A Highland Inheritance (Highlands Ever After Book 2)

by Aileen Adams

  “Iona! I’m coming!”

  His decision made, he dashed around the side of the house, casting a glance over his shoulder as he did so, looking toward an upper window on the second floor. He thought he saw a shadow, a figure, but smoke soon enveloped what he had thought might be Iona. He heard no shrieks nor screams of a person being burned alive. He’d heard that sound before, a sound that he would never, ever forget. He raced through the underbrush between the back of the house and down the slope toward the stream, flinging his arms out, slapping branches away, nearly tripping over an exposed root as he raced toward the water. He flung himself face-first down into the water, held his breath, and dunked himself under. He tried to roll in the mud along the bottom of the stream, near the shoreline, hoping that it could offer some slight protection against the heat and flames.

  In moments, he raced back up the slope, dripping water, caked in mud, toward the rear of the house. “Iona!”

  Nothing. He swore and quickly ran around to the front, moving closer to the now open front door. He turned to the west, toward the village, but saw no riders, no sign of movement, no help. He gazed again at the open doorway, smoke billowing out now, flames encompassing much of the interior left half of the house. Did he care? If the roof caved in, he’d be trapped. Iona could already be dead, and he’d be risking his life for nothing. He could—

  A garbled cry jolted his senses. He looked up, saw Iona leaning out an upper story window, arm held over her nose and mouth, sagging weakly against the windowsill.

  He tried to enter, wanted desperately to get inside and save Iona, but the heat and flames propelled him back, refusing him entry. He stumbled back, nearly overwhelmed with the prickling sensation of heat, the acrid stench making its way into his nostrils and throat, prompting him to double over in a coughing fit, eyes watering, head pounding.

  Another garbled scream.

  He looked upward, hands on his knees, panting for breath, and then straightened, heart pounding. He tried to gesture, tried to tell her to make it to the back of the house. At that moment and to his growing horror, he watched as part of the remaining thatch roof caught, first tiny bursts of red hanging on to the tips of the thatch, and then in one, mighty whoosh, the flames swarmed across the entire roof.

  Iona screamed.

  “Jump, Iona! Jump! I’ll catch you!” He winced at the pain in his throat, the rawness, the difficulty it took to speak. Could she hear him above the sound of crackling flames?

  Moments later, her figure disappeared from the window. He stood below for several seconds, confused. Was she going to make a running jump, leap out of the window headfirst? He backed up, ready, just in case. Nothing happened. He didn’t see her. Had she rushed to the back of the house? Could she even get there, fighting the flames, and make her way through the falling, burning thatch of the roof? Torn, not sure if he should stay here and wait for her to jump out a window, or rush around to the other side, where she might be able to scramble out of one of the other windows along the back portion of the house.

  Either way, he had to make a decision, and he had to make it now. In another few moments, there was a good chance the entire house would collapse, dilapidated as it was, its wood dry, the thatch on the roof providing ample fuel to increase the heat and speed of the fire. He took a breath, raced around the side of the house, his clothes drying quickly with the heat of the flames. He prayed that he made the right decision, that Iona would make it to one of the rear windows and then, with God’s grace, she’d find a way out.

  10

  Heart pounding, Iona fought back a rising surge of panic. Arm bent, pressing the crook of her elbow against her face, she tried to keep as much smoke out of her nose and mouth as she could. It grew increasingly difficult to breathe, her eyes watering to the point she could hardly see. At first, she thought she’d been dreaming. Caught in the twilight between waking, and deep in the throes of a nightmare, she had struggled to wake herself up, and finally, her eyes flew open.

  Confused, she’d stared up at the ceiling, wondering why it seemed to be wavering, dark and shadowy one moment, glimmering with a faint tinge of reddish-orange the next. She thought something was wrong, but her brain was slow to respond. What was it? Sleep tried to pull her down into oblivion again, a sensation of lethargy sweeping through her. Still, something was awry. She lay still, trying to force herself upward, to wake up and determine what was wrong, but her eyelids felt so heavy, so scratchy. After a huge amount of effort, she did manage to partly open one eye, once again seeing the odd, wavering shadows now dancing across her open doorway. It felt warm up here on the second floor, but she’d finally decided to get up off the floor of the main room and take over one of the small bedrooms upstairs. She still slept on her makeshift pallet, still had her stout stick next to her, but it was warmer, much warmer upstairs than it was downstairs, even though she had dared to leave the single, small window of the room only halfway shuttered.

