Malcolm struggled against the grip.
“Stop! You’ll kill him!” A voice shouted and Malcolm felt himself being dragged away from the Irishman.
Malcolm tore himself free and turned to strike. He stared into Simon’s eyes. He managed to freeze his blow in midair. Simon’s gaze flicked to the bloody fist suspended a few inches from his chin. He looked back at Malcolm as if seeking a glint of reason.
Simon put out a cautious hand, his voice even. “Stop, Malcolm. Do you hear me?”
Malcolm waited for a long minute, gasping for air, tasting blood and smelling charred flesh. He looked back at the figure of Ferghus, who lay helpless in a pool of red. Malcolm’s arms dropped to his sides. He managed to gasp out, “Charlotte,” but his voice didn’t even sound like his own. It sounded older.
Beyond Simon, Penny was quickly dousing the fire in the room with a canister of Kate’s oily flame retardant. Under the coating of goo, the walls and shelves and floors were charred.
Then Malcolm caught sight of Charlotte’s burnt body on the floor and it wiped all the rage from him. He pulled away from Simon and ran toward her, dropping to his knees. Kate was already at the girl’s side and slathering a salve on the worst of her injuries. She pushed the container into Malcolm’s hands, which were wet with Ferghus’s blood.
“Smear this over the burns. All of them.” It was a command and he took Charlotte’s scalded frame onto his lap. He dug his fingers into the cooling gel and began to wipe it on the back of the little girl. When she wasn’t a beast, she was so small.
Kate left to check on Imogen, who stood helplessly nearby, shaking. Imogen stared at Charlotte with panic etched on her bloodless features. Kate approached her gently. She touched the burnt fabric of Imogen’s tattered dress. “You did all you could. Are you hurt?”
Imogen shook her head.
“Let me look.” To Kate’s relief, Imogen didn’t fight her, and she was telling the truth. Her pale skin was only slightly red, as if she had stayed too long out in the sun. Perhaps she had her own remarkable healing ability or she was just plain lucky.
“She should have let go,” Imogen said, her eyes never leaving Charlotte’s still form. “Why didn’t she let go?”
Kate shook her head. “She was protecting us. Nothing stops her.”
Malcolm rubbed salve over Charlotte’s blistered raw cheek. His hands were shaking. They had never done that before. Her burns looked horrific. His breath rasped in and out as he held the panting girl.
Kate lifted his chin, forcing his face to turn to her. “All right. I’ll take her now. Go and help Simon with Ferghus.”
Malcolm slowly nodded, easing Charlotte down onto a pillow that Penny brought. He stood over her. He wiped his hands then along the length of his pants, but couldn’t remove the blood or the gel. Finally, he went over to Simon, who was kneeling low over Ferghus. Malcolm focused on the bloody froth bubbling from the Irishman’s lips and immediately started to seethe. “How is he? Dead?”
Simon looked up. The line of his jaw was set hard. “Not quite, but not far.”
The Scotsman took Simon’s reaction for anger, and rage burst in him. “I’m glad. You didn’t see what he did to Charlotte and to Imogen. And Barnaby is downstairs, burned to death. Don’t you dare say anything to me about that filth.”
“Thank God you were here,” was all Simon replied. He stood up and shook his head with an accepting sigh.
“Yes, well done, Mr. MacFarlane,” said a delicate voice from the doorway.
Grace North.
“Put your foot on his throat,” she said with a faint smile, “and I can assure you the Crown will be grateful.”
Malcolm looked down at the man he had brutalized, and at his own ragged knuckles. He felt no sympathy for the monster, only regret he failed to beat him senseless before harm came to Charlotte and Imogen.
A sickening realization hit Malcolm hard in the gut. “God. I’m my father. A mindless thug. It didn’t take me long to fall into that role, did it? After years of running, I found him.”
“Mrs. North, it’s rather dangerous in here.” Simon moved rapidly to Grace and firmly pressured her back out into the hall. “I’d hate for the ceiling to cave in on top of you. Ah, here’s Hogarth. Would you escort Mrs. North back to her carriage, thank you so much. Good day to you, Mrs. North.” Outrage marred her pretty face as Hogarth appeared, but he brooked no argument with nothing more than a polite nod up the hallway. Simon shut the blackened door in her face.
“Malcolm, you idiot.” Simon turned to the Scotsman with a softening demeanor. “You aren’t becoming your father. You’re becoming a father.” He pointed at the two girls.