Night of the Highland Dragon (10 page)

The first frost had come and gone—not early enough to interrupt the harvest, but severe enough to put a decisive end to it. The day of the festival was windless, cold, and bright, with the suggestion of brittleness that always accompanied clear days in the winter. Judith gave orders to lay on extra wood and to build the fires in the hall well before dinnertime. When she left the castle doors, the smell of smoke was heavy in the air. It was a familiar scent, and one she usually let pass without thinking. That day it reminded her of the year marching on, as so many had before.

This year's Harvest Maiden was carrot-topped Mairi Murray, who rode atop the corn-laden cart in her blue-and-pink-sprigged Sunday best, with a crown of pink and purple heather atop her flowing hair. Claire, one of the few girls who'd stood no chance at cutting the last sheaf, seemed to be content enough with her lot. In sky-blue muslin and with the dignity of coiled and pinned hair, she followed the cart with the other girls her age, walking at a pace sedate enough to give all the local boys a good look. Caring much less for making a show, the younger children thronged around the outside, laughing and shoving in their own private exchanges.

Judith chuckled to herself. She'd been one of those children once. She remembered plum cake and singing. She'd generally contrived to lose her bonnet in the melee, much to the dismay of her mother and various nannies. Girls now didn't have to be bothered, lucky little things. Braids were much more convenient.

The equivalent of Claire's crowd had been present back then too, but Judith had never been one of them. Adolescence hit the MacAlasdairs hard: not only did one's body change, horrifying enough, but one had to adjust to and control the urge to transform into an entirely new creature. By the time she'd learned proper control, she'd also learned that she was different—and her childhood friends had moved past her, some into marriages and families of their own, others into service. None had remembered her very well.

Mortals worked that way. She'd left shortly after learning to control her shape. She could still feel her mother's kiss on her forehead. The day had been autumn, and the smell of smoke had been the same.

Then the cart was inside the castle gates, and Judith came back to the present to play the role that had been hers for twenty years. As the singing stopped, she stepped forward, smiled, and took the bound sheaf of corn from Mairi's hands. Judith spoke a few words, none unusual and all good-natured, stepped back to laughter and cheers, and watched the crowd explode into the castle grounds.

At moments like this, it was hard to believe there weren't very many people in Loch Arach. They seemed to be everywhere, from elderly women walking around together in the sunshine to babies gurgling cheerfully in their mothers' arms. The gardens held couples and would-be couples; the pond, under the stern eye of Janssen, was a source of wonder and winter-groggy amphibians for children of a certain age.

Judith walked through the crowds, speaking to some people, not interrupting others, noticing who was there and how they looked. Mrs. Murray wasn't there, of course, though her husband was laughing with some of the other men. Old Hamish was getting around nicely; she'd heard his hip was paining him in cold weather, but either it wasn't too bad or the ale helped. Gillian Gordon and her family were admiring the flowerbeds—at least Judith could see Gillian herself and her mother, and her son riding on his father's shoulders, but where was Ross? She spotted him a little distance from the rest of his family, smoking and gazing at one of the castle walls.

He didn't look very well. His face was drawn even at a distance, and he held his shoulders tightly. Judith wondered briefly if he'd had bad news from London, or if living in close quarters with his family was just proving hard on his nerves. He wouldn't have been the first man to feel that way.

“Lady MacAlasdair?”

A voice cut into her thoughts. She turned to see one of the other new faces in the village: the mild brown eyes and soft features of Dr. McKendry's friend Mr. Hamilton.

“I wanted to say how very much obliged I am,” he went on when she greeted him. He spoke like a university man, she noted, but his accent was still strong. “It's awfully good of you to play hostess to all of us like this.”

“Oh,” she said, “it gives me a chance to talk with people. And it's nice to celebrate
something
before winter comes and we all huddle inside for months.”

“Aye, McKendry's been telling me grim tales. I don't entirely think he expects me to live out the winter.”

