Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
The world came back in broken, jagged pieces.
Lilly's frantic crying. Cold stone biting into the soles of his bare feet. Then, a distant, ragged shout somewhere in the courtyard below. Not the high, terrified shriek of a servant girl, but a deep, commanding alarm.
"Fire!"
Fergus froze for the space of a single heartbeat, his muscles turning to solid iron.
Then, twenty years of ingrained soldier's reflex snapped hard into place.
He moved immediately. He crossed the chamber in two massive strides, his hands sweeping down to gather his discarded clothes from the heavy oak chair near the hearth.
Another frantic shout tore through the stone walls from the courtyard below, carried on a rising gust of wind.
Fire. Dear God.
His mind reached the brutal conclusion before the rest of him could even process the shock.
The bonfire.
After the evening's celebration, when the clan had toasted to the harvest and the repairs on the keep, he should have checked it himself.
He should have stayed in the courtyard until the last ember was smothered under damp earth.
He should have sent men to watch the ashes through the midnight hours, especially with the wind rising from the west as it had.
He had done none of it. Because he had come back up those stairs. Back to her.
Guilt struck him, heavy and sharp enough to hollow out his chest. There was no time for the weight of it. He dragged his heavy linen tunic over his head, his thick fingers rough and clumsy with urgency as he yanked the fabric down.
Behind him, Margaret was already moving.
Maisie quickly brought Lilly, and Margaret took her. She held Lilly tightly against her shoulder, her body swaying instinctively to soothe the screaming child while her free hand desperately tugged her white shift back over her bare breasts.
The sight hit him unexpectedly hard in the low light—the silver ribbons of moonlight, her disheveled, wild copper curls, their child—not theirs by blood, but somehow theirs in every way that mattered—clinging to her desperately.
Outside the safety of these thick stone walls, a hellish red fire was advancing toward his land.
Fergus shoved his leather boots on, barely taking the time to pull the straps tight through the iron buckles. Another frantic shout echoed through the keep, bouncing off the high rafters of the great hall below. Closer now.
"West field!"
His blood turned entirely cold in his veins. The western fields bordered the lower grazing lands, the thick bracken and heather dry as tinder this late in the summer. If the flames reached the long, parched grass with the gale behind them, the entire glen would burn before morning.
"Fergus." Margaret's voice stopped him just as his hand hit the iron ring of the door. He turned sharply.
She stood in the middle of the chamber, her spine perfectly straight, holding Lilly tightly against her chest. Her copper-honey curls fell loose and tangled around her pale shoulders, and her lips were still noticeably swollen and reddened from the demanding pressure of his kisses.
The sight nearly split him in two. Two distinct, warring versions of himself pulled in opposite directions: the man who wanted to cross the space between them, bury his face in her neck, and protect her from the dark; and the Laird who had already failed his people once tonight.
"I'll help get the servants movin'," she said quickly, her voice sharp with adrenaline. "The kitchens will need water brought up from the well immediately, and the lower rooms must be cleared if the wind shifts the smoke toward the keep."
"Aye," he said, his voice a low, distracted rasp.
Then he was gone, throwing the door open.
The corridor outside the chamber already thundered with panicked movement. Men were rushing from the barracks, grasping for heavy broadswords and shields before the fog of sleep cleared and they realized steel would be utterly useless against this particular enemy.
Servants carried sloshing wooden buckets, their bare feet slapping against the stone. Doors banged open and shut all along the long corridor.
The smell hit him halfway down the steep spiral staircase. Smoke. It wasn't heavy yet, not thick enough to impair vision, but it was present. Sharp, bitter, and smelling of burnt heather, it tightened the lungs with a sudden, suffocating grip.
Fergus descended the final steps into the great hall two at a time, his hand skimming the rough masonry.
The keep had transformed entirely in a matter of moments.
Lantern light swung wildly across the high stone walls as servants scrambled.
Stable boys ran through the open double doors toward the pitch-black courtyard.
Somewhere outside, a horse screamed in pure, primitive panic, the high-pitched sound cutting through the chaos like a honed blade.
Angus appeared through the smoke and confusion, carrying a heavy leather saddle tucked under one brawny arm.
