He twisted in the saddle just in time to see it: flame erupting at the walls of Achnacarry.
“Fire!” Gordon’s voice carried from behind.
Aidan’s stomach dropped. Edwin had been ready. A line of fire ran across the outer yard, bright and hungry, fed by the oil the bastards must have poured as they left. The flames surged high, licking the lower timbers of the gatehouse, and for a moment the path ahead vanished in a wall of orange light.
“Gordon, ride back tae the castle tae help. Bruce! After them!” Aidan shouted, pointing toward the tree line. “MacLeod’s men’ll nae get far!”
Aidan urged his horse faster, the gap closing with each breath.
The twang of bowstrings followed. Arrows hissed through the air. One found its mark, striking a man near Edwin clean through the shoulder. The man toppled from his saddle, crashing into the mud.
“Press them!” Aidan roared.
The chase spilled over the ridge, the ground slick and uneven from the storm. Aidan’s horse pounded over it like thunder. He could see Edwin clearly now, his cloak dark against the gray morning, his head turning, measuring.
Coward. They were close enough now that Aidan could hear him shouting to his men, could see the panic edging the arrogance from his posture. Edwin’s line was breaking. Two more fell behind, one hit by another arrow, another thrown from his mount.
Then—through the smoke—screaming from the village.
Aidan’s blood ran cold. “There is nay more time! Tae the village!” he shouted. “Now!”
Bruce rode up beside him, face pale. “What about the MacLeods?”
“Ye deal wi’ them!” Aidan snapped. “I need tae save the MacDonald girls!”
The words came from somewhere deeper than thought.
Edwin heard it too. Even from a distance, Aidan saw the bastard’s head whip around, his face draining of color. For one heartbeat their gazes locked across the open ground. Then Edwin tore his horse around, shouting to his men. He meant to turn back.
Aidan’s eyes narrowed. “Archers—stop him!”
The bowstrings sang again. One arrow struck the dirt near Edwin’s horse; another grazed his arm. He cursed, jerking the reins, and turned away, spurring his mount toward thefar woods. His men followed, disappearing into the trees like shadows.
Aidan didn’t spare them another thought. He turned his horse toward the rising smoke and drove forward, his men at his back.
By the time they reached the outskirts of the village, the scene before them was chaos.
The cottages were burning. Flames licked at the thatched roofs, the air filled with the screams of terrified villagers. Smoke poured from every opening, thick and blinding. Aidan could barely make out figures running through it—women dragging buckets from the well, men shouting orders that vanished in the roar.
He swung off his horse before it had fully stopped and addressed his men. “Ye—take the south side! The others—form a line at the stream! Keep the fire from spreadin’ tae the rest o’ the houses!”
The men scattered, obeying without question.
Aidan drew his sword and ran.
Heat blistered his skin as he passed the first cottage. The thatch collapsed with a crack, sending sparks raining down. Somewhere to his left, a child was crying. He turned toward the sound, helping a villager haul a beam aside so the mother could pull her bairn free.
“Where are the MacDonald girls?” he demanded.
The woman shook her head, coughing. “I—I saw them at the square! Near the well!”
He ran again, every breath a knife of smoke in his throat. His eyes burned. The square came into view; half the well’s wooden frame had collapsed, the rope smoldering. Men and women were everywhere, trying to douse what they could.
Then he saw Sofia.
She was stumbling out of the smoke, her face streaked with soot, her braid half undone. “Aidan!” she cried when she saw him. “Aidan, thank God!”
He reached her in two strides, gripping her shoulders. “Where’s Catherine?”
