Page 51 of The Scot Beds His Wife
She wanted to scream, but knew it would bring whoever else lurked in the darkness.
A small pop permeated her shock at the pain, and she looked up to see flames licking at the roof. So, they’d not laid enough oil and gunpowder to make an explosion, but enough to devour the entire dwelling in a matter of minutes.
She had to get up. She had… to… keep… moving.
Gritting her teeth and pressing her tongue to the roof of her mouth to keep from making a noise, Samantha willed herself to stand. Dragging her lame leg behind her, she used the side of the house to support her weight as she made terrifyingly slow progress. How was it possible some shards of wood splinters from her house skewered through Thorne’s thick cloak?
A shadow stepped from around the corner. A man. Tall, wide, and only as far from her as the barrel of his shotgun would allow.
“Hands up, or I’ll—”
Samantha slapped the barrel away in time for the blast to deafen her, and shot him at such close range, his cowboy hat flew off his head, catching in the wind created by the gathering inferno that was her home.
Another fire crawled up the only building tall enough to rival that of the modest Erradale Manor.
The stables.
Smoke hung thick enough in the cold air that she had to squint against the burn in her eyes as she hobbled toward the burning structure.
The stable doors flew open, and Locryn emerged with their three horses and the gelding Callum stabled there against the cold.
Samantha tried to call out to him, but smoke invaded her throat, closing it with spasming coughs. Finding a wellspring of will she hadn’t known she possessed, she reached Locryn right as he managed to help a sagging Calybrid onto the dappled pony’s bare back.
Two of the horses broke away, racing for the Gresham Peak, their panicked equine screams an eerie cry against the night.
Callum’s mount danced beside that of Locryn’s in obvious eagerness to put as much distance between it and the flames as possible, but it stayed, as though obeying the Mac Tíre even in his absence.
“Can ye ride, lass?”
Samantha nodded. Though the Erradale horses remained bridled, Callum wasn’t in the habit of bridling or saddling his steed, so Samantha had to use the gelding’s mane to haul herself onto his back.
The last of her reserves depleted, she leaned low and held on for dear life, unable to use her leg to maintain a stable mount.
Locryn swung up behind Calybrid, and spurred his horse up Gresham Peak toward Inverthorne.
Samantha allowed her mount to follow, knowing for sure now that Lord Thorne, scheming as he was, could have had nothing to do with the devastation she left behind.
She knew this, because Highlanders didn’t wear cowboy hats.
CHAPTERELEVEN
I see who you are. Alison Ross’s words echoed at Gavin with all the weight irony could wield.
Was that nothisline? Was he not the cunning huntsman with the capricious veneer that no one had yet to permeate?
No one but a lass who’d spent less time in his company than almost anyone else, and somehow coaxed him to reveal more about himself than he’d ever intended.
The four stone walls of his chamber at Inverthorne had become a cage and he the lion pacing within. The tapestries padded his beloved prison and his bed was a snarled, empty study in discouraged restlessness.
Alison had gone to Ravencroft, to Liam, and made a case to his bleeding-heart marchioness, Mena. God love the dear woman, but she had a weakness for lost causes.
Look who she’d married.
And his love-addled brother followed the buxom British wench about like a daft spaniel.Yes, Mena, mine. I like to kiss yer lips the most when they’re smiling.
It was enough to induce vomiting.
If Mena and Liam were in accord, then Lady Ravencroft would certainly contact her friend, coconspirator, and sister-in-law Farah Blackwell. Farah would ensure that Dorian Blackwell, Gavin’s bastard half brother and the Blackheart of Ben More, would align with them.
