Chapter 7
Amidst the leaping flames, the billowing smoke, and the choking stench of burning wood, Callum never took his eyes off Freya MacLeod. Not when a shower of sparks lit the pile of hay to one side of the stables alight, and not when the timbered roof collapsed.
“Do you think Sorcha MacLeod had a hand in this?” he asked Keir, his gaze still locked on the dark outline of Freya’s slender form.
“No.” Keir didn’t hesitate, and there was no doubt in his voice.
“You sound certain.” Surprisingly so. At best, the girl was dangerously unpredictable. At worst, she was violent, and he had an oozing gash on his neck to prove it. Was it so difficult to imagine she’d set a fire?
“I am certain. Sorcha MacLeod is a fierce lass, and protective of her family, but this?” Keir jerked his chin toward the fire. “Reckless destruction? No.”
Callum wasn’t as sure. Attacking a stranger with a blade was reckless enough, but this wasn’t the time to argue the point.
What did it matter, now? If he’d been doing what he’d promised Hamish he would, it would never have come to this.
He’d been the one tasked with watching the door this afternoon.
This was his fault, and his fault alone.
Hamish had warned him it was dangerous for the MacLeod sisters to leave the castle. He’d promised his friend they wouldn’t suffer any harm. He’d failed to keep that promise, and this was what had come of it.
But it stopped here. When Freya MacLeod turned and fled into the woods—and she would, soon—he’d be after her in a heartbeat, although whether he could do a damn thing for her now remained very much in question.
The damage had already been done.
In the span of a few hours, Freya and Sorcha had managed to get themselves into one devil of a mess. If the MacLeod sisters hadn’t already worn out their welcome in Dunvegan before this, then they certainly had done so now.
Fires tended to do that. Particularly deadly ones.
“We need to act, Callum.” Keir was watching as the villagers advanced on Freya, his face grim. “Now, before it’s too late.”
“I’ll see to Freya. Go after Sorcha.” The fire had reached a frenzied pitch, and he had to shout into Keir’s ear to make himself heard over the shriek of the flames. “Find her, and whatever you do, keep her away from the castle. It’s not safe for her there.”
Keir didn’t waste time or breath replying. He darted off into the woods after Sorcha, his white shirt a blur as he ran through the darkness. In an instant, he reached the tree line, and in another blink he vanished into the darkness, swallowed by the trees.
There was nothing to do then but wait for Freya to make her move. He squinted at her, his eyes aching from the heat and smoke. She stood motionless, staring at the burning stables as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.
But she’d realize soon enough she was in danger. Even now the villagers were closing in on her, their shouts growing louder as they neared the stables. She had no choice but to flee into the woods, just as her sister had done.
It was the only chance she had of losing them.
But she remained still far longer than she should have, seemingly lost in a trance as the enraged villagers drew ever closer. What was she doing? Did she not realize the danger she was in? Once those men caught up to her, they wouldn’t pause to listen to her explanations.
Now. Go, damn it. Run.
Yet she didn’t run. She stood there frozen as precious seconds slipped by, and the mob closed the distance between them, their shouts becoming more frenzied as they bore down on her.
He tensed, every muscle pulling tight as he charged toward her. He was closer to her than the mob of villagers, but not by much. There was no time to think, and not a moment to waste. In another instant they’d be upon her, and it would be too late.
But he never reached her. There was still half a field’s length between them when she bolted. Not toward the western edge of the woods as Sorcha had done, but in the opposite direction, her red-gold braid flying out behind her as she disappeared behind the tree line.
The woods were the safest place to go, the easiest place to lose herself.
Once she melted into the darkness, it would be nearly impossible for the men to find her.
She zigzagged west, running for the tree line, her chest burning with effort, her wheezing breaths in her ears drowning out every other sound.
She ran wildly, blindly, the canopy of leaves above her shutting out the glow from the fire, the branches grabbing her as she passed, tearing long, jagged rents into her cloak.
But she didn’t stop, even when the heel of one of her slippers caught on a tree root and flew off her foot. She stumbled forward, the ground rushing toward her, but somehow, she righted herself again and kept on, dodging the fallen branches torn from the trees by the storm.
If she could reach the castle, she’d be safe. All she had to do was make it as far as the castle, and all would be well.
She seemed to run forever, an eternity, her bare foot throbbing from the rocks and sharp sticks she trod on as she flew through the woods, but at last she made out the turret of Castle Cairncross ahead of her, outlined against the sky.
Thank God. Thank God.
Just a little farther now. If she could only make it a little farther …
In the next breath she was there, the drive that led up to the castle emerging just past the edge of the tree line.
When her foot hit the gravel she stumbled with relief, landing hard on her hands and knees, but she was up again at once and darting toward the door, an unhinged laugh on her lips as she recalled the circumstances of her leaving the castle earlier this evening.
Had she really thought being chased by Callum Ross was the worst thing that could befall her? How foolish, how stupid of her to think for even a moment that things couldn’t get worse than that.
It could always get worse. So much worse …
Ever since her father’s death five months ago things had gone from bad to worse, until some fresh nightmare was upon them with every day that passed. Smugglers, missing treasure, and now Catriona was gone, and Sorcha …
God, what of Sorcha? Why had she gone to the Stewart farm in the first place? What could have made her do something so foolish, so reckless?
They were questions without answers.
She reached the entryway of the castle moments later and staggered up the steps, her heart beating out of her chest in time with each of her ragged breaths as she ran through the door, slammed it behind her, and collapsed against it.
“Sorcha?” Her voice was thin, hoarse, rough with the smoke she’d taken into her lungs and her frantic dash through the woods. “Sorcha, are you here?”
