage sounded an odd rendezvous for some woman walking from Ballyclose to suggest.
Who knew what went on in the minds of women?
His own words uttered earlier in relation to Phyllida. He thrust the notes into his pocket. "I'll follow Miss Tallent."
Dodswell nodded. "Aye. I'll wait here and keep an eye out."
The way was clear to the point where the narrow ridge lane met the village lane. Thereafter, Lucifer checked Phyllida's instructions frequently as he strode along walking paths, over fields, across stiles, past copses. The sun rode the sky and beat down on his shoulders. It would have been a pleasant walk if he hadn't been so tense, if he hadn't been striding so fast.
Rounding a copse, he paused to consult Phyllida's note. The breeze shifted-he smelled smoke.
Head up, he sniffed-and caught the scent again. He glanced at the note, then stuffed it into his pocket and started to run.
He had one more field to cross; the abandoned cottage supposedly lay in a clearing beyond. He broke through the hedge and ran full tilt through the knee-high crops. Trees screened what lay ahead, but the smoke was more definite on the breeze. He vaulted the gate and plunged into the trees. A greedy crackling reached his ears.
Bursting from the trees, he saw the cottage standing on a low crest above him, already well alight. The front door stood open; as he raced up the flags of an old garden path, he registered the fact that the door was propped open. Windows were open, too.
The roof was old thatch, brittle and dry; flames were already thrusting through it. The open windows and door fed the inferno.
Smoke billowed out at him as if trying to drive him from the door. He coughed, turned away, dragged in a breath, then dove in.
His eyes watered; even ignoring that, he could barely see. Smoke curled and eddied, a tangible shroud growing thicker by the minute. He felt walls to his right and left. A corridor. Head down, hand outstretched, his handkerchief held to his nose and mouth, he felt along it.
Wood-a doorframe. He went to turn into the room. His feet struck something; he lurched and fell to his knees.
Flames raced across the room's ceiling with a whooshing roar. They licked over the top of the doorframe, voraciously reaching for the sustaining air outside.
On his hands and knees, Lucifer coughed. He'd lost his handkerchief; he could barely breathe. His lungs already felt raw.
What had he tumbled over? He reached out blindly; he could have wept with relief when his hands closed over a leg-a female leg. Phyllida-or the seamstress? He reached further, going quicker and quicker, tracing the body, until he got to her head. Her hair.
Phyllida. The feel of the silken fall under his palm was a remembered delight. The shape of her skull cradled in his hand was imprinted on his brain.
Phyllida.
The relief was so great, for an instant he stopped, head down, and struggled to take it in. She lay facedown, still breathing, but barely.
He could barely breathe himself; he couldn't concentrate, could hardly think.
A long, groaning creak sounded overhead; a sharp crack like a pistol shot echoed. Another gout of whooshing flames seared the air above them, eating it up. The heat intensified, beating down on them, scorching, shriveling.
He could no longer expand his chest. Taking shallow little breaths, he staggered to his feet, not straightening. Bending over Phyllida, he grasped her waist, then struggled and shrugged and wrestled her over his shoulder.
A shower of cinders rained down as he turned to where he knew the door was. He staggered two steps and fetched up against the doorframe. Phyllida hung down behind him, her head bumping on his lower back. He kept his hold on her legs and shuffled into the corridor. Step by shuffling step, he headed for the front door. No point looking up-the ceiling glowed red behind the blanket of smoke that lay thick and heavy all about them.
He bounced off the corridor wall, then half tripped and fell. He put a hand out-and grasped the edge of the front door. His head was swimming. For an instant, he remained, dazed, sick, reeling. Above, something popped, then snapped. Burning wood rained down. A piece struck his hand; more bits hit Phyllida's skirts. He gasped, but caught no air, then frantically brushed the burning fragments from Phyllida. Her skirt was scorched, but hadn't caught alight.
A draft of cool air wafted to him. The flames above and behind them roared.
Lucifer dragged the taste of survival deep, held it in, and struggled to his feet.
He stumbled across the threshold and got three steps along the path before he collapsed again. They were out of the worst, but not free. They were still too close.
Coughing, almost retching, he looked back, blinking his stinging eyes. The front doorway was haloed in flame, bright and hungry. The open windows were belching smoke; behind their sills, flames danced.