Chapter 20
It was the roar outside that stuck fast in Clara’s mind. The bestial cry had ripped through the cottage walls and chilled her to the marrow of her bones. The children crushed close to her at the horrible sound, the youngest one whimpering.
“All will be well,” Clara soothed in a whisper. She held the little girl’s hand but left her right one free. Her throwing hand, the hilt of the dagger clutched in her fingers.
But as time crept by, she began to fear that it would not be well at all. Reid had been gone too long. Or at least, she thought it might be too long. In truth, every second that she waited to learn of his fate was like the passing of an eternity.
It might have been only five minutes, or an hour. All she knew was that her body ached from remaining tense for so long and that the need to find out what was going on bordered on desperation.
The not knowing scraped at her raw nerves. Every cry on the other side of that door, every clang of metal, might be Reid. Those thoughts drove her to near madness.
“I am going to check on him,” Clara said softly. “Go hide in the corner.”
The older lass, whose name Clara had discovered was Fia, shepherded the younger two, Ian and Mairi, into the corner by an overturned table.
Heart pounding, Clara went to the door, her dagger at the ready.
She slowly released the board that latched it in place and pushed it open slightly.
The surrounding fires were brilliant against her eyes, which had become acclimated to near darkness.
Smoke rolled in, stinging her nostrils with its acrid odor, and she had to squint for any visibility through the heavy black-gray plumes.
Reid was not there.
Her pulse froze, and she frantically searched through the smoke, to no avail. Reid was nowhere to be seen.
That roar…
The memory of that barbaric howl sent a shiver down her spine.
Not far in front of the cottage were several men laid out, their tunics declaring them English. Not Reid.
Thanks be to God.
But where was he?
She closed the door, slid the thick board into place at its center and pressed her back to it.
“Was he out there?” Fia asked in a hushed whisper.
Clara shook her head. “I think we should—”
A thud slammed into the door. Clara leapt, and Fia clapped her hand over her mouth and that of wee Mairi to ensure their silence, while Ian curled into a small ball with his head tucked into his knees.
“Anyone in here?” an English voice taunted.
An icy chill descended over Clara’s entire body. She looked to the children and motioned for them to get down. Fia shrank behind the overturned table, bringing her siblings with her. Clara eased to the side of the door, her dagger ready.
Almost immediately, an axe blade splintered through the door, mere inches from Clara’s face.
She pressed her hand to her mouth as little Fia had done to keep from crying out. Her heart slammed in a wild beat that threatened to pound free from her chest.
“There’s someone in there,” another man said. “Or it wouldn’t be locked.”
Clara drew in a long, slow breath and tried to clear her mind to assess the situation properly. The way Drake had taught her.
There were two voices thus far, which implied only two men. One of which was clearly armed with a battle-axe. She still had seven daggers she could throw, and her aim was precise.
But what she didn’t know was how many more Englishmen might be around them. If she opened the door and ran at them, she could kill two with little effort and escape to the woods with the bairns. However, if there were a group of men, they would have no chance.
She looked back at the children as her mind whirled with the possibilities. The risk was so great.
Ian peeked up, and all three small faces looked at her for guidance, their expressions struck with fear. Her heart crumpled.
She could not risk their lives.
The odor of smoke from outside became sharper, more pungent. It swept into the cottage in a choking puff. Clara covered her face with the sleeve of her gambeson, preferring to breathe in the musty sweat odor rather than fresh smoke.
Fresh smoke.
It wasn’t coming in from outside. It was coming from the roof.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
The cottage was on fire.
She staggered back in surprise. Smoke rolled in as she recovered and raced to the children. The younger two had both begun to cry. Gray-black swells of smoke expanded over the ceiling until the whitewash disappeared entirely beneath a hazy cloud, which was swiftly filling the room.
“We’re waiting for you,” came a menacing voice. Different than the other two.
So, three at least, then.
Overhead came the crackling and popping of flames as they devoured the thick thatch roof.
Clara held the bairns as she visually searched the home for any other way that they might be able to escape besides the front door. It was far too easy to recall Reid’s experience with a burning cottage. If Clara and the children escaped outside, they would surely be cut down.
The shutters on the windows were still too close to the door. By the time they would be able to climb out, the English would be upon them.
She released the children and got to her feet. Mayhap she could open the door herself, or a shutter, see how many she could kill before being slain.
If nothing else, it would allow the children to flee to safety.
Though the two men charging at Reid were on horseback, he managed to stab one in the gullet and slashed the other’s thigh. Both were swiftly taken care of once they were on the same level as him.
Having slain the men, he rose with his blade held at the ready. “Lord Rottry,” he bellowed. “I mean to avenge my family.”
“Your family?” Though the man sneered with condescension, there was a wild look in his eye—one Reid knew well: fear.
“Aye.” Reid strode toward the baron. All around him was the choking smoke of burning cottages, so much like his own.
Only now, he wasn’t a young boy trapped in a nightmare.
He was a warrior, a man stronger than his enemy, a man set on revenge.
“Ye killed my da, a simple farmer who sought only to protect his family.”
