by Lauren Smith
“Get some rest, Duncan. We will see you in the morning.”
“Aye, my lord.” The young man left for the servants’ wing.
The cook, Mrs. Tate, was in the great hall by the stairs. When she saw them, she frowned.
“Has your brother left for Edinburgh?” Brock asked.
“Aye.” Her brows knit in concern at both him and Joanna before looking up at him. “Are ye both all right? Should I send for the doctor?”
“No, no, we’re quite fine, Mrs. Tate. We just ran into a wee bit of trouble on the road. But we’re none the worse for wear. You may retire to bed.” He left her at the bottom of the stairs as he carried his wife up to his chambers.
He laid Joanna on the bed and took care of her clothes, removing the ruined gown. She stirred as he unfastened her stays and mumbled something adorably grumpy about not being able to breathe. Then he slipped off her stays, stockings, and boots, and he removed the pins from her hair without waking her.
Poor lass, she was exhausted. She’d been deathly ill from the wolfsbane, then she’d spent much of the day on her feet in the village, then she had battled Ewan, and, well, there had been their time together in the coach…
Lord, she had ridden him with wild abandon, the way he imagined a Scottish lass would her husband. There was no timid, blushing English bride here, and for that he was grateful. He wanted Joanna to feel free to demand his body when she desired it. He was more than happy to comply with any request where he ended up inside her.
When he was with her, it felt like the clouds had parted and carried him straight to every sweet, beautiful dream he had ever had. When she kissed him, it made him dizzy with want, yet there was a softer urge buried inside that, the need to whisper her name as a fervent prayer. What would it be like years from now, when they both knew each other and their deepest desires perfectly?
He looked forward to finding out everything about her. His wife. His partner. For the first time he was no longer lonely. As the oldest child, he had carried so many burdens alone on his shoulders. Brodie, Aiden, and Rosalind never truly knew how hard it had been for him to be the next Earl of Kincade, to know that their father had run their lands on spilt Scottish blood, and to feel the weight of judgment from men like Ewan.
Brock lit a candle by his bed and stripped out of his clothes. Now that he was home, he would wear the Kincade kilt again. He had never dared wear it in England. The Dress Act of 1746, which had outlawed kilts, had been repealed in 1782, and far too many Englishmen still felt it should be law. He’d had no wish to cause trouble for Rosalind, so he’d worn trousers. But that would change now that he was home.
He couldn’t stop grinning as he tried to predict her reaction to the change. Shocked, scandalized perhaps, then intrigued. What would she think when he showed her how much easier it would be to claim her when he didn’t have to mess with cumbersome things like trousers?
When he climbed into bed beside her, he pulled his wife into his arms.
He chuckled and kissed the shell of her ear. “My Scottish lass.”
She sighed dreamily, and the sound was so sweet it made his body hard with hunger, but they were both exhausted and she was already asleep. There would be plenty of time tomorrow for more of everything with her.
He rolled over and blew out the candle, then pulled Joanna tight against him, so that they nestled like spoons in a silver drawer.
“Good night, wife,” he breathed, feeling a peace so profound that it would have stunned him if he hadn’t been so exhausted.
Minutes or maybe hours later, he woke with a start, his heart racing and his head tight with a headache. He was feeling hot…too hot. He wiped a layer of sweat from his brow. What the devil? He leaned over, checking on Joanna, and she was covered in sweat as well. Perhaps if he threw open a window he could let in a breeze.
Brock slipped out of his bed and was halfway across the room when he saw a glow beneath the edge of his bedchamber door. Had someone relit the wall sconces in the corridor outside? He changed direction and started toward the door. When he touched the handle, it was surprisingly warm.
He opened the door and gasped. Smoke, thick and dark, poured into the room. Through the haze he saw flames at the far end of the corridor where his father’s bedchamber had been. The castle was on fire.
He rushed back to the bed, hastily gathering her dressing gown and boots, and shook her awake. “Joanna!”
“What’s the matter?” she asked drowsily.
