“M’lady, ye must not!” Alarm rang in Besseta’s tone. She moved to block her way. “Himself would not wish it.”
“Himself is not here, and I am just as worried about him as he is about me. I can almost guarantee you he’s in the thick of it, even though he promised me he wouldn’t be.” She wanted someone to help protect Father Rubric but didn’t want it to be Grant. Yes, she was selfish and not too proud to admit it. She searched the crowd for Nanny Greer, spotting the young woman chatting with one of the maids.
As if sensing her mistress’s needs, the woman looked her way, then hurried over. “Forgive me, m’lady.” She deftly scooped the baby out of Lyla’s arms. “I made a pallet for the wee ones behind the altar. I’ll sit with them while they nap to be sure none of the other children disturb them.” She motioned for Besseta to follow with the other infant.
“Uncanny.” Abby shifted her child to the other hip.
“I know,” Lyla said. “It’s like she reads our minds.” She leaned close and tickled her niece under the chin. “I am sure once she gets Hope and Joy settled, she’ll be back for sweet Violet.”
“Do not go inside the keep.” Abby gave her a warning scowl, ignoring the idle chit chat Lyla had hoped would distract her. “I know how you are.”
“I only want to go outside where I can see. It’s still daylight, so everything should be fine.”
Abby glared at her. “You have children to think of now. Remember that before you do anything rash.”
Lyla squeezed her sister’s arm. “I will be sensible. Cross my heart.”
Abby’s glare softened. “I need you, too,” she whispered.
Hurrying out before they both got weepy, Lyla avoided eye contact with everyone she passed as she moved through the church. They all needed to stay put and leave her be. As soon as she stepped outside, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. The hairs on her arms did the same. In fact, her entire body tingled. Her sixth sense, the intuitiveness that was her rudder through life, tensed her tighter than a rubber band stretched to its limit—and she hadn’t seen one of those since she left the future. “This is not good.”
Ominous dark clouds blotted out the sun and boiled low over the keep. The wind picked up, making her shield her eyes from the stinging debris swirling in the air. Whatever was happening inside, the wraith didn’t like it.
In front of her, Grant’s personal guard stood with their arms linked to create an impenetrable wall of muscle across the front of the chapel. All the other Reddoch warriors, farmers, and craftsmen, took their stance between the guards and the keep.
An angry roaring, deep like thunder but twice as loud, shook the ground. Lyla caught hold of the corner of the church to keep from tumbling down the steps. Fear paralyzed her, making it impossible to scream. With her shoulder braced against the wall, she covered her ears. The booming growl increased to a painful pitch. She slid down to her knees and squinted up at the second-floor windows, praying Grant and the priest were safe. The wind howled at a higher pitch, keening a woeful warning.
Lightning split the sky, struck the bell tower next to the church, and set its wooden roof ablaze. Every window in the keep exploded, blowing shattered glass across the men below. Lightning fractured the darkness again and blasted blinding white energy across the main roof of the keep.
“Water for the fires!” the shout rippled through the men. “The keep first, then the tower!”
Barely controlled chaos filled the courtyard as everyone scattered to save the Reddoch ancestral home. Lyla lowered her hands. Something wet and warm trickled down both sides of her neck. She swiped at it, then stared in shock at the blood on her fingers. Either the rumbling had ruptured her eardrums or glass had hit her. Since she could still hear quite plainly, she assumed it was the latter. She pushed to her feet, staggered down the steps, and wove her way through the men. Grant. She had to find him. Heart pounding into her throat, she feared what might have happened to make the storm subside.
She ran inside the keep, searching the faces of the men rushing through the great hall with buckets of water and long, dripping wet rags to slap out the fire. They charged up the stairs, and she followed, determined to find Grant. No one attempted to stop her. The fires took priority. The higher she climbed, the thicker the smoke. She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and tied it over her nose and mouth.
By the time she reached the second-floor landing, tears streamed down her cheeks. Her eyes burned, making her blink fast for relief. The back of her neck tingled as if on fire. Here. Grant was on the second floor. She shouldered open the door, then dropped to her knees and squinted through the murkiness filling the hallway. A pained moan reached her and the murmur of deep voices. She yanked her skirts up to her thighs and crawled toward the sound, dreading what she would find.
She made out movement up ahead. Barely. She wished she had brought a chamberstick, a torch, or a lantern. Any source of light. “Grant? Father Rubric?”
“Lyla!” Grant was not pleased. His tone echoed with it. “What the devil are ye doing in here?” On hands and knees, he hovered over someone, but she couldn’t make out who. “It is not safe here,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion.
She crawled closer, then nearly choked on a shocked gasp. Father Rubric, red and blistered as though roasted on a spit, lay entirely too still. Wisps of smoke rose from his robes that remained strangely intact. The wooden cross he always wore around his neck had burned away, leaving behind a blackened outline on the chest of his modest brown garb.
Malcolm, blood streaming down his face, crouched on the other side of the holy man.
“Is he gone?” she whispered.
“Aye.” Grant hugged her close for a moment, then turned her back in the direction from which she just came. “Go. Malcolm and I will follow with Father Rubric. We canna stay here. Who knows when it will return?”
Although she ached to know what had happened, she didn’t argue. Grant was right. They needed to get Father Rubric out during what might be a very brief calm. With her fingers trailing along the wall and bent low to keep her head out of the worst of the smoke, she hurried back to the staircase. Then she waited for Grant and Malcolm.
They reached her soon after, carrying the priest between them. They had used a furniture dust cover as a temporary shroud, gripping the ends of the length of linen wrapped around his body. Lyla felt certain the holy man would appreciate how they had concealed his gruesome end from anyone else.
She fought back a gag as she held the door for them. The stench of burned flesh filled the air. She tried snorting to clear her nostrils of the odor, but it did no good. The memory of that smell would remain with her forever.
As they reached the open double doors leading outside, Grant turned to her. “Warn those in the church. Have them clear the center aisle so we can carry him to his private quarters.”
With a nod, she caught up her skirts and ran ahead. As soon as she burst into the kirk, silence filled the sanctuary. All eyes turned to her. “Clear the aisle. Father Rubric is dead.”