  She coughed, thinking she had swallowed wrong, trying to force herself awake while at the same time burrowing even further under the cloak that served as her blanket…

  She coughed again and then cracked open an eye, then the other, confused. A noise had woken her, a strange, popping sound. The wood settling downstairs? This was the first night she had slept upstairs, and was unfamiliar with the sounds the old house made up here. A loose shutter, a floorboard settling? Her throat felt scratchy and dry. She tried to swallow but coughed again. So much so that it jolted her awake.

  She sat upright, the cloak dropping off her shoulders and falling to her lap. She smelled it then. Smoke, drifting through the air. She blinked back the sting in her eyes. What was happening? Frozen for several moments, she tried to make sense of it. She heard more crackling, a popping sound, and realized the air was hazier than it should be. And then she realized.

  Fire! Her house was on fire!

  Had she forgotten to bank the fire downstairs? It had only been a small one, just enough to bake a couple more loaves of bread before she had come upstairs. Had she left the bread on the hearth, and it had burned and reignited the embers? No, she remembered moving it from the hearth onto the table. To add to the dozen already there that she planned to take to Alasdair, Beitris, and Elspeth the following day. Och, and a couple of loaves for Endorra as well, black currants mixed in with the dough. She hadn’t had time to start on any tarts or pies, but she would keep her word, deliver what she had finished baking, and then work on more tomorrow…

  She scrambled to her hands and knees, smoke suddenly billowing heavier, rushing upstairs, bringing with it burning embers. Her heart pounded, and fright prompted a shiver as she quickly scrambled to the open doorway and gazed downstairs. She gasped in alarm when she found one of the walls engulfed in fire. She stood at the top of the stairs, momentarily frozen with indecision. She started to move downstairs. She had to put out the flames, and quickly, before they engulfed the entire house. No! This couldn’t be happening!

  Another thought struck her. Had someone set her house on fire, with her in it? Were the tensions between the English and the Scots so high that someone would actually burn her house down? Immediately, she thought of Dougal Craig, of his blatant animosity toward her, but no, he had seemed almost indifferent the last time she’d seen him, when she’d sold him a couple loaves of bread a couple of days ago.

  Had he fooled her? Drawn her off guard and then snuck back to her property tonight to set the house on fire? If she could make it downstairs and rush outside toward the well in the front yard, use the bucket she had bought only yesterday… but before her eyes, the fire erupted, engulfing much of the front of the house. How had it spread so quickly? So hot! She coughed, indecisive until she saw the fire heading quickly for the front door. Could she make it in time?

  She glanced upward, saw a heavy cloud of smoke roiling near the ceiling, growing thicker, heavier, making its way downward. Instinctively, she ducked, gathered her gown close around her, and tentatively headed down the
stairs, praying that they wouldn’t collapse at any moment. Then, to her growing alarm, the flames leapt from the base of the front wall near the door to the base of the stairs. They licked up the banister, racing toward her, threatening to burn her alive. Once again, she froze, not sure what to do. Could she make it? Could she dash for the front door to get outside or should she run upstairs? Maybe she would be safer up there, at least for several moments until she could scramble back to her room, perhaps out the window and down that way.

  Could she make it through the small window in her chamber or would she get trapped? If she managed to clamber out of the window and dangle from it, could she drop to the ground without breaking something? What choice did she have? Jump or be trapped inside. She headed back upstairs, turning to look over her shoulder, watching as smoke oozed upward along the stairs, quickly filling the interior of the house, so quickly she could no longer see into the kitchen area. The smoke grew thicker, her eyes stung, watering now, but when she brushed a hand over them, it only made it worse.

