Page 62 of The Laird's Masked Passion

“Break them.”

Axes struck, while men shouted for water. Buckets were passed from the burn in a frantic chain, sloshing uselessly across boots and hems. Someone dragged a ladder toward the side wall. Another man tried to climb toward the smoking roof, but Colin seized him by the back of his coat and hauled him down.

“Dae ye wish to burn with it?”

“Me stores are in there!”

“Then save yer body tae rebuild them.”

The door cracked beneath the axes. Heat burst outward, fierce enough to drive several men back. Colin lifted his arm against it and forced himself closer. Through the smoke, he saw orangeswallowing shelves, sacks splitting open, flour bursting pale before blackening, and salted meat curling in the heat.

Gone.

Even if they doused it now, smoke and water would ruin what flame did not. A curse moved through him, low and vicious.

This was not an accident. This was not weather or carelessness. This was a knife at the belly of the village. Alasdair’s murder had been a warning. This was harm.

“Clear the sides!” Colin shouted. “Keep it from spreading. Tear down the thatch where it touches the shed. Move the carts. Get the children back.”

The village obeyed at once and that obedience was not fear. It was trust, and it weighed more heavily than fear ever had. Men who lost part of their winter stores turned from the burning building because he ordered it. Women who wept continued passing buckets because his hand pointed them there. Even the lads barely old enough to swing an axe went where the elder villagers sent them and did not question why.

Colin worked among them until his lungs burned. Smoke stung his eyes. Heat slapped his face. The eastern wall groaned inward, scattering sparks. He caught one boy by the collar and threw him bodily back a moment before a beam came down where he had stood. The boy hit the mud with a gasp.

“Stay back,” Colin snapped.

The boy nodded, white-faced.

Then, a movement at the corner of the storehouse caught Colin’s eye. A man slipped from behind the smoke-darkened side wall, half-crouched, with his cap pulled low. For a momenthe was only another frightened villager. Then he looked over his shoulder, not at the burning stores, but toward the lane beyond the cottages and ran. Colin went after him.

The man was fast, driven by panic, but panic made poor choices. He cut between two cottages, nearly slipped in the mud, recovered, and bolted toward the narrow path that led behind the mill. Colin followed, gaining with each stride.

The man glanced back. That glance cost him.

His foot struck a root. He lurched but did not fall. Colin reached him three steps later and drove him into the side of the mill with enough force to knock the breath from him. The man cried out and swung wildly. Colin caught the fist, twisted, and slammed his forearm against the man’s throat.

“Running somewhere?”

The man wheezed. His eyes were wide and red from smoke. “I did naething.”

“I have nae asked.”

“I didnae?—”

Colin turned him and forced his arm up behind his back. The man gasped in pain.

“Then ye are eager tae defend yerself.”

A moment later, three villagers arrived, breathing hard. One of them took one look at the man and his expression blackened.

“Lachlan Kerr.”

Colin’s grip tightened. “Ye ken him?”

“Lives three miles south. Comes tae market sometimes. Nae one of ours.”

Lachlan shook his head frantically. “I was helping. I saw the fire and came tae help.”

“From behind the storehouse?” Colin asked.