Niall clenched his fists at his sides, the sound of the crackling flames echoing in his ears. His gaze roved over the scene, taking in the men desperately trying to douse the fire with buckets of water.
Knox looked at Niall, his face pale and gaunt. “There’s no way this was an accident.”
Niall’s blood ran cold at the implication. He stared at Knox, knowing what thought reverberated in his foreman’s mind. Sabotage.
“Who would do this?” Knox continued, his fists clenching at his sides as he watched the flames consume their hard work and dreams.
But Niall knew.
Fury erupted in his gut, not hot and boiling, but as cold as a winter’s gale and sharp enough to cut through glass. Without a word, he turned on his heel and stalked away. He heard Knox calling after him, but did not respond. Halfway back to the manor, he met Charlotte, Flora and Joseph hurrying towards the mill wearing horror-filled expressions.
“Where are you going?” Charlotte asked as he strode past. “Niall!”
“To sort this,” he growled, not breaking stride.
He reached the stables, vaulted bareback onto the nearest horse, and guiding the beast with his knees, sent her clattering across the courtyard, and out onto the road that led from the estate.
His thoughts had become sharp-edged and crystalline. His destination was clear, as was his intent. The cold fury spurred him on, and the horse seemed to understand his urgency, her hooves pounding the ground in a steady rhythm. The wind whipped past his face, carrying with it the smell of smoke and devastation.
He’d been galloping for perhaps fifteen minutes when an estate loomed into view in the distance, the stone walls gleaming in the morning sunlight. It was bigger, grander than Niall’s own and the sight of it made his rage shine bright white like the sun off snow.
Guards rushed to close the gates as they spotted him approaching, but they were too slow. Niall barely slowed, knocking them aside and charging straight for the ornate front door. He dismounted in one swift motion and stormed up the steps, ignoring the shouts and protests from the guards scrambling to intercept him.
He booted the doors open and strode into an echoing vestibule beyond. A silver-haired old man carrying a tray gasped in surprise and the tray went clattering to the polished stone floor.
“Where is he?” Niall demanded, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room.
The man stuttered, taken aback by Niall’s fury. “I...I...” He waved a hand at a door opposite.
Niall spun towards it and kicked it open, stepping into a large hall. At the far end of the hall, behind a massive oak table laden with remnants of breakfast, sat Boyd MacAllister.
MacAllister rose to his feet, an expression of surprise on his face. His gaze lingered on Niall’s disheveled appearance and then shifted to the open doors behind him.
“Well now,” MacAllister said. “What brings the esteemed Niall Campbell to my humble abode this early in the day?”
“Ye!” Niall hissed, fists clenched at his side. “Ye did this!”
MacAllister’s brows rose in surprise. “I did what?”
“My mill!” Niall roared, his voice bouncing off the stone walls of the hall. “It’s in flames! And I know it is ye who is behind it!”
MacAllister’s eyes flashed with anger. “Ye burst into my house at an ungodly hour and accuse me of such things? How dare ye? Where is yer proof?”
“I dinna need proof. I know it was ye.” He crossed the room in swift strides, his eyes never leaving MacAllister’s face.
“Guards,” MacAllister commanded, raising a hand to halt Niall’s advance.
Instantly, four burly men appeared from the shadows, their faces stern and battle-hardened. Their broad bodies formed a wall between Niall and their master.
Niall stopped but held his ground, his chest heaving with rage. “Why?” he demanded again, looking straight into MacAllister’s eyes.
MacAllister raised an eyebrow, reclining back into his chair. He took a moment to sip from his goblet, his eyes never leaving Niall’s. “Why would I burn down yer pathetic windmill?”
“Because it’s the only way ye could best me,” Niall growled, his fists clenching in frustration. “Ye knew I was surpassing ye in profit, in respect. Ye couldnae bear to see a man rise above ye.”
MacAllister barked a laugh. “Ye overestimate yerself. Ye think ye could ever be a threat to me? A womanizing dandy who thinks more of Edinburgh parties than he does of his family’s honor?”
“Honor?” Niall spat. “Ye dare to speak to me of honor?
