A groan rumbled over the roar of fire like the advance of an incoming train and a crash boomed behind her. A quick glance revealed a portion of the ceiling had collapsed. Dear heavens. It wouldn’t be long before the rest of it caved in on them.
They were going to burn.
She whirled back around to the window, stabbing frantically at it with the rolling pin, determined to fight; determined to live. She screamed with everything she had left. Her hoarse voice ripped from her raw throat.
She stalled altogether when she noticed something moving on the other side of the window. A figure.
“Stand aside!” came the deep shout.
A man moved out there, holding something. Something large.
“Help!” Her voice escaped in a pathetic croak. “Here!”
“Stand aside!” he bellowed again.
Her arm flew out to the girl beside her. “Back away.” She forced them back, into the clawing heat. It went against instinct. Against the fear choking her along with the smoke.
Wheezing, the three of them clung close, jumping as a large stone burst through the window, taking a good portion of the pane out, iron grid muntins with it and all. The hole it made was not quite big enough for a body to pass, but close.
Not that it appeared to matter to the person on the other side. He pushed through the irregular-shaped hole, regardless of the jagged bits of glass and steel stabbing at him.
The man dropped down lightly on the other side. Through the haze, his face took shape. MacLarin. Her heart lurched at the sight of him. He reached for her. “Clara! Come!”
Clara turned and pushed one of the other girls forward. MacLarin scowled at her but didn’t protest. He seized the female and lifted her up through the window.
The second girl was ready for him when he turned back around. He soon had her out as well.
Clara had scarcely taken a step forward for her turn before his hands were on her waist and he had her up and out of the window.
She landed on her feet on the other side and whirled around, waiting for him to emerge, holding her breath until he did so. Until he was standing safely on solid ground before her.
He reached for her, but not soon enough. Her legs gave out, too weak to support herself.
He caught her up the moment before she struck the ground.
“Clara!” He spoke into her face, his arms wrapping around her.
She tried to answer. Her throat muscles worked, but only a pained whimper escaped.
With a stinging curse, he lifted her up and moved her far beyond the burning kitchen.
People were everywhere now. All around them. A loud and frantic press of bodies. Someone was crying nearby. She heard all this over the roar of the hungry fire. She sensed their movements as she stared straight ahead at the laird’s soot-marked face.
He came. He saved my life. Mine and the other girls’.
“How did y-you—?” She stopped. The words hurt too much in her throat. They felt like a knife scraping the inside of her throat.
“Shh,” he soothed, holding her tighter in his arms.
She swallowed, wincing at the effort as he carried her back toward the house. “MacLarin.”
“Dinna speak. Rest your throat. You inhaled a great deal of smoke.”
He was right, of course. She should rest and let her throat mend. She should wait until after she was tended and she didn’t smell like a fire pit and wasn’t covered head to toe in cinders. A blessed drink of water wouldn’t be unwanted either.
But not yet. Not until she said what she had to say. Before she lost her nerve.
“MacLarin . . . Hunt.”
“What is it, lass?” He glanced at her before looking ahead again, minding his steps.
“I will marry you.”
He stopped hard, his arms tightening slightly around her. He didn’t so much as blink as he looked down at her. “Are you . . . Did you knock your head?”
She smiled and imagined she looked quite the mess, smoke-blackened and reeking of charred rubble. She was hardly a prize, even before her present condition. “My head is fine.”
Very fine indeed. She’d be a fool not to marry this man. He’d saved her life at his own peril. She had been on the brink of death, tottering at the precipice, and he had yanked her back.
He was nothing like the fops back in Town. Her brush with death made that abundantly clear. He was a man in possession of honor and strength. He was willing to take on another man’s child. That said a great deal about him . . . and there was the not-so-minor fact that she was attracted to him in a way she had never felt before. Achingly attracted to him.
The only mark against him was that he believed in silly curses, and was that really such an awful thing? She had lived around superstition before. Her own mother would go out of her way to avoid a black cat.
He couldn’t help himself. She was sure of that. He’d been raised to believe in such rubbish. That would soon change. She’d show him curses didn’t exist.
She’d show him that they could build a life together.
And maybe, possibly, they could be happy.
The moment Hunt lowered Clara down onto her bed, he was ushered out by her companion and several servants. He had no time to talk to her further . . . not that he wanted to press her to speak. Not in her condition. She needed to rest her throat.
Maybe he could bring her quill and parchment and he could confirm in writing that she had in fact said she would marry him. He stifled a laugh at the ridiculous notion.
All giddiness fled as he paced in front of her door, thinking of how very ill she had looked when he left her. Ashen even beneath all that soot and grime. Her cough and croaking voice were worrisome. Only a temporary consequence of the fire hopefully.
She said she would marry me.
Equal parts elation and fear swirled through him. He wanted to barge through the door and make certain she was well—make certain his future wife and child were both well.
Alyse appeared. “Off with you.” She shooed him away, motioning with her hands. “We will tend to her. Nothing for you to do lurking outside her door here. She will be well.” Without another word, she entered the chamber, closing the door solidly in his face.
