Page 47 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“I hope so. Oh, I hope so. Stirling’s in the stable. Ranulf’s owned him for years and years. If he burns…”
Both young ladies were now in tears, and even her mother looked close to it. Frowning, Charlotte went forward and pulled them away from the window. “When they come back in they’ll likely be wet and cold and covered in soot. Let’s find some blankets and some cloths and bowls of clean water, shall we? Bring what you find to the drawing room.”
“Yes,” Lady Hest put in, sending her a grateful look. “Come along, girls. We must do our part.”
They left the room in the direction of the kitchen, Una on their heels. When Charlotte looked down, Fergus stood directly beside her, his hackles raised and his muzzle wrinkled as the scent of smoke drifted into the small dining room.
She didn’t want to gather blankets. She wanted to go outside and do something to help. Gathering her skirts, Charlotte ran for the front door. It stood open, smoke curling into the foyer as the breeze carried it eastward. Once she stopped outside she closed it behind her; otherwise even after they extinguished the fire Ranulf would have to replace all his curtains.
It seemed an odd thing to worry over, given the circumstances, but as she rounded the corner of the house she stopped dead, all thoughts of curtains fleeing. Fire lapped orange and angry out of the hayloft window, and the entire back of the building was nothing but smoke and flames. And she knew immediately that no tipped-over lantern had sparked this blaze.
She shivered, then ran forward again at the sound of Ranulf’s shout. Men and horses darted in front of the flames. And as she drew closer she made out the ragged line of men hauling buckets from the well behind the house.
A very worried-looking young man cranked the handle at the well to bring the bucket up and down while others used the water to fill still more buckets and hand them down the line. Charlotte took a breath, coughing. She might not be able to haul a quantity of heavy buckets about, but she could certainly help turn a crank.
“Let me help,” she said, moving to the opposite side of the rig and joining her hands with his.
“Thank you, miss,” he said feelingly, panting.
Working together, they dropped the bucket and pulled it up at nearly twice the speed it had been going before. Servants from the neighboring houses began to appear, and she instructed them to drop more ropes with buckets into the well to speed the flow of water to the fire.
Her arms began to feel like lead, but she clenched her jaw and kept turning the crank. However exhausted she was, the men hauling the full buckets of water must be even more so. She closed her mind off from the numbness and the sharp ache, and concentrated on nothing but making her arms move.
A hand closed over hers, and with a creak the crank stopped turning. “Well done, Ginger,” Ranulf’s low brogue came. “Well done, lass. The fire’s out.”
She couldn’t uncurl her fingers. After a moment he seemed to realize that, because with a surprisingly gentle touch he pulled her hands free. “Did we save Stirling?” she heard herself ask, even as her legs sagged. How long had she been standing there? It felt like both years and seconds all at the same time.
“Stirling’s well. All the horses are oot. The stable’s lost, but the fire didnae spread to the house, thank Saint Andrew and all the angels.”
She took a look at him, tall and formidable even with a missing coat and rolled-up shirtsleeves, singe marks and soot covering nearly every inch of him. And then before she could protest that she just needed a moment or two for feeling to return to her arms and legs, he swept her up into his arms and carried her back to the house.
“Oh, thank goodness, Charlotte!” she heard her mother say. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
“I was helping pull water from the well,” she said. Abruptly she realized that Ranulf still carried her, and she elbowed him in his hard chest. “I’m not an invalid,” she stated. “You may put me down now, if you please.”
His grip tightened momentarily, and then he set her down lengthwise on one of his lush couches. “I’ll fetch ye some whisky,” he said gruffly, and moved off.
Immediately Jane sank down on the floor beside her and reached for her hand. “Oh, you have blisters,” she said, and began rubbing Charlotte’s fingers.
“I feel like one large blister,” she returned, wincing as pins and needles began dancing up her arms.
“As ye should,” Ranulf said, squatting down beside Jane and holding a glass to Charlotte’s lips. “Ye stood there fer near three hours, to hear my valet tell it. He says ye organized the neighbors and their wells, too.”
Three hours?No wonder she felt so prickly. “I wanted to help.”
“And so ye did. Nearly worked poor Ginger’s arms off. He won’t be able to knot a cravat for a week. Drink.”
With the rest of her family looking on anxiously, she did as he bid her and choked down several swallows of strong whisky. Her muscles began to relax, and she closed her eyes. The last thing she remembered was Ranulf rubbing her fingers and calling her a bonny, brave lass. Well, that was nice to hear.
***
Ranulf carried the sleeping Charlotte out to her family’s coach and set her carefully down on the seat, moving back as the rest of the Hanovers and Rowena climbed in after her. This evening he sent both Peter and Debny back with them and Una; just because mischief had been done didn’t mean it was finished with.
As he stepped back from the coach, Rowena reached out the window and grabbed his wrist. “Charlotte said someone knocked over a lantern. Do you think that’s what happened?”
And even tired and worried, she still made an effort to stifle her brogue. It reminded him of Berling and his cohorts. “I dunnae, lass. We’ll take a look in the morning, when the light’s better.”
She nodded. “Be safe, Ran. And please don’t do anything mad.”
