Too Scot to Hold (The Hots for Scots #8) - Caroline Lee Page 0,42

to Aunt Agatha’s chambers.

“By St. Luke’s lower mandible,” Graham whispered.

The smoke filled the room, making it impossible to see more than vague shapes. There was coughing, and the sound of flames somewhere in there. Suddenly, a lumpy figure stumbled out of the smoke and slowly resolved into a woman, who was all but dragging a tall man with a burning beard.

“Katlyn!” Kier cried, as he threw himself toward the figure.

Sure enough, his wife glanced up, choked out words Graham couldn’t hear, and stumbled. Kiergan couldn’t reach her in time before she and her grandfather hit the ground, with a sound Graham hoped he’d never again hear.

As he plunged into the smokey chaos, he saw his brother lift Katlyn with one arm under her shoulder and wrapped across her chest, and grab Laird MacKinnon by the scruff of his nightshirt in the other hand, dragging both of them toward the corridor.

Graham might’ve been impressed by that feat of strength, but he knew Aunt Agatha was still in the bed, so he lifted his shirt sleeve to his mouth and began to feel his way forward.

He almost bumped into Vina, who was shuffling backward, bent over and dragging the limp form of his great-aunt. One glance told him the old woman wasn’t breathing and needed help immediately. Brushing Davina aside, he scooped Aunt Agatha over his shoulder, grabbed Vina, and hustled them both out the door.

As they emerged into the blessedly cleaner air of the corridor—someone must’ve opened a window to account for the breeze—bodies pushed past, buckets of water sloshing haphazardly. Graham knew they’d open the windows in the room and douse what remained of the fire, and the castle would be saved, thanks to the localization of the flames and the quick reaction.

The castle would be saved, but what of the victims?

His throat hurt from the smoke, as he croaked, “Give them some room,” moments before he lowered his great-aunt to the floor right there in the corridor.

His hands knew their work, fluttering across Aunt Agatha’s visage, looking for signs of life, even as he examined the scene around him. Katlyn was whimpering, curled into a ball around her belly, and he prayed she hadn’t hurt herself badly in the fall. Kiergan held her, having abandoned Laird MacKinnon to slump along the wall, coughing weakly and swinging his head from side to side.

He was breathing at least, but the false braids woven into the hair of his chin and head still smoldered, filling the corridor with the stench of burning hair.

“Someone cut those off him!” Graham snapped, glad to have an obvious solution. “And take him to—to—”

“To my room,” Davina croaked, dropping to her knees beside him. When he met her eyes, she nodded. “What do we need to do?”

As Alistair pulled his knife and began to hack at her grandfather’s braids, Graham drank in the sight of Davina. Her gown and hair were filthy but were a testament to her bravery. He could’ve lost her so easily today, and his heart ached at the realization.

But there was work to be done. Swallowing down his own feelings, he nodded, then glanced at Alistair. “There’s a jar in my chamber. Rocque should be there with Merewyn. Upper shelf, far right, labeled goatweed balm. Clean the burns and rub them with that, and I’ll see him in a bit.”

His brother nodded, but Graham had already dropped his gaze to Agatha. She still wasn’t breathing. “I’ve— I ken the process but have never tried it. I have to make her breathe again.”

“How?” Vina whispered.

Instead of explaining, Graham set to work. He tipped Agatha’s head backward, clearing the airway from her mouth to her lungs. Thank St. Luke he kenned how the human body worked well enough to understand the need for air in those lungs!

Taking a deep breath—pleased it didn’t hurt, despite the smoke he’d inhaled—he pinched Agatha’s nose and leaned over, exhaling his own breath into her mouth. He watched her chest expand as his breath filled her lungs, but when he straightened, the air sighed out.

“What goes on here?” roared a familiar voice, but Graham didn’t have time to explain the situation to his father. As he leaned back over to breathe for Agatha once more, he heard Davina croak out an explanation.

“What do ye need from me, laddie?” growled Da, as he dropped to his knees beside his aunt, taking one of her limp hands in his big one.

“Prayers,” hissed Graham, when he saw the breath escape his great-aunt’s mouth