“I'm sure you'll
live
,” said Judith, laughing. “I'm just not certain how you'll feel about it. I hope you don't mind spending a good deal of time indoors.”

“If it keeps my mind on my research, so much the better.”

“Oh? Are you a scholar?”

“A surgeon, actually. I've just been stricken with the urge to experiment—a hazard of the profession.”

“You can't tell me you've set up a laboratory here,” said Judith, lifting her eyebrows. The thought that a surgeon might want to experiment on animals turned over uneasily in the back of her mind, like a monster stirring in restless sleep. Surely Hamilton could get all the mice or guinea pigs he wanted legally.

“A small one, yes. At the moment, I'm rather keen on theory. I had a good deal of practice in Fife.”

“Practice doing what, if you don't mind me asking?”

“I'm experimenting with blood transfusion. Dr. Blundell did some marvelous work thirty years ago, but there are still so many advances to be made—and so many puzzles to figure out. For instance—” Just as his eyes were beginning to gleam, he stopped himself. “But it's no subject for a lady. I'm sorry. And, oh, there's Mr. Arundell. My dear fellow, do come join us.”

Hamilton's relief at avoiding an awkward subject was palpable. Judith could only hope her unease at the situation was much less so. “Good evening,” she said as William approached. “I hope you're enjoying yourself.”

A number of inappropriate ways to go on promptly popped up in Judith's mind, everything from
You
know
how
much
I
like
to
see
you…enjoy yourself
to
And
if
you're not, you can always enjoy me.
She bit the inside of her cheek. This would have been a wonderful time to be a pure, innocent miss who knew nothing of innuendo, but she was two hundred and thirty years old and had been a sailor or a soldier for most of that time. She knew a filthy way to interpret every third word in the English language.

“Oh, yes,” said William, and he smiled slowly at her. There was the innuendo again, only he didn't even need words. What question was he answering again? “Reminds me of my own youth. Fewer smuggled firecrackers, though.”

The festival. Enjoying himself. Right. Judith gave herself a firm internal shake, which with any luck would dislodge her mind from her loins for a while. “Don't say that too loudly,” she said. “People will get ideas.”

“And McKendry doesn't need the work,” Hamilton agreed, then gave William a curious look. “You grew up in the country, then?”

“Yes—Sussex. And my chums and I went to the odd fair or two when we were at school.”

“With permission?” Judith asked.

William smiled innocently. “Sometimes.”

She had to laugh. “
Official
fireworks might not be a bad idea next year, at that,” she said, remembering nights in Shanghai with a shared bottle of rice wine and colored flowers exploding overhead. “Assuming they won't scare the horses into a year of fits.”

“Or cause an avalanche,” said Hamilton, casting a wary eye toward the mountains.

“No need to worry there. These stones are old and settled.” And if they weren't, Judith didn't say, she'd know well in advance. That was one of the things she and her ancestors had always kept an eye on—both with patrols in dragon form and with magic—in one of the north-wing rooms where the servants didn't go.

“I'll take your word for it. I'm a city lad myself. I have to admit that this much nature unnerves me from time to time.”

“Not an unreasonable point of view,” said William. “Any patch of earth or sea probably has a few surprises left, and they're more than likely unpleasant to us tiny occupants.”

“On that,” Judith replied, “we're agreed.”

The crowd around them took on a new purpose and headed for the doors of the castle, gawky boys approaching girls with their hands in their pockets and elderly women taking their husbands firmly by the arms. Judith could guess what they were about, and she knew for certain when she heard the first few notes of “The Duke of Perth.”

“If you'll excuse me,” she said, “the dancing's starting. They'll expect me in the first set—and it'll warm me up a bit.”