“There’s a fire. You must go now. Put these on—don’t bother to tie the laces. You need only to protect your feet from the burning embers.” He pointed at the boots.
“Fire?” She understood right away the seriousness of the situation. If they didn’t move fast, they could die. Joanna slipped on her boots, and Brock quickly pulled on his kilt and boots and then a shirt.
“Follow me,” he commanded as they stepped into the corridor. The flames were moving quickly, devouring the old carpets lining the floor. Through the blaze he thought for a moment that he saw his father’s face. But that was impossible. The man was dead and cold in the ground.
“Brock!” Joanna pointed to the roof above them. Fire was snaking its way along the beams. Thankfully, that high ceiling also meant the smoke wasn’t smothering them.
“Run!” He shoved Joanna in the opposite direction of the fire. When he turned to follow, he stumbled into her back and steadied himself.
“What the—?” The words died on his lips as he saw what had stopped his wife in her tracks. Mrs. Tate was there, wide-eyed, her hair loose from its tiny bun, and she held a long knife in her hand.
“What are you doing? Can’t you see—?”
Her harsh laugh cut him off. “The castle is on fire, my lord,” she sneered. “But ye aren’t my lord, and ye never were.” The sly, wide-eyed look transformed to one of madness.
“Mrs. Tate!” he snapped, and stepped in front of Joanna, putting himself between her and the cook.
“I’ve had to listen to ye give me orders, tried to see ye in his place. But ye aren’t him—ye could never be half the man he was.”
Brock’s gaze darted above them as sparking embers began to flutter down like black moths with their wings on fire.
“Ye are but a pathetic fool to think ye could ever be like yer father,” Mrs. Tate screeched. “Ye are your mother’s brat, you and the others.” The cook’s eyes were near black, and she began to laugh wildly.
“You were the one who poisoned Joanna.”
She snarled. “Bit of monkshood to start—wanted to take my time with it. But ye brought Dr. McKenzie, and he knew…” She curled her lip in a sneer. “Not that it matters now.” She laughed again. “Ye sent my brother away. He couldn’t stop me, not tonight.”
Brock grasped Joanna’s hand, keeping her behind him. They tried to slide past Mrs. Tate. She lunged, slashing out with the knife. Brock pushed Joanna, and she stumbled out of the way behind him toward the open corridor. Then a sudden crash sounded, and he spun around. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, just half a dozen feet beyond his wife. Joanna looked between him and the flames. They were trapped.
“Jo—” Pain tore across his back, and he crashed against the wall. He grasped the edges of his mother’s beloved unicorn tapestry, the silver and white threads glimmering in the raging fire. Everything seemed to slow down, unfolding like a terrible dream. Mrs. Tate stepped in front of him, the now bloody knife clutched in her hand. She must have cut him deep if his sudden dizziness was any indication.
The crazed cook spat at him. “Filth! Weak-hearted brat! Ye are na worthy of yer father’s blood!”
Brock stared at her, still stunned. He had always known Mrs. Tate had liked his father, but this woman’s obsession with the brutal man made little sense.
“Brock!” Joanna cried out. “There’s no way out. We can’t go this way.”
Mrs. Tate turned toward Joanna’s voice, and Brock knew he had to distract her away from his wife.
; “I do not want my father’s blood. He was a rotten bastard, a cruel monster. A betrayer of his people!” His shouts drew the cook’s focus again.
“He was a prince among ungrateful swine!” Mrs. Tate lunged for him. Brock readied himself for the blow, but Mrs. Tate screamed and vanished from view as she flew past him and stumbled into the fire beyond. Brock blinked. Joanna stood there, panting. She had shoved Mrs. Tate into the flames at the other end of the hall. Her body writhed on top of the fallen wooden beams, her clothes catching on fire. She staggered out, fully ablaze, and fell over the banister to the ground far below. Joanna turned away, covering her mouth.
“Come, lass.” Brock grasped her hand as they rushed back to his chambers. They closed the door to keep the flames and smoke out for as long as possible.
