Oliver found Jamie’s using his full name instead of whatever nickname apparently came first to his tongue to be a bit more unsettling than it likely should have been. He nodded, watched the laird of the hall down the way walk off into the twilight, then pulled a black knitted hat out of his pocket. He shoved what ofhis hair it wouldn’t cover up into it, re-adjusted the straps of his pack, then considered his plans one final time.
He had gear for flight after Mairead had been rescued. He had food enough—jerky, not crisps, damn Derrick to hell—for them to survive in the wild for a handful of days until things cooled down at the hall and they could escape to the faery ring at the top of the meadow. The other two gates Jamie had just shown him were north of Cameron Hall, no doubt farther than he would want to travel so late in the year, so he suspected he would be wise to simply use what he’d used before and assume it would work.
He also had two professional-grade fireworks guaranteed to make an impression. The fuses were long, he had more experience than was polite in lighting the same, and he was, he could admit with all modesty, a very fast runner. He would put them where their incendiary selves wouldn’t burn down the whole forest, light them, then bolt like hell for Mairead. It might be wise to avoid himself in the bargain, but he was used to being a ghost.
In the end, his knives were sharp, he had lock picking tools, and his head for maps was as flawless as Derrick Cameron’s photographic memory was with everything else. Anything beyond that would just have to be invented on the fly.
He looked at the faint ring of what was left of the year’s plants. He closed his eyes, focused his mind on replaying as clearly as possible the scene from the night before. It wasn’t difficult. Master James was definitely committed to the task of ridding Scotland of all purveyors of witchly arts. He suspected the man likely had Mummy issues and perhaps a few girlfriends who had recoiled at whatever Mr. Collins-like delicate compliments the man had been able to spew out.
Whatever the case, it made it very easy to muster up a good bit of enthusiasm for shutting the man up at least briefly, which he supposed might be all he needed.
He took a deep breath, tried not to flinch as that scarce-visible doorway simply opened in front of him, then stepped across its threshold.
Fourteen
The world rent itself intwain with a tremendous noise.
Mairead looked up over her head and stared in astonishment as the sky burst into light as if the very stars of Heaven had flung themselves down to the earth like sparks from a mighty fire in colors she’d never before imagined—
She suddenly found herself freed from her cousins who had been dragging her toward the pyre. She would have commented on how well they crumpled to the ground, but she found her hand taken by someone else. She immediately tried to pull it free, then she realized it was Oliver, dressed in black from head to toe.
She blinked in surprise. “But I just saw you—”
“Let’s go.”
She wanted to stop and consider, but there was no time for it. She could either continue on to her death or she could turn aside onto a path she suspected would forever change the course of her life. Surely Ambrose and his wee siblings would survive well enough without her. They would be without her either way—
“Mairead,now.”
She nodded, took her skirts in her free hand, and ran with him directly toward the pile of wood ready to be set alight. She felt someone grab her arm and almost pull her off her feet. She was spun around and watched a hand come toward her face, but she never felt it because Oliver’s hand caught that hand first. She watched him plow his fist into her brother’s mouth so hard, she was fairly sure she heard something break.
“He may be eating soup for a bit,” she managed breathlessly.
“If he doesn’t choke to death first,” Oliver said, shaking out his hand briefly. “Can you run?”
She would have answered, but the sky had again exploded into shards of colors that had surely come from some angelic realm. She looked at Oliver, had a brief smile as her reward, then she gathered her courage and nodded.
He squeezed her hand. “Brave lass. Let’s go.”
She fled with him past the front door of the keep and directly into the forest behind the hall where only the bravest of her clan dared tread. She imagined bravery had nothing to do with Oliver’s choice of paths, but rather causing the men she could hear shouting in the distance to think again before they followed after them certainly did.
She had no idea how long they ran. All she knew was that whatever skills she had in blending into the forest, Oliver had only to an entirely new and terrifying degree. They went west, which she imagined wasn’t the direction Tasgall would have expected her to take. Then again, he would have enough pain in his face that perhaps he wouldn’t be thinking clearly for a bit.
At one point, Oliver stopped, looked at her bare feet, then winced.
“Your feet are bleeding.”
She imagined that was the least of her worries, but she didn’t protest when he pulled leather shoes out of his rucksack and laced them to her feet.
“I can keep on,” she said, wiggling her toes and scarce feeling them. “Very comfortable.”
He rose, looked at her for a moment in silence, then very gently pulled her into his arms. She held onto him tightly, likely more enthusiastically than was polite, but she was freezing and terrified.
“Thank you,” she managed.
He pulled back a bit and pressed his lips against her forehead. “I would have done it as many times as necessary.”
She shivered. “Don’t say that.”