* * *

Thinking back later that night, Judith couldn't say when she'd realized William was watching her. After the second dance she shed her cape, finding the wool of her dress plenty warm enough by then, and maybe she'd glimpsed him as she'd hurried back from the coatroom. Maybe she'd seen him in the corner as she turned to face a new partner. Maybe, and she didn't like to think much about the possibility, she'd been looking for him the whole time.

At first he was just standing and holding a glass of ale. He and Hamilton had apparently taken their conversation indoors, and McKendry had joined them along the way. The next time Judith glanced over, as she took Andrew Stewart's arm and proceeded down the line, Gillian Gordon had joined the three men. McKendry was using her to demonstrate turning while the others laughed.

Ross, Judith noticed, was neither in the group nor the dance, nor drinking with Gillian's husband, Ronald. She hoped he was doing the gentlemanly thing and squiring his mother about. Mrs. MacDougal wasn't as young as she had been, and Gillian could use a change of society.

The next time she saw William, he was standing across from her and holding out his hands. Judith blinked. The music left her no time for surprise, and many years of practice carried her forward before she was even conscious of moving. “Feeling adventurous?”

“Always,” he said, flashing her a grin. “Dr. McKendry said this was one of the simpler dances. And—when in Rome…”

“I'd not have liked the Romans overmuch, I think,” said Judith. William's hands were warm against hers, not as callused as many of her tenants' but enough so to increase her suspicion that he was no gentleman of leisure. “But aye.”

They separated, circled, and came back together. He was a little off count, clearly new at this, but not bad. He'd also taken off his greatcoat in preparation, and it was a grand thing to watch him in motion, even while she took petty satisfaction from his errors.

“You don't underdo hospitality, do you?” he asked, looking around at the garland-hung hall, then toward the door to where the tables were beginning to fill with silver-covered dishes.

“I don't give many parties. There's no point in going halfway when I do.” Judith wound a figure eight around him, came back, and watched him do the same. “You catch on quickly.”

“We had to learn the quadrille when I was a boy at school. It's not very much like this, but it helps a little.”

Another figure parted them, to the tune of a fiddle and many stomping feet. Judith stepped toward William; they took arms and walked down between the rows of dancers. She wondered for a second if people would talk, but she felt no particular gaze on them. Most people, she thought, would just see Lady MacAlasdair being hospitable to the newcomer. She hoped so, at least.

“Besides,” said William quietly, “as unexpected skills go, I think mine pale in comparison to yours.”

“Brothers. I told you.”

“They must have been extraordinary brothers.” They took hands again. William looked down at her, his eyes bright and razor-keen.

“They were,” said Judith, smiling thinly. “Are. In many ways.”

“And—”

The door burst open before William could go on. Through the crowd, Judith glimpsed Young Hamish, alternately pale and black-streaked.

Before he opened his mouth, she knew what he was going to yell.

“
Fire!
”

In an instant, Judith dropped William's hands and crossed the room, slipping nimbly between the now-frozen people on the floor until she stood at Young Hamish's side. “The store?” she asked, her face sharp with focus.

“Aye, m'lady. Started in the chimney, I think.”

William headed toward the two of them as the rest of the ballroom came out of its paralysis. Movement and sound returned, though muted: whispers and murmurs, uncertain moves toward the door, and more decisive gatherings in a corner.

“Anyone inside?” Judith asked.

“No, m'lady. They're all here.” Sure enough, Old Hamish was struggling out of his seat in the corner, with the assistance of one of his fellows. His son—Middle-Aged Hamish?—and his wife were making their way through the crowd, which parted for them.

Judith nodded once. Now beside her, William heard her let out a quick breath. It barely qualified as a sigh, and she didn't produce another one. Rather, she turned to the assembled villagers. “The grocer's is aflame.” She raised her voice to be heard over the muttering, which died down quickly, but she didn't shout.

“Finlay, take four men and go get the pumper to the loch. I'll need ten men to start work with buckets while they're gone. You, you, you—” she continued, pointing to young men and one or two sturdy young women, including Claire's friend Ellen.