“I have an idea.” Joanna pulled the sheet from the bed, dousing it with water from the basin on the nightstand, and then she rolled it lengthwise and pushed it under the door where smoke had started to curl its way in.
“Good thinking, lass,” he said. “That will buy us a little time.” He winced as he felt his back split in two with pain.
Joanna looked around, trying to think of a means of escape, but she was unable to find one. They were too high up to jump from the window. “Brock. We can’t go anywhere. We….” She came over to him, shaking violently as she embraced him. He swallowed the cry of pain, and she buried her face in his neck.
“I’m sorry.” He had let her down. He had made a vow to protect her, to give her a life of happiness here in the Highlands. But all he had done was bring her to an early end. Tears blurred his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, uncaring as they fell to his cheeks. The moonlight cut through the open window, catching his attention.
“Wait, I have an idea.” He pushed her away as he tore the bed hangings from the bed and began to string them together into a loose rope. If he could lower her down, at least she could climb to safety. And perhaps he could find a way to fasten it somewhere so he could follow.
When she realized what he meant to do, they worked together. Distant crashes outside the chamber made them both jump. His hands shook as he carried the makeshift rope to the window and opened it. The drop was a good twenty feet, but if he could get her most of the way down, she would be all right. He tossed the rope out and held on to one end.
“Start climbing,” he ordered. Joanna stared at him.
“You must tie the other end to the bed.”
“No, we need as much rope as possible. Now climb.” He couldn’t meet her gaze. If he did, it would crush his resolve forever.
“Brock, you’re coming with me, aren’t you?” Her words trembled in the air between them.
“I will, lass, but only after you’re safe.” It was all he could say before he feared his voice would break, just like his heart. She was his beautiful dream, the gift he had never deserved, and now he was losing her forever. But at least he would save her.
“Then I’m not going. We’ll find a way out together. We—”
He dragged her to him for one brief, hard kiss before he pushed her back and thrust the rope into her hands.
“You’ll go because you might very well be carrying our child. Do you hear me? The life we might have created between us. I’ll not have you destroying that because you want to die with me.”
Her lips quivered, and her eyes filled with tears. “But I love you, Brock.” She almost whispered the words.
“And it is on that love you must obey me now. You ken?” He dragged her to the window’s edge, wound the rope around his arms, and braced himself.
“Climb. Now.”
Her gaze met his as she climbed over the edge of the window. “Find a way out. Do you hear me? I will not bury you,” she shouted at him as she climbed down the rope. Pain tore through his back as he held the rope in place while she climbed down. When the pressure finally eased, he moved to the edge of the window and peered down. She was on the ground, looking up at him, her face lit with the glow of the fire coming from behind him and the castle roof far above.
“Brock!” she screamed. He left the window, carrying the rope to the bed, and he tried to tie it around a bedpost. The knot held, but he couldn’t drag the heavy four-poster bed closer to the window with his injured back. He couldn’t even climb part of the way and jump, because the distance was too high. Defeat smothered him like smoke, choking him as he slumped down by the window ledge.
Smoke now started to fill the room, slowly choking him. His only comfort was knowing he would be dead before the fire ever reached him. He closed his eyes, picturing only Joanna’s face. Then something nudged his leg, and his eyes jerked open. Freya was by his ankle, the badger whining softly and nudging him with her striped snout.
“Ach, I’m sorry, wee one.” He chanced being bitten by her and lifted the badger up into his arms. The door to his chamber cracked and groaned as flames exploded into the room. He buried his face in the badger’s fur, holding on as he closed his eyes again. The smoke thickened, and his head grew cloudy. His thoughts scattered as the heat climbed around him. A soft humming began to grow in his head, like music, the notes of a long-forgotten melody, one his mother used to sing to him.
Do you trust me?
Her voice, that question, one she’d asked so often when he’d been a wee lad and she tended to a skinned knee or a splinter in his finger.
“Aye, Mother.” Even now, facing death, he trusted the phantom memory of her in his head.
Then jump.
“Jump?”
Go… Now!