He stared at the thick wood a few helpless moments before realizing she was correct. He could be of better use elsewhere. Standing outside her door was helping no one.
He hurried downstairs to help the rest of the household put out the fire.
Autenberry was there in his trousers and boots. Shirtless as he’d undoubtedly been when roused from bed. He was oblivious to the cold as he worked in the bucket line.
Hunt joined him. He worked alongside the others until they had the fire contained. The kitchen was lost, but the fire was stopped from spreading. The castle itself spared. No one dead.
They worked until the light of dawn streaked the sky and the kitchen was nothing more than a smoldering pile of rubble.
Autenberry approached him, covered in sweat and ash. He wiped a forearm across his brow. “No one was hurt. That’s the important thing,” he said as though Hunt had voiced a question.
Hunt tossed aside his bucket and started for the castle, needing to see for himself that Clara was in fact unhurt. He ran inside and took the stairs two steps at a time until he arrived at her chamber’s door just as her companion was emerging.
“Laird MacLarin, you can’t go in there—” the lass, Marian, started to say.
He did not let her finish. He pushed past her, determined to set his mind at ease.
“Hunt.” Alyse rose from the chair beside the bed where she sat. She motioned to her lips for him to be silent.
He moved deeper into the chamber and stopped beside the bed, looking down at a sleeping Clara.
Someone had washed her. Not an inch of soot present anywhere, but she was still pale.
“How is she?” His gaze traveled over her, assuring himself there were no visible injuries he had missed.
“Exhausted
, but fine. Her coughing abated. She took down some water and fell back to sleep.”
He reached for her hand where it rested limply by her side. He could not stop himself from touching her, from feeling her alive.
He dragged his gaze from her face to look back at the duchess. “What about the babe . . . no cause for concern there?”
Alyse looked startled for a moment. He imagined speaking so directly of Clara’s delicate condition was off-putting, scandalous as it was, but since it concerned her well-being, he did not care for propriety.
Clara had agreed to become his wife. Her health and the health of her child were his chief concerns.
“The babe is fine. They are both fine, Laird MacLarin,” Marian volunteered with a cheerful smile. “Much thanks to you, I understand.”
He offered a shaky smile in turn. It was difficult to smile with Clara so wan in the bed only a few feet from him.
“What happened?” Autenberry charged into the room and dropped down beside his sister on the bed, evidently only now learning of her status.
“She was in the kitchen when the fire started. Hunt got her and the other maids out.”
Autenberry’s gaze swept over them all. “Why was I not informed?”
“Everything has been madness, Marcus . . . you had your hands full with the fire. She was in good hands with us,” Alyse explained. “The fire—”
“It’s out. We lost the kitchen, but the fire is out,” Autenberry responded, his gaze still trained on Clara.
“That’s a relief.” Alyse sighed. “However did it start?”
“We’ll examine for the cause later, but I imagine the fire set off a spark.” He shrugged. “It can be rebuilt. Better. Safer. With a proper fireplace this time.” He lifted his tired gaze to Hunt. “Thank you. For being there. For saving her.”
Hunt nodded stiffly. Autenberry did not understand. Hunt did not need his thanks. There had been no choice in the matter for him; saving Clara had been as necessary as air to him.
“Come, Marcus. Let her sleep.” Alyse tugged him away from the bed. “We would give her a fright if she woke up to all these faces.”
“I’ll stay with her,” Marian said. “She shouldn’t be alone.”
“I will,” Hunt announced.
Everyone stared at him as though he’d just uttered the most ridiculous thing.
“Have you seen yourself?” A smile played about Marian’s mouth. “I’m afraid if you sit down you’re going to ruin the upholstery.”
He glanced down at himself, noting he was covered in soot.
“Bathe first at least,” Alyse said. “She’s not going anywhere.”
He nodded, still reluctant to leave her but knowing he should.
They all filed toward the door with the exception of Marian.
At the door, he stopped and glanced back at the bed. “You’ll fetch me if—”
“Why, Laird MacLarin, you’re acting like a besotted lad.” Marian’s eyes glinted knowingly at him.
“She’s going tae marry me.” He felt compelled to say it, to establish this fact. Perhaps he just wanted to hear it out loud again. She was asleep now and he couldn’t ask her to repeat herself. He could say the words, though.
She arched an eyebrow. “Is she now?”
“Aye. She said so.”
“Did she? And when was that?”
“When I pulled her from the burning kitchen.”
She laughed then, looking down at her friend fondly. “It took a near-death experience to bring her to her senses, did it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never you mind. Just know this . . . if you wrong her, you’ll have to answer to me.”
“A fearsome fate indeed.”
“It is. Especially considering I encouraged her to accept your proposal.” Her smile faded away then. “Don’t prove me wrong, Laird MacLarin. Don’t you dare.”
Chapter 11
They married two days after the fire.