“And me,” said William, stripping off his jacket. A bit of scarring aside, his arm was as well as it ever had been, and he'd carried much heavier things than buckets in his day.

He'd expected Judith to argue with him or at least to look surprised, but she just nodded. “Follow the others.”

* * *

Loch Arach had a well in the center of the main street, bordered by low stone walls and covered with a slanting blue-tiled roof. It looked much like any other well in any other rural village, and William hadn't given it much notice before. Now it was the center of his and everyone else's attention—that and the flames and black smoke rising from the grocer's roof. All eleven of them kept glancing that way as they approached the well, and William would have bet that the others were asking themselves the same questions he was.

How
fast
are
the
flames
moving?

Will
we
make
it
on
time?

Will
the
fire
spread?

“For a mercy,” Ellen said from a few places in front of him as they waited to fill their buckets, “there's no wind.”

“Aye,” said the black-haired youth standing beside her, “and those trees are all bare. The dry leaves would ha' caught like paper, and then the whole village would be like to burn. We've a chance as it is.”

“We've a chance,” echoed Ellen, and the pump worked steadily in the background, like a metallic heartbeat.

Years had passed since William had pumped his own water, but the knack of it, thank God, came back quickly when he stood at the well. He filled his buckets and followed the others back toward the store. No longer in a line, they went as fast as they could without spilling the water, spurred to even greater speed as they got close enough to start coughing from the smoke.

It was bad.

As Young Hamish had said, the chimney had caught first, and the flames had spread quickly to the wooden shingles. By the time William reached the store, half the roof was alight and flames were coming out of the upstairs windows. The smoke formed a dense, black cloud. He had to draw close to see that ladders leaned against the house, and men at the top were throwing buckets of water onto the flames. Two people stood near the base of each ladder, handing the men buckets from William's most recent comrades.

It might have been helping. He couldn't tell through the smoke.

He neared the bottom of one ladder. “Here,” he said, holding one of his buckets out to a figure there. She turned and he saw it was Judith, with the sleeves of her dress rolled up and her skirts kilted to the knee.

Neither of them had time for surprise or banter. She took the bucket and handed it up with one hand, using the other to support the ladder. After a second, she held out a hand for the other bucket. From above, William heard grunts of effort and splashing—but mostly the crackling roar of the flames eating away at the building.

On his way back to the well, he wiped sweat from his forehead and realized that he hadn't seen any on Judith's face, though she'd been far closer to the fire than he had, and passing buckets up the chain didn't exactly seem like easy work. She was wearing wool too, and ladies' fashions called for several more layers than men's.

It was a quick moment of curiosity. Mostly, he was too busy to think.

When William got back with his second load of buckets, Finlay and his crew had returned. With them had come the pumper: a vast iron tub mounted on wheels but carried on long wooden shafts, with a hand crank and a hose attached to it. Men were passing the hose up to the top of Judith's ladder, and an older, stouter gentleman was turning the crank with steady speed.

As William watched, the man at the top of the ladder sprayed a gout of water onto the chimney itself, sending smoke hissing up into the air. The flames seemed to have died down—and a cheer from the ladder confirmed that as the man turned the hose on other parts of the roof—but William knew there was still a great deal more to do.

Back and forth he went. He lost count of how many times. The water splashed onto his legs, and the wind felt like ice against the wet patches on his trousers, even as the rest of him sweated. Waiting for the pump, he rolled up his sleeves, which helped a little bit. Now their task was endurance rather than haste. The first few buckets of water, and particularly the pumper's spray, had stopped the fire's rapid spread, but killing it would take a great while. The fire broke out hydra-like in one place as soon as the men had stamped it out in another.

From time to time, William's awareness broadened enough to take in other details. Other villagers had come down from the castle. Many—too old, too young, or generally too frail to be helpful—stood at a distance and watched. A few others acted. As William held a bucket with one hand and waited for the man on the ladder to finish with the second, he heard a woman clear her throat nearby. Turning, he saw Claire Simon holding out a cup of tea.