  Embers floated in the air, one landing on her arm, prompting a cry of pain as she slapped at it. She glanced down as she rushed up the stairs, alarmed to find a small flame licking at the hem of her gown, catching the fabric on fire. She screamed, knelt, and battered at it with her hands. She quickly extinguished the flame, and now close to panic, her breath erupting in harsh gasps, her eyes wide with terror, she quickly moved up the stairway, the flames close behind.

  At the top of the stairs, she heard a sound. It sounded like… a shout? Could someone be outside? Perhaps the person or persons who had set her house on fire? Waiting for her to emerge so that they could kill her? Or worse, kidnap and ravage her, and only then kill her? She coughed again, and another ember struck her cheek. She cried out in alarm, and continued to dash up the narrow stairs, her hand clasped singeing over her mouth and nose. It did little good. She choked, doubling over as a violent fit of coughing wrenched the breath from her throat. She inhaled, winced at the pain as she took in soot, smoke, and ash. Her throat burned, her skin grew hot with the growing heat, her eyes watering ferociously.

  “Iona!”

  She heard the voice clearly that time, a shout, and then the sound of cracking wood. She peered through the flames and the heavy cloud of smoke filling the downstairs and saw a figure attempt to rush into the house only to disappear in the black smoke. Who was that? It had to be… She didn’t think that Dougal knew her name. Only a few did—Beitris, Elspeth, and probably Beitris’s husband, Alasdair. They wouldn’t be here, they lived too far away.

  She tried to cry out, to tell whoever it was that she was up here, but her mouth didn’t want to work, and the only sound that escaped was a frightened wail. Upstairs, she rushed to the small front room over the living area, aware that the flames had already started to lick upward toward the second floor, smoke oozing between the cracks in the floorboards. She quickly ran to the window, looked down, and saw a figure in the yard, holding a bucket.

  “Iona!”

  Over the crackling of the flames, the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, she heard the figure shout something but couldn’t make out what he said. He gestured toward the back of the house, and then smoke once again billowed upward, blocking her view. The heat encroached on her, singeing the hair on her scalp, biting against her skin. Terrified that her gown would catch fire, she pulled it up tightly around her waist, bunching it higher. Her bare legs feeling the heat, she raced barefooted out of the front room, two steps down a short hallway and into her room at the rear of the house. Overhead, she heard more popping and crackling, and then, to her horror, saw that the thatched roof had started to catch.

  The house was no match for the onslaught. The wood, old, dry, and cracked, gave the growing flames ample fuel. The thatched roof would ignite any moment now, and soon, one wall, then another, would likely collapse. She dashed to the window not far from her makeshift bed, eyeing it doubtfully, not sure if she’d be able to fit through. Still, she had little choice.

  The floorboards beneath her feet grew hot, so hot she had to shift from foot to foot as she made her way to the window. She slammed open the shutter, relishing the cool night air, but it only served to fuel the fire, the flames crackling even louder now from below, hissing and snapping.

  “Iona!”

  She moved to the window, glancing only once behind her shoulder, alarmed to find the hallway walls nearly glowing, fire racing along its base, flames licking upward. She peered out the window, her vision so blurry and watery she could barely make out the figure below, arms swinging wildly, gesturing.

  “Jump! Iona, jump!”

  She had no choice. The flames licked at the floorboards and walls of the house, seasoned by years of hot, dry summers. The house, her only shelter, her only property, devoured by ravenous, greedy flames. All her belongings, everything, eaten alive. The choked sob that erupted from her throat was filled with despair.

  She released her gown, hoping that she could scramble out the window before the flames caught at her hem and she was consumed by the fire. Panic surged through her as she grasped the windowsill, then heaved herself upward. Her shoulders barely fit through the narrow opening. She imagined herself getting stuck halfway out and then hesitated. Headfirst or feetfirst? She supposed it didn’t matter. If her hips caught on the narrow opening, it wouldn’t matter whether she dangled headfirst or feetfirst. The bottom of the window level to her waist, it would be very difficult for her to get her legs up, but she tried, first leaping, then wincing as her knee caught on the edge, but then she lost her balance and fell back.