It happened with such haste Clara scarcely had time to think and that was probably for the best. Less time to think meant less time to lose her nerve and change her mind.
Her voice had returned to normal by then and only a mild sore throat from her exposure to the smoke lingered. She was very fortunate indeed. All thanks to Hunt—a fact never far from her mind. The Laird MacLarin was a heroic man.
Marcus sent for the local reverend two villages away; otherwise they would have married the very next day with the smoke from the incinerated kitchen still a thick haze about the property.
MacLarin was eager for them to take vows. Clara assumed it was because he was sensitive to the fact that she was with child and they should marry as quickly as possible given her condition.
She winced. That misconception had to be remedied posthaste.
She was anxious to put the ceremony behind them, too. She didn’t want her nerve to fail her, true . . . but admittedly, there was a certain amount of breathlessness when she contemplated marrying the handsome Scot. He excited her. Thrilled her in a way she had never experienced. Just one look from him made her heart race. There had never been that before and she wasn’t certain how to cope with it. Surely it would pass. Surely they would reach a state of normalcy. Surely she would come to a point where she did not feel as though she were jumping out of her skin in his presence.
Of course, Marcus agreed they should act quickly. He was in full support of sending for the reverend. Only Alyse harbored reservations over the marriage, disliking that they hadn’t disclosed the full truth to MacLarin.
Clara didn’t like it either, but she had talked herself into it—with a good deal of help from Marian and Marcus. They were quick to remind her that MacLarin would be happy once he realized the curse wasn’t real. Once he had sired his own baby. The prospect seemed surreal. She would marry this stranger. Take him into her body. Give him a child, if so blessed.
She told herself she’d do her best to be a good wife. To make him happy so that he would not care of her initial deception.
“Don’t underestimate him . . . or yourself,” Alyse had advised the night before as Clara readied for bed. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Clara. He is attracted to you and attraction can lead to fondness. Even love. There’s a flame there between you both. Nurture it.”
She hoped Alyse was right. That a part of him was marrying her for herself and not what he perceived she brought to him.
“When will you tell him?” Alyse had asked.
“After we’re wed,” Clara promised and meant it. After they wed. No more excuses.
They married in the morning with Marcus, Alyse, Marian and Hunt’s man in attendance. She wore one of her finer day dresses—a deep rose-colored muslin sprigged with tiny rosebuds of yellow.
The maid took longer than usual on her hair, proclaiming it a special day. Marian seconded that opinion. Clara’s poor bum was numb by the time she stood. But her hair was proclaimed a masterpiece.
It helped, knowing she looked her best when she joined MacLarin at the altar of the small chapel. Fortified her somehow.
His gaze skimmed over her. Morning light from the single stained-glass window gilded his hair a rainbow of colors. In his eyes she thought she read the gleam of approval and that flushed warmth through her.
She liked him looking at her with admiration. In Town, her looks had not been very popular. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Skin less than the hue of milk. She was no classic English rose and often made to feel that lack. All the other girls especially made her feel that lack. Except in his eyes.
In his eyes, she felt admiration.
Together, they faced the reverend, and in that moment, she felt as though they were together. In this endeavor, in what they were committing to—they were equal and of like mind.
The reverend’s accent was so thick, Clara had difficulty understanding him. There were times when she suspected he was speaking in Gaelic. She spoke up at the appropriate intervals, sometimes at the prodding of Hunt.
He stood proudly at her side, rigid as a soldier at attention. His hand brushed hers in those moments the reverend stared at her expectantly.
Those tiny touches made her breathing hitch. Everything else blurred around her. He towered over her, his shoulders so deliciously broad. She studied him from beneath her lashes, trying to memorize him, to freeze and immortalize this moment so that she would always have it. Come good or bad, she’d have the sweetness of this moment . . . the tender uncertainty where she felt as exhilarated and raw as an infant entering a new world, full of hope for the future.
His rich brown hair was shot with brilliant highlights of gold. It fell low over his forehead. She studied his lips as he spoke, forming the words that bound her to him.
Dear. God.
She was marrying this alarmingly attractive man.
She’d come north thinking she was entering into a life sentence of solitude. Now, instead, she was marrying this virile man who sent her heart pounding every time he came within proximity. She was his now. A part of her rebelled at this while another part simultaneously reveled in the knowledge. There was a part of herself, buried deep, that wanted to be claimed by this man in the most primitive fashion. As though he were a Viking marauder from old.
The reverend finished and MacLarin was pressing his cool lips to hers. Perhaps only cool because the rest of her was so overheated.
The kiss was over as soon as it began and they were surrounded with well-wishers. Marian was weeping. Over her shoulder, Clara watched as her brother clapped her husband on the back.
Her husband.
Husband.
They were married. She was a wife.
Dear. God. What had she done?
Hopefully the right thing. Hopefully nothing she would come to regret.
MacLarin’s gaze found hers, deep and probing as though he sensed the panicked flurry of her thoughts. Who knew? Maybe he felt some of the same sense of panic?
This Scot of Mine Page 10
