Page 57 of The Splendor of Fire
Malvina lowered her glass, her face looking astonished at his perceptiveness. Niall frowned. “But what does it all mean?”
“It means that you must exercise caution as laird to ensure that your ambitions are correct, for there is one who is ready to destroy you. Yet despite a trial by fire, hope will deliver the clan.”
Niall looked pleased with the interpretation. “Strength will not deliver us? The lion devours the unicorn.”
Léo shook his head. “The lion is not the savior of the clan, but the eagle.”
Niall made a discontented sound. “Hope is it?”
Léo’s eyes met hers. “Aye. Hope.”
Moira hidon the edge of the encampment, her face, legs, and hair covered in black. Three rings of tent groups surrounded the trebuchet, but none could see her among the shadows. Training her eyes on the patrol, she stayed concealed in the bracken until they made the turn toward the opposite end of the camp.
She hefted the bucket and brush. They would know she was here soon enough.
Stalking through the rows of tents, she approached the wooden beast, attuning her ears to the sounds of snoring men and listening for movement as Angus trained her to do.
She assessed her exits as Hector had taught her. She would coat the structure, then head east, through the barest patch of tents. From there,she would ascend into the trees to avoid detection, making her way out of the forest and toward the moors. Once she ran the moors, she would hop into the skiff and sail herself away.
Moira shuddered. The sailing bit was the worst part. She’d stuck to the coastline on the way here, and managed not to get sick. She bowed her head, praying a request she felt she had no right to ask after her months pretending to be Niall’s leman.Lord, please help me. I know I was made for more than this.
For weeks she’d begged Hector, Iain, and Calum to allow her to infiltrate the camp on Sleat to destroy the siege engine, but they’d refused. Insisting it was far too dangerous to attempt a second time and assuring her that they would come to destroy it when patrols were low.
But patrols were not decreasing, they were increasing. That evening at their rendezvous she’d pleaded with Calum to sail her to Sleat, but he rebuked her, saying that Hector had given her a direct order to wait until the time was right. Moira placed the bucket on the platform and jumped up beside the machine, determination solidifying her resolve. Between Calum’s dismissal and Léo’s cruelty, she’d had enough of men for one day.
The unfairness of being ordered to wait until the time was right for everyone else smarted. She was the one running out of time and taking the risk. Indeed, that very night Niall had stayed at her door for hours, encouraged by her increasingly bold behavior. He had pleaded, then pounded, then stomped off to his room that evening assuring her that the next time he saw her, the long wait for her to fully become his leman would be over. No—there would be no more waiting after tonight. Not unless there was a distraction. A big one.
Hulking the bucket up, she climbed atop the machine and shimmied up the long arm. It wobbled against her weight, but stayed aloft. When she made it to the top of the arm she adjusted the bucket and began painting the pitch, then scooted her way down. After ten minutes, the arm was covered. She paused at the bottom of the frame and found the patrol still lingering at the back of the camp, unaware that she was sabotaging the very siege engine they were tasked to protect.
Descending the large triangular framework, she coated tar as fast as she could. A noise sounded on the edge of the camp and she stilled. Thestink of the pitch was powerful enough to give her away if anyone in the first ring bothered to wake up. She waited. An owl hooted on the edge of the clearing.
Lightning? What was he doing here? She hardened her heart. He wouldn’t stop her. No one would. Niall MacKinnon would be brought low, Malvina, Fingon, and yes even Léo, after all she’d done to try and help him. The whole MacKinnon family could make their beds in Sheol as far as she was concerned.
Upending the bucket she poured the remaining contents out, then set it on its side, pulling fists of hay from within her tunic. It was properly stuffed. Time to run.
Sprinting through the clearing, she made her way east, pausing near a tent on the edge of the camp. Its fire was burning low.
Removing the wad of cotton from her pouch, she stuffed the basket of the four-pronged arrow, pitch from its pre-dipped head leaving black streaks along her fingers. She wiped them on the leather of her trews, then held the arrow into the embers until it caught. An owl sounded from the wood, this time closer.
Ignoring Calum, she nocked the arrow just as Murdoch had taught her, the same way she’d been doing each night for weeks in the cover of night, in the forest outside Dun Ringill. She lined her shot, drew, angled, and released.
Orange flame arced across the sky and sank into the hay of the bucket. She’d done it. Flame burst forth from the bucket and spread out over the base of the trebuchet. In seconds, a blast of fire that sounded like rushing wind streaked up the frame, the arm of the trebuchet, and burst into an inferno. Tent flaps began to open around the trebuchet and flames leaped onto them.
Run.Not looking behind her, she sprinted into the wood and made for the trees. Light behind her grew, and grew, and became so bright she paused to look back. The innermost ring of tents had gone up in flame, lighting the boughs of the trees hanging overhead. Flame jumped with speed from one dried pine to another, coming right toward her.
A hand closed around hers and she turned, eyes wide. Calum held onto her, his face contorted with fury.
The trees no longer an option for safety, they sprinted, her long legskeeping pace with Calum’s for the first two minutes. They crested the ridge line and she looked back. All three rows of tents were up in flames and men streamed away from the wildfire, straight toward her. She began to lag behind. Calum turned and tossed her over his shoulders in one smooth movement.
Horrified, she watched as three hundred men pursued them as he sprinted over the hills. Calum’s grip tightened over her rear end as he sprinted, his muscular shoulders hitting her over and over in her gut.
“What in the world were you thinking, Birdy?”
She opened her mouth, but couldn’t answer.
Anger punctuated every word. “I’ve. Never. Been. So. Angry.”
His long legs stretched and charged up the hill. The closest man was now only ten yards away, sword drawn. She beat on his back, trying to let him know that the men were almost on them.