The baron’s horse anxiously pranced backward.
“Guards,” Lord Rottry called.
Reid waited a moment, his hand tight on his hilt. No men came.
“My mum and brother were in the cottage with me when yer men set it alight,” Reid said, stepping closer still. “’Twas our screams that brought Da running from the field to help.”
“I can’t be held responsible for what my guards do.” The baron looked about at the narrow alleyways on either side of him, all engulfed in flames from burning cottages. His soldiers had inadvertently blocked him with their destruction.
“’Twas many years ago,” Reid said. “Ye were the one who gave the order for them to kill us all.”
“And yet you still live.” Lord Rottry lifted a brow. “Apparently, my men weren’t as thorough then.” He spun about like the coward he was and snapped his reigns, encouraging his horse into a gallop to try to ride through the narrow path behind him.
Reid pulled Clara’s dagger from his pocket, which he’d recovered from the melee and threw it. The blade caught Lord Rottry in the shoulder. While Reid’s aim was not as accurate as Clara’s would have been, it still sent the English baron tumbling to the ground all the same.
The horse, free of its burden, raced off through the flaming alleys of the village.
Lord Rottry groaned in agony but pushed himself to standing, his blade drawn. “How long have you spent dreaming of this moment, farmer’s whelp?”
“Twenty years,” Reid said through his teeth.
“You’re so tired, you’re stumbling,” the baron tsked. “You have blood darkening your padded armor, and you appear as though you’re going to tip over at any moment.” He smirked. “Do you really think you can beat me?”
“I know I can.” He lunged at the baron, slashing to the right.
Lord Rottry evaded the blow with more speed than Reid had thought him capable. But Reid was a fighter who adapted to his opponent. It was one of the many reasons why he had survived so many battles.
The baron came at Reid with a short jab that nearly nicked his neck. A close strike, but not a hit.
Whatever Reid did, he would need to do it quickly. Though the need for vengeance raged through him, exhaustion was slowly sapping his energy, making his body and his mind sluggish.
Use his speed against him.
Reid feinted left, and when the baron moved to evade the attack, Reid swept his sword around hard to the right, so the blade sank into the man’s neck. Blood spurted from the wound and ran down his blue-and-yellow tunic, staining it with sin and hate.
After all the years Reid had dreamt of that moment, Lord Rottry finally slumped to the ground at the hands of Reid’s blade. Da, Mum and Ewan had been avenged, as well as every other Scotsman the bastard had killed over the many years of his reign of terror.
Reid staggered to his knees, his legs no longer able to carry his weight, buckling at the poignancy of the moment.
Lord Rottry stared up at the sky, focused on nothing. Dead.
At last.
Yet the triumph Reid had expected to surge through him did not come. There was no victory or bliss. A hollowness rang out in his chest. Sadness. Loss. Grief.
The death of this man could not bring back his family.
They were gone forever.
Clara.
Reid pushed himself up to his feet. All around him, clusters of men still fought with blades and hands and stones; whatever could be had in this melee of survival. None of them paid him any mind as he ran on weakened legs back to the cottage where he had left Clara and the bairns.
He stopped short. The warmth drained from his body and left an icy wash of dread in its place.
The cottage was consumed in flames, the thatch long since blackened with damage, caving in at several places, and the walls sagged inward, collapsing on themselves. The door remained standing, its edges charred. No doubt it had been bolted shut.
And had never been opened despite the flames.
No one within could have survived.
They would have ended up like…like Mum and Ewan.
Reid choked out a pained gasp, and the scene blurred in front of him. Anguish welled up inside him, overwhelming and brilliant in its pain.
He should go to the cottage, he knew, to confirm.
Yet he could not will his feet forward. Doing so would inevitably bring him to a sight he would never be able to clear from his mind, one that would forever scar his heart.
He had failed them.
Clara. She was the embodiment of everything good in this cruel world, the only person to ever convince him to open his heart.
She had shown him love. And kindness. Her soothing words and gentle ways had slowly brought down his walls, and he had gladly watched them be torn down, brick by brick, by her graceful hands.
Now she was gone.
Gone.
The word was too bleak for a woman whose light shone as bright as Clara’s, whose love glowed so perfect and wonderful.
His wife.
He had abandoned her and the bairns, too taken by his need for revenge, too plagued by anger. He had thought he would avenge everything he had lost but only ended up sacrificing everything he had gained.
A past at the cost of his future.
God, what had he done?
Clara and those precious bairns she’d sought to protect…dead.
Because of him.
He had spent his life running from the possibility of love for exactly this reason. And yet, even amid such terrible agony, he could not bring himself to regret what he had shared with Clara. Nay, he cherished it, cradling it in the raw place in his heart that would forever belong to her.
Drawing in a shuddering breath, he stepped forward, knowing what he had to do, even as he dreaded the truth of what he would find. Hot tears blurred his vision as he approached the ruined building with the orange-red flames that still ravaged the remaining structure.
He swiped the tears from his eyes and stopped before the door. With his last bit of strength, he lifted his leg and kicked the door in with one solid strike.