He opened his eyes, seeing only fire, not the ghost he longed to see. Death was coming, and he could not stay to burn. He faced the window, clutching the badger. He could see nothing below him, only smoke and flames. If he jumped, perhaps death would be swift. Freya shifted in his arms, and he knew that if he landed on his back, he might at least save her life.
“Hold on, my sweet.” He took a few steps and leapt through the open window. The smoke swallowed him up as he fell into darkness.
24
The moment Joanna realized Brock would not be able to get out, she screamed his name. Duncan found her trying to claw her way back up the stone walls. The heat of the blaze was fierce, and the castle seemed to swell with the heat beneath her hands, but it didn’t stop her. Her husband was going to die if she couldn’t find a way to save him.
“My lady! Be careful!” Duncan shouted. Pieces of wood and stone fell from the battlements, landing with heavy thuds on the grass around her.
“Duncan! Thank God! Brock is trapped up there. We must find a way to save him!”
“How? We canna get back inside.” Duncan stared up at the cloud of smoke billowing out from the window above them, his face ashen. Joanna watched the flames lick along the stones in terror. She’d never thought stones could burn, but the amount of timber inside the castle was feeding the fire.
If only they hadn’t run out of rope. If only he’d been able to get out the window and jump. But it was too high. If only… A sudden burst of inspiration hit, and she grabbed Duncan’s arm, pulling his focus back to her.
“The wagon! Get the hay wagon from the stables! He might be able to jump into it.”
“Aye. I’ll be back.” The lad sprinted into the darkness.
Joanna searched the smoky haze for the window to Brock’s chambers. Smoke billowed out so thick now, and it mixed with the building storm clouds that were swallowing up the moon and stars overhead.
“Brock! Hold on!” she called out, hoping he could hear her. Duncan came barreling around the edge of the farthest tower of the castle, driving a pair of horses and pulling a wagon brimming with hay.
“Beneath the window!” She pointed to where she wanted it, and he halted the wagon just below.
“What now, my lady?” Duncan asked.
“I don’t know.” She looked up. “Brock! If you can hear me, jump. It’s your only chance!”
A shape flew through the pouring smoke and came crashing down into
the hay. Joanna and Duncan rushed to the edge of the wagon and peered down at the hay. Brock lay on his back, eyes closed, a stunned badger curled up in his arms. For a second Joanna couldn’t speak, couldn’t even think. Shock electrified every cell in her body as pure joy collided with pure terror. Were her eyes betraying her? Did she actually see her husband alive and well, or was she dreaming?
“Brock?” The name had barely passed her lips when the skies opened up and a torrential rain began to fall.
Brock jolted up in the wagon and cursed. The badger scrambled free, burrowing deep into the hay.
Duncan climbed up on the wagon and grabbed the reins of the horses. “We should get to the stables.”
Joanna leapt onto the open end of the wagon and held on as Duncan drove them to safety, staring at her husband, speechless. He stared back at her, just as wordless. Unable to wait any longer, she crawled toward him across the hay, and with a shaking hand she touched his ash-covered cheek, making sure he was real. The moment her fingertips touched his skin, he opened his arms she threw herself against him. He caught her as they fell back into the hay.
“Ah!” He winced. “Don’t forget my back, woman.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, unable to let go of him. She ignored the prick and crinkle of the hay against her skin as it poked her through her thin chemise. Nothing in the world mattered except her husband lying beside her, safe. Alive.
“Never apologize for that. I would take every pain in the world to hold you in my arms.” His voice was low and raspy. His gray-blue eyes seemed all the more intense now that they were red-rimmed from the heat and smoke. He coughed violently. Ashes feathered the top of his head, and a layer of soot coated his skin. And yet he looked like the most handsome man in the entire world.
Joanna thought of all the things she had never said before she climbed out the window. But she had told him the one thing that mattered.
“I love you,” she said again, holding her breath, hoping she’d finally hear him say it in return.
He held her gaze as the wagon entered the barn, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, Mr. Tate, the groom, the driver, and the maid were all gathered around them. Brock’s servants were safe.