Page 63 of Laird of Flint
“He suits ye,” he continued. “I sense deep honor in him. Integrity. A love o’ justice. A good mind. And a good heart. He would make a fine husband. A fine father. The son your mother and I ne’er—”
His litany of praises was cut off abruptly when “the son he’d ne’er had” bowled violently into him, sending the laird tumbling away from the fire to sprawl in an undignified tangle of plaids and arisaids and clanfolk.
Chapter 12
Hew’s heart beat like the wings of a trapped falcon. Faster and harder than it ever had for Gormal, Anne, or any of his past lovers. It slammed painfully against his ribs as he turned to Carenza with purpose in his furrowed brows.
There was no time for tact.
He lunged toward her. Seized her about the waist. Heaved her up over one shoulder. And packed her off like his Viking forefathers packing off the spoils of war.
At a safe distance from the bonfire, he lowered her gently but swiftly to the damp sod.
She gazed up at him in startled shock, unaware of the peril.
But Hew had spotted it at once. Whipped up by the wind, the flames of the bonfire had leaped onto Carenza’s gown. They’d begun to greedily consume her leine and lap at the edges of her arisaid.
He started beating at the fiery fabric with his bare hands. Trying to extinguish the destructive flames. Scarcely noticing the heat.
From afar, the laird—seeing only a warrior attacking his daughter—cried out, “What the devil? Unhand her, sirrah!”
But those closer to Hew slowly realized what had happened. Gasps of concern rose around him.
Finally Carenza sat up, shrieking when she saw she was ablaze. She thrashed. Kicked. Tried to squirm away. Which would only make it worse.
“Nay!” he roared.
He forced her down with one hand and held her there. With his other sleeve, he fought to smother the fire.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the flames made one last sparking gasp of surrender and smoldered out.
With an exhausted sigh, he released her and rocked back on his heels.
She rose to her elbows, staring at him in wonder.
His heart still pounded. Panic continued to race through his veins. His body shuddered with residual fear.
Behind him, her father sobbed, “Carenza! Dear God, what hap—”
He cut himself off with a gasp when he saw the ragged edges of her leine, curled and blackened by fire, and the wisp of smoke rising from her scorched arisaid.
“I’m all right, Da. Just a bit singed.” Her grateful gaze settled on Hew. “Ye saved my…” Then she lowered her eyes. They widened in horror.
Hew followed her gaze. Below his shoulders, the sleeves of his leine were burned away. The flesh of his exposed arms, from shoulder to wrist, was bright red. The palm of his right hand was blistered.
“Ye’re hurt!” she said.
He didn’t want her to fret. “It looks worse than ’tis.” It wasn’t a lie. Not really. He could see there was damage. But at the moment, there such an intense current of residual terror flooding his body, he could feel no pain.
The laird crouched beside him with a worried frown. Then he turned and bellowed out over his shoulder, “Peris!”
Was the laird calling his physician on Hew’s behalf? Or for his own injuries? After all, Hew had walloped Dunlop with all the force of a battering ram in his effort to snatch Carenza from the blaze.
“Here,” the laird said when the physician arrived. “He’s been badly burned. Take him to my chamber.”
Hew scowled. Surely he wasn’t badly burned. Just a bit seared. He needed no special treatment. He was a battle-seasoned knight. The warriors of Rivenloch shrugged off injuries like a duck shedding water.
“That won’t be necessary, my laird,” he muttered.
