He stood and looked at her once more. Her face, in the candlelight, was nothing short of angelic. Her mouth, that he yearned to kiss, was there, begging him to do what he wished.
He thought about the girl Lady Branwen had described, who outran boys in the glens, and about how Isobel had slowed her stride in the garden so Euan could win. He also considered his grandmother’s expression across the table tonight and knew, in his heart, that it did not matter what Malcolm or any of his more contrary clansmen said. Isobel belonged here…in this castle…with him. She was a part of Clan MacRaeh and he would protect her, shelter her, and show her exactly how much she meant to him later.
* * *
He smelled it before he reached the library.
Warm and sharp, the distinct bite of burning wood mixed with something acrid filled the air. The scent did not belong in the castle at this hour, and he stopped walking, standing still for a moment to identify it, then moved before the second was up.
He found Hamish in the east corridor, already turning at the sound of him.
“Fire,” Alasdair said, and his friend was already running.
“The library,” Hamish grunted as he led the way down the hall. “I just passed one of the maids. She said she saw smoke under the door.”
Alasdair lowered his head and slammed his shoulder into the library door. A wave of scorching heat seeped through the wood before he touched the handle. He tore his tartan from his opposite shoulder, ignoring the ripping sound the fabric made as the brooch put up some resistance, wrapped the material around his hand and jiggled the doorknob. The door gave way then and Alasdair used his elbow to push through. Smoke billowed out at him in a thick, gray wave. He pulled his collar over his mouth and went inside.
The shelves along the far wall were on fire. The flames had quickly taken hold of the old wood, licking up the spines of books and curling along the upper shelves, while the ceiling above was dark with smoke and beginning to glow orange with burning timber. Sparks were falling.
Isobel was on the floor.
No!
“Hamish!” he shouted. “Sound the alarm! Water! Men! Now!”
He got his arms under her—one at her back and the other beneath her knees—and lifted her. She was lighter than she had been the last time he’d carried her, or perhaps this time around, he was stronger than usual. He turned and headed for the door, sparks falling nearby as he weaved his way around the dancing flames. A beam overhead made a cracking sound indicating it was on the verge of giving way.
He was just through the door and into the corridor when she coughed.
It was a deep, rasp, the kind of cough someone would have after breathing in smoke. It lasted for a moment, then Isobel turned her face into his shirt and hacked violently again. Her hands came up, gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly and holding on while the smoke exited her body.
“Ye’re all right,” he whispered. His voice came out rough. “I have ye. Ye’re safe.”
Isobel pressed her cheek against his chest, and he could feel her breathing struggling, each gasp of air taking effort, causing her to put up a small fight.
“Alasdair.” His name in her voice like that, barely there, scraped thin.
“I have ye,” he said. “I won’t let go. Just breathe.”
He guided them into the fresh air of the outer corridor and knelt, holding her close with one arm around her, his hand supporting the back of her head. She was still coughing, but the sound was changing. The worst of the smoke was nearly gone.
“Look at me,” he said.
She lifted her face. Her eyes were watering from the smoke, and her throat was working, but she obeyed the command and methis gaze. The terror and anxiety that had gripped his mind just a few seconds ago continued to make his stomach clench. He searched her face, ran his hands over the back of her scalp, and inspected the singe marks on her gown. When he was satisfied that Isobel was uninjured, Alasdair allowed himself to take a deep swallow of fresh air.
Her hands drifted upwards and then one of her fingertips traced his lips.
“There ye are,” he said as he softly kissed her finger. “There.”
She dropped her hand away from his mouth, put her forehead against his shoulder, and breathed.
Behind him, he could hear Hamish, Fergus, and the other men working. Water splashed, shouts resounded, and flames hissed as they met resistance. A cacophonous crack of timber indicated that the library would need rebuilding. He catalogued it all but did not fret over the matter. He trusted the men to contain the blaze and as for the library…the books and furniture within meant little compared to the weight of Isobel in his arms and the sound of her breathing slowly evening out.
“What happened?” he whispered against her hair.
“The candle,” she said. “I was reading. It must have fallen off the shelf.” She stopped and coughed once more. “It all happened so fast.”
“Daenae talk.” He pulled back enough to look at her face again, his hand moving from the back of her head to her jaw, checking. “I’m sorry I asked. I shouldnae have demanded answers already. Daenae talk yet.”