There was no answer. Only the echo of her own words.
Where was she? She’d said to come here to the castle, hadn’t she? Or had she said not to come here? She couldn’t think, couldn’t remember—
But soon enough, she had her answer.
They were coming up the drive, shouting as they ran. The villagers, a dozen or more of them now, a wild mob of furious men with torches in their hands.
They were coming for her.
Her, and Sorcha. Someone must be made to pay for the destruction to Stewart’s property. And if Mr. Stewart himself should have been hurt, or God forbid, killed … well, someone would have to pay for that, too.
Who, other than the MacLeod sisters? And where else could a mob of enraged men find a MacLeod sister, other than at Castle Cairncross?
She should have remained in the woods. She should have hidden herself among the trees and waited for Sorcha to come for her. That’s what her sister had been trying to tell her—that the woods were the only place that was safe for them.
Oh, dear God. She’d made a dreadful mistake.
And now it was too late. The men were coming, their torches bright spots of flame in the darkness, the indistinct rumble of their voices becoming clearer as they moved up the drive toward the entrance of the castle.
She hovered for an instant in the shadows by the front door. If only she could keep still, perhaps they’d pass right by her? She was good at stillness, at not drawing attention to herself, at disappearing into the background while remaining in plain sight …
No. It wouldn’t work this time. Not when they were coming for her.
Now. She had to move now, before it was too late.
But where? The front entrance was the only way out of the castle. Even the kitchen door that led to the stables was blocked. Oh, why had they done something so foolish as to cut off all but one pathway to escape?
They’d thought they’d be safe if they could keep anyone from getting inside the castle. It hadn’t occurred to them that the day might come when they’d be desperate to get out.
Safety, as it turned out, was nothing but an illusion.
The heavy bootsteps were drawing closer, the torchlight flickering against the windows.
She was nearly out of time.
The staircase stretched out before her, the outline of the grandfather clock on the landing just visible in the gloom, the upper floors beyond that swallowed by the darkness.
She was moving before she made any conscious decision to do so, her feet, still wet from the rain, silent against the worn carpet of the stairwell.
Up and up, her harsh breaths echoing in her head as she fled toward the alcove, and from there up the stairway that wound around the inside of the turret.
She paused when she reached the roof, blinking away the rain that fell onto her face. No, not here. There was no place to hide, and nowhere to run. If they came upon her here, she’d be trapped.
Fear pierced her chest at that thought, rooting her feet to the floor and threatening to steal her reason, but she mustn’t panic now. Not when she’d made it this far. She closed her eyes and drew in a long, deep breath, clenching her hands together to stop them shaking.
The single moment of stillness cleared the fog from her brain.
Her father’s study. Yes, of course! It was tucked into the back of Cat’s workroom, the door half-hidden behind a heavy cabinet, with just enough room for a smallish lady like herself to squeeze through the gap.
There was a good chance the men chasing her would never notice the door, and if they did … well, if they did, her father’s dirk was hidden in one of his desk drawers. Whether she’d have the courage to brandish it was another question, one she prayed she wouldn’t have to answer tonight.
She darted through the arched doorway and into Cat’s workroom, then hurried toward the far side of the room, where the cabinet stood against the wall. At least, so it appeared, but there was a door hidden behind the cabinet, invisible to anyone who didn’t already know it to be there.
She slid behind the cabinet and fumbled for the study’s doorknob, her fingers closing around the cold iron just as the tread of footsteps on the stairs reached her.
Dear God, they were inside the castle.
For an instant she froze like a trapped animal, every instinct screaming at her not to move, to remain as still as possible, but she fought off the panic and slipped through the door, closing it with a quiet click behind her.
She wasn’t trapped. Not yet.
Her father’s desk was under the one window in the room. There was no light, the storm having chased the moon behind dark, heavy clouds, and the desk was a great, hulking thing looming in the darkness.
She stumbled forward, her hands shaking as she pulled open the middle drawer, and yes! Thank goodness, it was still there.
Her cold fingers closed around the hilt of the dirk. Even while she prayed she wouldn’t have to use it she snatched it up, then fell to her knees, crawled underneath the desk, and pressed herself into the farthest corner, tucking her legs underneath her and making herself as small as possible.
Then, she waited.
And waited, and waited …
There was no way to tell how much time passed as she huddled there in the darkness, the dirk clutched in her fist.
Ten minutes, half an hour, a lifetime?
There was no sound. No voices, and no thud of footsteps approaching.
No flicker of light from an approaching torch.
Had the men given up then, and left the castle? Or had they searched the roof and the workroom, and not noticed the door?
She had no way of knowing. Perhaps they’d given up the chase, or perhaps they were ransacking the bedchambers right now. Turning over tables and chairs and poking into every corner and crevice of her home, the one place in the world she still felt safe.
Until tonight. Now they’d stolen that away from her, too.
Before long she was shivering, the cold of the stone floor beneath her seeping through her sodden skirts. She drew her legs more tightly against her chest, but soon enough her teeth were chattering.
Yet there was nothing for it but to remain where she was throughout the night. If no one found her before daylight came, she could venture from her hiding place and go search the woods for Sorcha.
But not before then.
How many hours would it be before sunrise? She couldn’t hear the chime of the grandfather clock from here. There was nothing but cold and darkness and the pounding of her heart in her chest.
If she could only remain awake until sunrise, all might yet be well.
Or as well as it ever would be again.
But as the minutes dragged by her eyes grew heavy, and her eyelids drooped. She struggled to keep them open, to remain awake and alert, but her body, exhausted by cold and fear and her wild dash through the woods, betrayed her.
Her head fell back against the desk, her vision blurring, and her fingers going lax around the dirk.