Page 76 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

Slosh. Hiss.

The orange flames continued to rage, a hungry beast devouring every stem.

Shouts bellowed as women hurried the horses to safety, as royal soldiers descended and moved his clan’s belongings away from the flames onto the footpath.

Splash.

And then he saw him. Cheerful red tartan directing a legion of his own men as they, too, splashed bucket after bucket. His temper rose, and yet, something didn’t seem right. MacDonald seemed determined to help. Why set a fire, and then labor to douse it instead of making one’s escape? James nodded once to him as if sensing him staring, like he had during the corn cutting, and returned his attention to the flames. Flames that were a lost cause, for there was no salvaging anything more. It was gone.

He tossed down another empty bucket, stepped back, raked his hand into his braid, and glanced at James again. He had to know for certain, and landed his stride toward him, gripping his shoulder and whirling him around.

“Did ye do this?” he seethed, posturing in James’s face. “Did ye set this fire?” His gaze bounced between James’s piercing blue eyes.

“’Twas nay me.” The words cut through Tormund’s fury. James picked up another bucket. Thrust it into Tormund’s hand and jolted him back in retaliation for being so grabbed, as if to will him to return to the fight. “Enemies or no, a forest fire threatens us all.”

He nodded to MacDonald, sensing his men’s eyes on him, and they returned to the fight, this time side by side, soaking the trees around them instead to kill stray sparks. Could a demon trust the Devil? Every reflex told him no. But his gut told him…aye. They’d just spoken again without blades doing the talking, and right now, he felt that same tentative truce he’d sensed at the corn cutting taking fragile root.

He eyed his men again. Niall and the rest of his retinue, toiling, coughing. Reaper was still gone. Ghost and the few men his cousin had persuaded to remain with him for the ambush were still unaccounted for. He looked back at the fire. This was no coincidence. Someone who knew that burning his crops would sting had done it. And perhaps…had counted on him blaming MacDonald?

It was hours later, the sunset finally falling behind the distant peaks and shrouding the land in shadow, when the charred cart was nothing more than a blackened frame of wood. He stepped through the ravaged campsite and over a few trees that had partially burned. Slouched his hands upon his hips.

James stepped up beside him. “’Twas deliberate?”

Tormund grunted an affirmative.

“Who else do ye suspect?” James pressed.

He shook his head. Rummaged in his sporran until he withdrew the cut of ripped red wool. “This was found on the hay cart.”

James took it. Inspected it before shaking his head. “It isna’ mine, man. Who are yer other enemies?”

Tormund snorted. “Who is nay one? Whoever set this fire was striking where it would hurt. They knew that ye’d burned my crops before—”

“And were counting on ye blaming me again.” James folded his arms.

“So I’d retaliate.” Fok, but he hated feeling like a pawn on someone else’s chessboard. “Ye ken…” His jaw tightened as memories struck. “Brighde mentioned a red thread on her tent stake the other morning. It made sense that it was one of yers from the menfolk setting camp, but now that I think about it…”

She wasn’t safe.

He took back the cut of red, noticing how MacDonald’s jaw clenched at the thought of a lurker outside his sister’s tent. The cut, now that he looked at the frayed edge, didn’t seem to have been ripped on the wood, but rather…torn with a knife.

“This looks to be planted here.”

“Aye, so I’d take the blame,” MacDonald remarked.

“Tormund.”

That angelic voice. He whirled around in the twilight to the vision of her lavender gown soot-stained and tied up between her calves to hold it out of the way. Her stylish coif frayed even worse than before, she carried an empty bucket in her hand. Her brow was knitted in worry. Had she helped all this time?

“I told ye to stay at yer camp.”

She shook her head and ran to him instead. He opened his arms on a reflex as she tossed herself into his hold. He scooped her off her feet, the weight of the fire easing as if just touching her made everything right. And yet it wasn’t, and he knew it. The danger would only get worse. With so many enemies, he’d never be able to protect her all the time, and he’d been a fool to toy with the idea that he could.

Her arms came around him, squeezing him, uncaring of the soot further staining her gown. His fingers snagged her golden tresses, seeking comfort, when she turned her face up to him and planted her lips upon his in front of everyone, as if staking a claim…on him.

That doubt turned to a churning in his gut. He yanked her away and set her back down, raking his hand through his destroyed braid that had fallen loose. Her eyes drew tighter together, confused at his sudden rejection, and her fingers migrated up to her lips to cover them.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. He shook his head, regretting making her feel rejected.