Page 9 of Taken By the Ruthless Highlander
“Oh, forgive me,” she muttered as she rushed toward it and yanked it off the wall.
It was heavier than she had expected. But as long as it would put out the flames, that was all that mattered.
“What are ye doin’?” the Laird snapped as she threw the heavy fabric over her head and charged toward the door.
Every fiber of her being begged her to turn back, but nothing was going to stop her from getting into the storeroom.
Pain splintered across her left side as she slammed into the door and broke through the wall of fire. Acrid black smoke filled the room. Morgana collapsed to the ground, nearly passing out.
“Orella,” the Laird called.
Morgana’s lungs seized, begging for fresh, clean air. But she had come to put out the fire, and that’s what she was going to do.
Mustering her courage, she rose to her feet, the tapestry cloaking her, and stepped further into the room. She spotted the source of the fire in the corner, and without hesitating, she tossed the tapestry over the flames.
“Orella? Morgana?” The Laird’s voice was like a beacon, guiding her back to the door.
“Here,” Orella choked out through a coughing fit.
Through the haze, Morgana saw a thin hand shoot up to the ceiling. How she had missed the girl when she barged in, she didn’t know. But it was a miracle the girl lived.
“I’m here.”
“The fire…”
“It’s been put out,” Morgana answered as she moved to Orella and gently lifted her arm over her shoulder to guide her out of the room.
In the smoke-free hallway, she pulled in a long, deep breath. Her lungs burned as if she’d walked through the depths of hell and back.
“Thank ye,” Orella wheezed as she glanced at the Laird. “I didnae think anyone could hear me.”
“How did this happen?” the Laird asked, just as several servants came charging down the hallway, carrying buckets of water.
“I dinnae ken,” Orella answered, taking the water the servants offered without hesitation. “I was in there, restockin’ some of the supplies. I heard a rustlin’ of sorts. Thought nothin’ of it—maybe mice burrowin’ into the bags again. But when I called out, I must have caught them by surprise, because the next thing I remember, the wall of rosemary and thyme went up in flames, and then the sage. It got out of hand so fast…”
“It’s out now, though,” the Laird said.
“Orella? Morgana? Och, what happened?” Cohen cried as he rushed down the hallway, making a beeline for Orella.
Morgana stepped aside, giving him the space he needed to inspect his wife.
“I’m fine, thanks to Morgana here,” Orella assured.
“I’d like to think ye would have done the same for me,” Morgana said, her eyes flicking to the Laird.
The memory of him riding up and stopping her execution flashed through her mind. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she turned to the singed room.
“How did ye put it out so quickly?” the Laird asked as he moved to the corner and picked up a charred bit of the tapestry.
“The fabric was too heavy—it suffocated the fire,” Morgana explained.
“Aye, but did ye have to grab this one? Out of all the tapestries I’ve got hangin’ about this place, ye had to grab this one,” Ryder grumbled as he stared at the remains of what was once a tapestry of a peacock.
The irritation in his tone didn’t escape her notice. Morgana blanched as she looked up at him.
“I will ken,” Cohen declared. “As will many others.”
“But I want to ken who did this,” the Laird grunted as the man-at-arms moved to Morgana to check her for injuries.