"Wind pushed sparks over the western ridge," Angus said immediately, his face streaked with soot. "The lower grazin' fields caught first. The bracken is dry as bone, Fergus. Men are tryin' to contain it with wet plaids, but it's spreadin' faster than they can run."
"How far?"
"Too damn far."
Fergus swore under his breath, a dark Gaelic oath. He pushed past his clansman, shoving through the heavy oak doors and out into the courtyard.
The heat hit him instantly. The western sky shimmered with a deep, violent orange beyond the tall rocky ridge, while black smoke columns spiraled upward into the starless night.
Sparks lifted into the gale like a swarm of fiery embers, carried farther and faster than they should have gone. Too dry. Everything was way too dry.
The courtyard churned with frantic activity.
Men were rushing with water barrels toward the waiting pack horses.
Stable hands were pulling frightened, rearing animals from their wooden stalls, their eyes rolling white with fear.
Women carried heavy wool blankets and iron kettles of water from the back kitchens.
Above the shouting and the clatter of hooves came the sound of the fire itself—a distant, low, rhythmic roaring. Growing louder with every tick of the clock.
Alasdair stood near the main iron gate, already mounted on his great black stallion, issuing orders with brutal, military efficiency. The sight grounded Fergus immediately, pulling him back into the cold mindset of the soldier he had been for twenty years.
Alasdair turned the horse sharply the moment he saw Fergus clear the keep steps. Their eyes met through the drifting haze.
"How bad?" Fergus demanded, crossing the gravel to him.
Alasdair pointed a gauntleted hand toward the west. "The grazin' fields are completely gone. The wind's shiftin', pushin' north now toward the timber line."
Fergus followed the direction, his eyes scanning the dark horizon, reading the familiar contours of the land the same way they had done together since they were boys.
The angle of the slope. The density of the tree line.
The position of the river. The velocity of the wind.
He calculated the structural risk instinctively.
"The wind is west for now," Fergus said sharply, his voice cutting through the noise. "We can still hold the line before it reaches the barley crops if we act fast."
Alasdair nodded once, his jaw clenched tightly. He was already turning his horse.
"Split the men!" he barked to the gathered clansmen. "Half to the northern ridge with axes! Half with me toward the lower fields! Get water from the river and start cuttin' firebreaks before the flames cross further east!"
The men scattered immediately and executed the drill. Fergus grabbed the shoulder of the nearest stable hand, his grip like a vice. "Move every beast south of the river. Every cow, every sheep. I daenae care if ye need to wake half the glen to do it. Move!"
"Aye, me Laird!"
"Angus!"
"I'm here, me Laird."
"Take six men with the heavy axes and cut down every tree and bush between the lower fields and the crop line. Clear a wide path. Fast as ye can."
Angus nodded once, his expression grim, and disappeared into the shadows of the tool shed.
Everything moved with terrifying speed now.
It was controlled chaos, raw fear sharpened into disciplined action.
Fergus approached his own bay stallion, mounting in one smooth, practiced motion.
The animal shifted nervously beneath him, its nostrils flaring as it caught the heavy scent of smoke on the wind.
Then, through the frantic crowd, he saw her.
Margaret emerged from the heavy stone archway of the keep. She carried Lilly balanced firmly against one shoulder, her free hand gesturing sharply as she directed the younger kitchen servants.
"Take the filled water casks upstairs before the smoke thickens in the lower hall," she told one of the trembling maids, her voice steady and commanding. "And move the heavy wool blankets into the great hall in case families from the lower glen are brought inside for shelter."
The maid nodded instantly, reassured by her mistress's composure, and ran to obey.
Margaret turned then, her eyes sweeping the crowded yard until they found him. Even across the distance of the noisy courtyard, Fergus felt the impact of her gaze.
Something inside his chest snapped painfully tight, a sudden, suffocating knot.
Because all at once, the cold truth of the night rushed over him.
He had forgotten himself. He had let his guard down.
For one night. One woman. He had lain in a warm bed, wrapped in her scent and her words, while his duty went ignored.
And now his land, his people's livelihood, burned for it.
The realization hit hard enough to turn his fear into sudden, sharp anger. He wasn't angry at her. He was angry at himself, at his own weakness, which somehow made the fury twice as bitter.