Page 35 of The Highlander’s Dangerous Desire

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

One moment, Grace was sitting by the fireside with Ewan, reading in comfortable silence. It was something she hadn’t had a chance to do during their travels, and had been too tired to consider the night before.

The next, Ewan stiffened, going from drowsing to alert faster than she would have believed possible. A second later, she heard screams, and words that made her whole body flinch in apprehension.

Under attack? But who…?

Ewan caught his sword in one hand and her arm in another. “Stay here, where ‘tis safe.”

“Surely there is something I can do…” She didn’t want to sit uselessly in a safe place while everyone else was occupied. She might be, so far as Ewan’s clan was concerned, a soft English lady, but she was no coward, and she would not hide if there was anything she could do to help.

“Stay safe.” A flicker of light caught Ewan’s attention at the window. He glanced outside, and swore sharply, words she didn’t know but suspected she understood the general meaning of nonetheless. “Bollock licking bastards are tryin’ tae burn the keep down!”

Then he was gone, hastening from the room to aid his people. Grace stood a moment, frozen in indecision, then went to the window herself. The thatch over the stable was alight, and there were lit brands scattered about the courtyard, guttering and throwing sparks. From where she stood, she could see warriors rushing to the walls to force back the attackers, and servants rushing to put out the fires.

She could do little or nothing for the warriors, but she could assist the healer with her meager skills, and she could help put out the fires. Grace tightened the belt on her robe, checked that her hair was still bound in its nightly braid, then hurried from the room.

She reached the corridor to the main doors to find it filled with smoke. A burning arrow had hit the doors to the outside, and another had broken the narrow window in the Great Hall, and struck a table. Both were burning, apparently fueled by animal fat or some sort of oil, smeared over the tip and shaft of the arrows.

Grace caught a servant. “Have you sand, or soot?”

“Aye.”

“Bury the fires with it, and…” Grace broke off, coughing as smoke tickled her throat. “And… water-soaked fabric…”

“Aye m’lady.” The servant hurried away.

The arrow in the door was a problem. If it burned much longer, the keep might be defenseless. Then one of the boys, greatly daring, snatched at it, his hands wrapped in a cloth, and dragged it free of the wood. The servants smothered the fire, and the youth was bundled away, his hands likely scorched and blistered from his brave action.

Three women - Grace thought they might be scullery maids from the look of them, raced from the kitchens with buckets. One tossed a pile of ash onto the nearest burning surface. The second tossed a pail of water over top of that. The fire sputtered and died under the twin assault.

Then the first of the wounded men came through the door.

What came after that was a sort of barely controlled chaos the likes of which Grace had never been privy to, not even in her childhood, when her home had been attacked. The smoke was thick and choking in the air, along with the stench of blood and iron and burning. Smells that were tolerable in other circumstances became overwhelming and sickening.

Burnt flesh. Burnt wood. Offal.

And the sounds. She tried not to hear them, but it was impossible to avoid the cacophony of metal on metal and shouting. Men roaring in battle fury. Others screaming in pain, or the high, piercing cries of the dying. The desperation of the horses as stable hands and servants sought to put out the fires there. They shouted commands or requests in such rapid fire, their speech quickly dissolving into their native tongue until it sounded like nothing Grace could possibly understand.

The night was dyed orange and red and black with blood and smoke and fire. Her eyes stung and her throat burned. Her hands ached from tasks she could not even remember doing, and her body felt leaden with shock and terror.

Everything became a blur. Then, all at once, it was too much. Grace stumbled to one side and vomited on the stones, her body heaving as her stomach rejected the horror of the situation as well as the food she’d eaten some hours before. Someone stuck a basin between her and the ground.

When it was over, hands took her to the side and pressed a glass of something that burned her throat into her grasp, then another of cool, sweet water. “Best ye get somewhere quiet, m’lady.”

Grace blinked aching, burning eyes upward. “Anne…” Her own voice startled her, raw and wrecked as if she’d been screaming for hours.

“Warriors will drive off the intruders, and fires be under control, m’lady. M’laird willnae like tae see ye in such a state, an’ ye look fair done in.” The maid’s voice was gentle.

“But… there is much to be done… the healer… and… what of…” She couldn’t think, couldn’t form the words properly.

“We’ll be managing, m’lady.” Anne shook her head. “’Tis best ye step aside, if ye’re wearied or light-headed. Better tae let another dae the tasks than become another we’ll need tae be carin’ fer.”

That made sense. Grace swallowed. “But I…”

“Tak’ some rest, an’ some water or ale. Come back when ye’re steady on yer feet, if ye like.” Anne helped her to a small room off to one side. “Ye’re nae the first tae need it. An’ there’s nae shame in it, especially if ye’re nae accustomed tae battle.”

“Are you?” It seemed the only thing she could think of to say.