  The floorboards were hotter, glowing a vicious reddish orange even now. She choked back a scream, ordering herself to try again. She couldn’t lose hope. She reached for the windowsill again, grasping the sides higher this time, and then, leapt off the floor, managing to get her knee onto the bottom of the windowsill. She teetered precariously and then shifted her weight forward, cringing in pain as her shin rubbed along the sill. Now what? She grabbed her gown, tugged it from her lower limbs, and managed to get her other knee up. She hunched in the window, her body doubled over, barely squeezing through, tilting her right shoulder first, then her left, her hands now behind her, grasping, clinging precariously.

  Below her, Colin was shouting encouragement, his face coated with soot, his arms raised upward, ready to catch her. She knew that her weight would knock both of them to the ground, possibly injure one or both, but there was nothing left for her to do. It seemed like an impossibly far distance, especially flinging herself out the window as she was, headfirst. She might break her neck. Then again, that was a quicker death than being burned alive.

  Behind her, she heard the sound of splintering wood, a wall crashing in. The structure shuddered beneath her. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and then pushed herself out the window, flinging herself away with the strength of her knees and her hands. She sailed through the air, falling, her hair and gown flowing behind her. She bit off a scream as she landed hard against something, and then, in a scramble of arms and legs, she landed on top of the sheriff, both of them falling to the ground, his arms wrapped protectively around her as he took the brunt of the blow, cushioning her fall as they rolled away from the house.

  Her head struck something hard, pain exploded in her skull, and blackness encompassed her.

  11

  The shape hurtled toward him from above, and he barely had time to adjust his stance, to shift a little to the left, before Iona’s weight crashed down onto him, her elbow striking his head, her knees digging into his belly, her momentum propelling him backward. He lost his footing and clasped his arms around her as he flew backward, landing hard on his back. She cried out in alarm when she struck him, both of them a tangle of arms and legs as he landed, the pain jolting him and knocking the air from his lungs. Her legs straddling him now, he tried to protect her head with one hand while still clasping her close as they were propelled back, and then they rolled ove
r the top of the slope behind her house down to the creek.

  Her garbled cries, the whoosh of flames, the crackling of the fire devouring the house, his own breath, raspy in his throat, all of this filled his ears. He had no idea which way was up or down as they rolled, and could only pray that neither one of them broke their necks. Finally, after what seemed like forever but could only have been a few brief moments, they came to a stop at the bottom of the slope, heads toward the stream. She lay on top of him, her torso pressed against him, her legs no longer wrapped around him, his grip having been torn from her head, although he still clutched a handful of her gown.

  He lay stunned, staring up into the darkness of the night sky, the stars obscured by billowing clouds of smoke. He coughed, gasped for breath, and though they lay still, he continued to wrap his arms protectively around her. She felt so fragile, her waist so narrow, her limbs delicate, but she was strong, not only in body but in spirit. He realized that despite her origin, he admired her. Not many women, nor men for that matter, would have risked that plunge, especially not headfirst out of such a small window, knowing that the fall could severely injure her, maybe even break her neck if he hadn’t served as a buffer.

  He’d never seen a fire engulf a structure so quickly and that was the moment when he knew with a certainty that the fire was no accident. It had been deliberately set and fueled by more than one point of origin. He lay still, staring at the flames shooting into the sky only a short distance away, nearly mesmerized by their color, the way they moved, the way they seemed to roll in on themselves before the fiery tongues of flame licked up a piece of wood or a bundle of thatch. The heat grew even more intense. From inside the house came the crash of timbers falling and stairs and walls crumbling.

  Her house was gone. A surge of pity raced through him in those moments, brief moments they were, though they seemed to last forever. Where would she go? Where would she live? She had as much as told him, not in so many words, that she had little money, and this home in central Scotland had pretty much been her last chance. A soft groan jolted him out of his thoughts, pulling his gaze from the enticing flames, so awesome and powerful yet terrifying at the same time.