Chapter Twenty-Seven

Irene and Logan followed Bridget toward the matchmaker quarters near the Great Hall. Bridget had been quiet during the rest of the time it took to get there. Irene had tried to engage her in conversation, but she’d simply shaken her head and repeated that her sister had to be the one to answer any questions. Bridget kept muttering under her breath and pausing to look out the windows they passed along the way. Irene wasn’t a party planner, but she’d attended enough weddings, baby showers, and going-away celebrations to suspect that this event had taken a sharp detour. As crazy as it had sounded at the time, Logan’s wrecking ball theory sounded more plausible than an earthquake.

And Bridget, instead of denying the theory, had refused to respond.

When they neared their destination, Logan held back. He glanced in the direction of a bank of narrow windows that overlooked a wide expanse of meadowland and a copse of trees. “There are more lights than there were a few hours ago,” he said, more to himself than to Irene.

“It’s nighttime and Christmas Eve,” Irene said with hope, thinking about the armed men she’d seen in the courtyard. “People turn on their lights when it gets darker.”

Despite her explanation, she moved to where he was standing. She’d learned from entries in her mother’s diary that the narrow windows were referred to as arrow slits. Archers could attack the enemy below but still have a degree of protection from the surrounding walls. But how much protection would there be if the castle was under attack? She shook her head against the question. She was being paranoid and irrational. Despite Julia’s claims to the contrary, this was the twenty-first century, not the thirteenth.

Logan held out his arm, preventing her from getting any closer. Keeping his gaze locked on the windows, he shouted, “Those aren’t lights. They’re flaming arrows, and they’re headed straight toward us. Everyone get down!” He pulled Irene behind him as arrows arched toward the castle.

They were under attack. Most of the arrows struck the outside walls and bounced off.

However, more and more managed to sail through the windows, as though the archer’s aim improved with each volley. One lodged in a man’s leg, and one in the hem of a woman’s skirt. People rushed to help them. Logan covered Irene with his body as flaming arrows shot past them.

Everything happened at once. Screams tore through the air. Shouts to close the shutters and a call to arms vibrated around her. More flaming arrows made it through and set a tapestry on fire. Irene jumped to her feet and helped Julia with the tapestry while Logan helped with the shutters. Other women rushed to help, and Irene recognized them as some of those who had served their dinner earlier.

Together they tore the tapestry from the wall and stomped out the flames before they spread. Fiona appeared out of nowhere with a drawn sword, accompanied by a tall man dressed in chainmail and armed with not only a sword but also a shield. Irene almost didn’t recognize her, she seemed so different from the young woman in the ponytail who’d sold her a ticket for this tour.

The castle shook. The vibration was stronger than the ones they’d experienced on the stairwell. Another volley of arrows shot through the windows still unshuttered, and one grazed Logan’s shoulder. His shirt caught on fire. Irene ripped one of the green-and-red banners from the wall, rushed to his side, and smothered the flames.

“Stand back,” Bridget yelled as she raced over and threw a bucket of water over Logan. She bent down to examine the wound. “Minor burn. Nothing serious. The arrow grazed the skin, and the fire cauterized the wound.” She patted him on the arm. “You’ll be fine.”

Irene ground her teeth together as she tore his shirt away from the wound. Bridget was right, the bleeding had stopped, but none of this should be happening. She was surrounded by a confusing mix of sights and sounds, each image more vivid than the last. The initial shock in those around her had worn off and had been replaced by a response to the call to arms as though the attack were as normal as rush hour traffic.

Shouts rose outside from the men attacking the castle.

“Surround the castle!”

“Those inside, prepare to die!”

Logan rolled to a sitting position, grimaced, and pushed to his feet, pulling Irene along with him. “I’ve attended my share of reenactment festivals in my time, and this is not that.”

Bridget tossed Irene a clean shirt for Logan, spun around, and ran toward Fiona and the tall man, who someone had said was Liam. Lady Roselyn had arrived, as well, and looked as though she was going to burst into tears or faint or both. She kept pointing toward the side of the castle under attack. Fiona had sheathed her sword and rested one hand on the hilt of her blade. She was the picture of a warrior woman. The tall man at her side motioned to Angus and about a dozen men to follow him outside.

“You’ll be fine,” Logan said under his breath, repeating Bridget’s words. He rolled his shoulder and grimaced again. “I’ve had a lot of injuries playing rugby. I can honestly say that a flaming arrow is a first. My guess is that the sisters were as surprised as we were.”

“I agree.” Irene’s thoughts raced as fast as her beating heart as she helped him tear away what remained of the charred shirt. The attack felt too real. Was Julia right? Had they traveled back to the thirteenth century? She helped Logan put on the shirt Bridget had provided. “You keep saving me.”

His grin was boyish as he kissed the tip of her nose. “It’s an excuse to hold you in my arms.” He retrieved the arrow from the ground and examined the feathers and shaft. A muscle flexed along his jaw. “Handmade. Not machine. They sure take their reenactments seriously around here.”