“It clears your throat a bit,” she said without any trace of hesitance or infatuation. The teapot was in her other hand, and neither cup nor pot shook at all. William smiled his thanks, took the cup, and tossed the tea back in three swallows. It did help with the smoke, and the warmth sank into him, giving him new strength. He passed the cup back to Claire, who went on to the next man in line, just as her mother and some of the other village women were doing at other ladders.

Nobody really spoke otherwise. Words slowed one down and weren't necessary—one knew what needed doing, did it, came back, and did it again. Passing a group of the spectators, William did see one old man catch his eye and nod in grim approval of the outsider making good. He probably didn't do that to any of the local men. They didn't need anyone's judgment.

William became so used to the sound of the flames that it was odd when they began to die down, and he frowned, not comprehending what had changed and why. Then he saw the men at the pumper picking up the shafts again, and the man who'd held the hose coming down the ladder.

“Roof's out,” said a voice, a man who'd either seen William's puzzled face or was commenting to a general audience. “They'll be going 'round in force tae the windows now.”

Indeed, the men were moving the pumper around a corner of the store, and a small crowd was going with them, carrying buckets and ladders. The roof smoldered above, a sullen black ruin. Two chunks of it had fallen in. As if a reminder that nobody was out of the woods yet, a tongue of flame licked out of the upstairs window.

William followed as well, found the tub full when he reached the pumper, and went around to the next ladder, joining two or three others. Over to one side stood the Connohs, blanket-draped and surrounded by concerned neighbors. A gap between people showed their tearless, stunned faces.

“They'll rebuild,” said Judith's voice, close at hand. “I'll see to it. Hand over one of those, will ye no'?”

Neither her voice nor her expression allowed for chivalrous refusal. William passed her a bucket and inwardly confessed himself glad to be shed of the extra weight. Judith took it without complaint or apparent effort. William reminded his pricked vanity that she hadn't been carrying water the whole time, but it didn't do much good. She looked nearly as tired as he felt. She also looked relieved.

“The danger's past?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Not if we stop now. But aye, there's no chance to it anymore. 'Tis but mopping up from here on in.” Coming from her, the term struck William as odd, but his mind was too fatigued and smoke-clouded to produce a reason why. “You all made a fine job of it. I'll say as much up at the castle later—over food.”

“The praise is nice, but the dinner's more alluring just now,” William said.

Judith laughed. “Aye, I think you'd have company in that sentiment.”

She was looking forward as they walked, focused on the ladder that was their goal. So was William, but he was closer to the building. It bought him half a second as he saw the flaming bit of wood—a scrap of furniture or windowsill that their efforts had dislodged—plummet through the cold air. It was still burning when it hit Judith's bare arm.

“What?” she asked, sounding more annoyed than distressed. Before William had time to move, she batted the debris away with the bare fingers of her other hand, just as she might have flicked off a troublesome insect. It landed on the ground, where William immediately poured half the contents of his bucket onto it, then trod the smoking black remnants into the dirt.

After that he looked up, his heart going still in the aftermath of danger. At least Judith wasn't screaming yet. “Are you all right?” he asked and looked immediately toward her arm.

The skin there was smudged with ash. He couldn't tell anything for sure. But he would have expected blistering or at least redness. As far as William could see, Judith's arm looked as it always had: slim, muscular, slightly darker than fashionable—and completely uninjured, as were all of her fingers.

“Oh.” She followed his gaze and gasped. It sounded overdone to William, and the relieved smile she gave him looked shifty. “I must have brushed it off before it could burn me. Thank God for absentmindedness, aye? And reflexes.”

“Yes, quite,” said William.

He did give thanks, despite himself. He thanked God for whatever had left Judith whole and unhurt instead of writhing with charred flesh. He just didn't know what that had been.