Page 130 of All Scot and Bothered
Ramsay whipped his shirt, now smoldering with flames, and caught the man around the wrist. He leapt closer, disarmed the fellow, caught the cleaver, and with a mighty swing of his arm sank the blade into the man’s neck from behind.
Cecelia would never again have to wonder why they called the blade a cleaver. Had she been in the vicinity, blood would have drenched her.
She knelt next to where Winston’s knife had been abandoned when he’d gone up in flames.
The man in question collapsed against the far wall, having given up the ghost.
She lowered herself, doing her best to grab the knife from the ground with bloodless fingers.
Right then, Cecelia was snatched up from behind, her hands freed, and her body clutched to a familiar wall of muscle that drove her relentlessly forward.
The now almost headless man had been tossed over the flames in the doorway, creating a temporary bridge.
“Jump!” Ramsay boomed from behind her.
She jumped, allowing herself to be swept up and over the corpse and the fire, only to be unceremoniously dumped into the dusty hallway.
Ramsay fell upon her legs the moment they were on the other side, smothering what few of her skirts had ignited. That done, he lunged up her body, his features now a mask of both fury and yearning, and he crushed his mouth to hers for a brief, life-altering kiss.
Tearing himself away he ordered, “Run, dammit. I’ll free the girls.”
He leapt off her and slammed the door to the classroom shut. It was too late to be much of a help; the flames had crawled into the hallway.
“Ramsay, here!” Cecelia turned to see that Chandler had grappled Genny to the ground. He tossed the ring of keys he’d ripped from the woman’s belt over Cecelia’s head.
Ramsay caught them and ran for the furthest door.
Cecelia struggled to her feet, lurching after him. She met him just as he was dragging the lock open.
The look he gave her was full of fury. “I told ye to run,” he snarled. “Get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving you to do this alone!”
“I love ye, ye daft woman, and I canna do this if ye’re in danger!”
“If you love me, you know I will not leave these children down here, so hurry up, you stubborn Scot. We don’t have time for you to realize I’m right.”
His glare should have doused the flames with all its icy wrath, but he dragged open the door, seized the child behind it, and shoved her toward Cecelia before moving on.
Cecelia’s arms were full of clutching hands, braided hair, and tearful sobs. Her heart breaking, she pointed toward the stairs, instructing the girl to stay low beneath the billows of smoke gathering in the air.
They freed seven girls in all, the last two rooms proving empty.
As Cecelia opened every closet and searched all nooks and crannies, she was vaguely aware of someone bellowing her name. She ignored it until she was lifted like a flour sack and hauled toward the stairs. “We have to go,”Ramsay coughed out. “The fire is reaching the next story.”
Cecelia’s throat and eyes burned, her lungs threatened to seize, but she couldn’t leave. “Phoebe!” she sobbed, kicking her legs out. “We haven’t found Phoebe!”
Ramsay subdued her with his strong hold, speaking into her ear. “I pulled Phoebe from the loft in Scotland. She’s safe at my brother’s with Jean-Yves.”
Cecelia could have collapsed in relief. Genny had lied to her. Thank God. As it was, she allowed Ramsay to pull her up the stairs and propel her through the smoke-clogged foyer for the second time in as many weeks.
This time, though, Cecelia cared little that the palatial estate might burn to the ground.
Because everyone was alive. Safe.
And Ramsay had said he loved her.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
