Page 36 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

36

ZERO HOUR

* * *

F landers’ hands were wet with blood. As planned, he’d been left in shadows and no one took notice. But the slick stuff just wasn’t enough to get his large wrists out!

He hissed at Robert, who sat nearest him. “James,” he said. “I need James.”

Metal bit into his skin but he hardly felt it. It was full dark. He was out of time. He was supposed to run to Brigid just after the fire was lit and leap into the flames. Wickham would come for them at that moment and the onlookers would believe they had died together. James and Robert would insist on burying the remains themselves. All vengeance would be satisfied.

Well, not all.

Stephan would be allowed to live, at least until he angered the wrong person. It was the only solace Flanders would have. But at least he’d have Brigid.

His heart faltered when Moray stood, moved to the front of the platform, and lifted his hands. Without him to block the light of a single torch, James was visible to the enemy. He couldn’t move until Moray resumed his seat!

The Regent’s voice carried easily on the moist night air and the mob fell silent. “Brigid Muir, ye have been found guilty of witchcraft, a crime against God and The Crown. The sentence is death by fire. Have ye any last words?"

For a moment, Flanders worried she would say nothing. But he needed time. He would peel the bloody flesh from his hands if he had to.

Buy me time, lass!

That beautiful chin lifted. “A true witch,” she shouted, “would curse those who brought her to the stake. She would curse them that the evil of their own hearts would be reflected back at them each time they look upon still water. She would curse them to never find peace in their sleep, and to regret the evil they visited upon her. So ye, Hector Stephan and David Strathbogie, ye must hope that I am not that witch. Ye should hope with all yer hearts that ye are murderin’ an innocent today.”

Half the onlookers laughed. Some crossed themselves. Moray inclined his head to her with a smile, and gestured to Flanders. “Anythin’ ye wish to say to this man, say it now.” Then he resumed his seat.

Now James was able to move, but he froze. Half the crowd strained to see Flanders, to witness his reaction to whatever his woman might have to tell him. Some of the guards, who had been bribed to look away, had forgotten their duty, and watched as well.

Brigid’s voice was loud but tender. “Greet for me, my love. Greet for me, and then have done. If I am to die here, tonight, I would not take ye with me . For one of us must live to tell the tale of how a very good man healed a healer.”

He’d failed her. She could see he wouldn’t get to her in time, and she had given up! Wickham would come, and he would lose her.

“Brigid!” His roar was the only way to tell her how he felt.

All around them, women began to greet. A wail here and there. A sniffle. They’d won the crowd, but the crowd couldn’t help them.

Moray signaled to the torchbearer, and finally, the light moved away from the platform. James was behind him instantly and began working at the chains. He knew they were out of time. With some tool, he freed the links from one side of the chair and moved to the other. Flanders could carry a hundred chains if he had to, if James could just detach them!

The torchbearer now stood beside the pyre, watching Moray. The latter paused only a moment, then nodded.

With the light on her, Flanders could see Brigid’s chest rise and fall with quick, short, panicked breaths as her attention followed the fall of the burning torch.

“Brigid!” he shouted again, to pull her attention from the fire. It was a mistake. It brought the attention of too many. But he no longer cared.

Flanders, I love you.

James strained beside him, but the chains wouldn’t give.

* * *

Brigid braced herself. Something must have prevented Wickham from coming or surely, he would have been there, within sight, to give her hope. But what little hope remained now caught fire along with the dry wattle and grasses that reached up with thin fingers to catch the light.

Death had come for her after all, crawling toward her like a hungry animal.

Flames leapt from log to log searching for pitch, on a straight course toward her feet. A wave of heat washed over her and hinted at the pain to come. Smoke brushed her face like a lover, swirled around her, and blew into her face.

She was determined not to scream, determined not to open her mouth, but a powerful cough took away that choice.

This was it. The end. If she closed her eyes, that darkness from her vision would take her. But she wasn’t ready!

Flanders!

He'll come. He must .

The flames crawled closer and licked the edge of the little platform, then began to chew. Heat and smoke became a blanket wrapping themselves around her. She choked again. Her vision blurred, but she saw Flanders’ form finally break free from the chair. James blocked a guard from stopping him.

It was too late. The fire surrounded her. The smoke was too much. She had to breathe something.

“No!” Flanders’ anguished voice seemed so far away…

A sound came from the edge of the fire and the torchbearer retreated. A hissing, like water on coals.

Something tugged the ropes away from her wrists.

Easy, lass. It’s over. I’m here.

But Flanders!

No time.

Wickham cursed aloud.

A low but forceful boom sounded, then ceased, as if it had never started, and she doubted her hearing. Blackness swallowed her, whisked her away from the hot wind that had pushed at her skin, then changed its mind. The rough wood of the pole was gone, the platform gone from beneath her feet. Her only anchor was Wickham’s grip on her arms.

She was flying. A mast on the bow of a ship cutting fast through a dark water she couldn’t see.

Was this death?

The platform suddenly returned and Wickham’s hands abandoned her. He cursed again and she opened her eyes just as he rushed back at her, a pale blanket in his hands with which he knocked her to the ground and started beating painfully on her legs.

A woman screamed her name.

Bella!