Page 37 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

37

A TRUSTIN’ BUGGER

* * *

W hen Flanders was sure they would never come free, the chains finally fell away from the heavy chair. He didn't waste a moment but gathered the trailing links in his bloody hands and surged to his feet. The flames had fully engulfed the base of the pyre now, climbing hungrily toward Brigid. Even from this distance, he could see her choking on the thickening smoke, her body convulsing as she tried not to breathe.

"Move!" he roared, and the crowd parted.

With chains rattling, he ran, his eyes fixed on Brigid's face. The torchbearer recoiled from the fire he'd started. Nothing between Flanders and the pyre now. Nothing but fire between him and his love.

Twenty yards.

Fifteen.

Some fool stepped into his path and they collided. Flanders went down hard and landed on one knee. Pain shot through him from a chain pinned beneath it. Precious seconds were lost while he rocked to one side then scrambled to his feet again. He surged forward, found her again. With all eyes on him, he might have been the only one to see the dark shadow that loomed up behind her.

Wickham! It had to be!

But the fire!

It was too late. They shouldn't wait for him!

He stopped to make certain they didn’t.

Take her and go!

Thunder and wind suddenly threw him onto his back. His ears rang from a blast that had come from the pyre itself. As if unleashed by God, the flames surged skyward and whatever, or whomever, remained inside the conflagration was consumed.

The mob cried out in surprise and retreated, mumbling that someone had used too much pitch, leaving him to stare at the inferno alone.

Dear God, let it have been Wickham. Let her be all right.

He’d been left behind. The plan had failed for him. And now she was gone.

Heartbreak stoked rage, and together they boiled inside him much hotter than any fire. All promises meant nothing now. He was free to kill Stephan. Free to exact the vengeance he'd promised. He no longer cared what happened afterward.

He turned back toward the platform. A straight path to the enemy remained clear. The bastard’s face was alight with glee as he watched the flames consume what he believed was Flanders’ woman.

Flanders moved with deadly purpose. The chains that had foiled him were now a weapon in his hands.

"Leesborn!" Moray's warning cut through the chaos, but it only served to alert Stephan to the danger.

The Rat Laird's eyes widened as he saw Flanders approaching, outraged that he’d gotten free. Atholl, the coward, grabbed a sword from one of the guards and thrust it into Stephan's hands before scrambling away, knowing full well he'd be next.

"Leesborn!" Moray called again, but made no move to stop him.

No man moved to intercept him as he gained the platform in one fluid step. The Regent simply watched—for entertainment? Or did he wait to see if Flanders would master himself?

Stephan glanced at Moray and realized no help was coming from that quarter. He raised the sword, his face contorted with fear and hatred. "Stay back!"

Flanders didn't slow. He had no weapon but the chains and his bare hands. They were enough.

Stephan swung wildly, causing Flanders to pause. The man had some skill—he wouldn't have survived this long without it. He pressed his advantage, forcing Flanders to retreat from the platform, then joined him on the sloped ground. Or at least he believed it was his doing.

Flanders let himself be driven back, drawing the Rat after him, but half his attention kept returning to the fire, wondering if that shadow had only been his imagination. Had Wickham succeeded? The distraction cost him as Stephan's blade sliced across his arm and drew blood.

"It's too bad," Stephan taunted, emboldened by the small victory. "She’ll be dead now. A pity she won't see you die by my hand!"

Flanders' attention focused once more. He wrapped the chain around his forearm and used it to deflect Stephan's next thrust. The sword caught in the links, and Flanders twisted violently, wrenching the weapon from his enemy’s grasp.

"Kill him, Flanders!" Gerts shouted from somewhere in the crowd. "Send the bastard to Hell!"

Infuriated, Stephan scrambled for the sword, then snarled, "Ye’re next, woman! Behold, the fire grows hungry again!"

With his attention divided, Flanders struck. He moved with the fluid grace James had taught him, techniques from a future time that no man in this age could counter. He feinted left, then spun right and whipped the loose end of the chain out to catch Stephan's ankle. The Rat Laird went down hard, flat on his back, and he thrashed to get breath back into his lungs.

Before he could recover, Flanders was on him, one knee pressed into his chest. While the man strained, Flanders slipped the chain beneath his head and wrapped it around his throat.

"This is for Brigid," he whispered, tightening his grip. "And for Bella. Both of whom are still alive and well. The explosions were mere distraction." Then he pulled with all his might.

Stephan's eyes bulged, his face purpling as he clawed desperately at the chain.

Flanders leaned close again. "And this is for me." With a savage twist, he ended it. Hector Stephan was no more.

Rising slowly to his feet, Flanders pulled the chains free from the lifeless body and turned to search for Atholl. The young earl had fled.

Moray stood at the edge of the platform, his face a mask of disappointment. "Ye've left me no choice, Leesborn," he said, then gestured to his guards. "Seize him."

The men moved forward reluctantly, none eager to be the first to lay hands on a bloody, still-armed, and well-known warrior.

Flanders looked to the fire, still burning fiercely. Then he found Robert, who stood with his father, and gave the lad a wink. When he found James, he lifted a single brow.

His tall friend offered a shrug, then a grin and a nod. It was all he needed.

Flanders gave his friends a quick salute with two fingers, then turned and ran straight for the fire. The heat hit him like diving into a hot loch. He held his breath and plunged forward, his boots slipping on crumbling embers. With his heart focused on Brigid, his mind shouted to another.

Wickham!

A mere heartbeat later, he was engulfed not in flame but in that same darkness he'd seen in his dreams of Brigid—a nothingness that he assumed was death. Now, it was merely a dark shade of hope.

A large, firm hand gripped his forearm, steadying him.

Auch, but ye’re a trustin’ bugger.