Malia Martin Read Online Free PDF Page B

we, as the people of Rawlston, should get together—all of us, that is—and, well . . .”
    “Revolt?” A tiny muscle quivered in the man’s jaw. Sara stared at it for a moment. What did that quiver mean?
    “It was not a revolt at all, truly it was not. I just had an idea that if everyone quit working and gathered at the Hall, that perhaps you would finally show interest in your estate. We had absolutely no intention of revolting. For the love of St. Peter, the only weapon among thewhole bunch of us was Old Filbert’s cane. But of course, there was Rachel and her relationship with the constable. I did not think, though, that she would be so small-minded when it came to the good of everyone. But she made sure the constable knew that he would be lauded by all if he brought in a duchess who had revolted against a duke.” Sara rolled her eyes remembering. “She truly is a bit of a chain about my neck.” Immediately, Sara felt terrible for having voiced this feeling. “Not that I blame her.”
    “Your thinking goes in circles, Sara, and your mouth follows. Could you explain in a linear fashion, perhaps?”
    Sara frowned at him. “Rachel is—well, was— my departed husband’s mistress.”
    “Ah.”
    “Yes, obviously a train of thought you can follow.”
    “I prefer a different woman each night, actually.”
    “Oh!”
    “Fire!”
    The scream came from upstairs. Sara and the Duke stared at each other in shock for a moment.
    “You dinna hear me, then?” Grady cried, as he came thumping down the stairs into the kitchen. “The house is on fire!”
    Sara turned toward the boy and went to him as she said, “Grady, this will not help in the least.”
    “I’m not playin’ games, yer grace. It’s out of this sure death trap and now for ye.” Grady might have only been seventeen, but he was a good foot taller than she, and quite broader. Bending at the waist, the boy shoved his shoulder into her midsection, grabbed the back of her knees, and hefted her up.
    “For the love of St. Peter!”
    “That’s right, yer grace, start sayin’ yer prayers.” The boy took off up the stairs. Sara nearly lost the few mouthfuls of chicken soup she had managed to swallow as Grady’s shoulder banged against her middle while they bounced up the stairs. “Oh, Lord.”
    “I do hope this isn’t one of your pranks, Duchess.”
    Craning her neck, and pushing against Grady’s back, Sara saw the Duke following them. “I do not pull pranks, sir.” She tried for a severe tone, but each word sounded more like a hiccough.
    When they reached the top of the stairs, Sara felt the sting of acrid smoke in her nose.
    “Oh my! There is a fire!”
    Grady huffed as he ran for the front door. “So glad you believe me, yer grace.”
    She wanted to answer, but with the smoke and Grady’s shoulder in her stomach, it was much more practical to concentrate on her breathing. She saw the doorjamb fly by beneath Grady’s heels, then stone stairs, and finally the roadway. The boy stopped suddenly; her headbobbed forward and banged against his back and then the world tilted and rolled and she was on her feet, sort of.
    Sara put her arms out for balance and teetered a bit.
    “For the love of God.” The Duke stood beside her, his eyes shaded with a hand as he stared up at his townhouse.
    Sara followed his gaze to the flames leaping from the windows just to the right of the entry-way.
    The Duke turned to the boy. “How did this happen?”
    Sara did not like his tone at all. “You are not suggesting that Grady did it!”
    “Um, well . . . I dinna mean to . . .”
    Sara turned on the boy. “Do not tell me, Grady, that you did this!”
    “I jest snuck in for a little warmth. And I needed a bit o’ light.” He scowled as he turned toward the Duke. “That lamp must ‘ave been a century old if ‘twas a day, yer grace. The oil spilled all over, and . . . well . . .”
    “Oh, Grady, you didn’t!”
    “Yes—well, perhaps I should