The Kindling Heart (11 page)

Bree launched into another attack, jabbing his midriff and raking his skin with her nails.

“Be still, ye wee hellion!” Ruan bellowed, pinning her wrists behind her back.

For a moment, he thought she was going to retch; her pasty skin seemed almost yellow. Purple and black streaks adorned her nose and cheekbones. Marriage to him hadn’t served her well. In two days, she had transformed from a lass with bright green eyes to a drowned, underfed chicken. As her foot grazed his shin, he winced, quickly amending the thought to a mean-spirited, drowned, underfed chicken.

Another well-placed kicked wrenched a new succession of curses from his lip, but as her tears began to flow—real ones—his exasperation fled. Of all things, tears affected him the most. One slid down her cheek. Succumbing to a wave of pity, he wiped it gently with his thumb.

Bree gulped, frowning in a way he could not fathom.

For several long minutes, they stared wordlessly at each other.

Finally, her cracked lips opened. She wailed, “I’m not wedding anyone!”

Gazing down into the bright eyes brimming with tears, Ruan sighed, “Aye, ‘tis a wee bit late, lass.”

It was supposed to be comforting, or so he thought, but his response seemed only to renew her resistance. Balling her fists, she struck his chest, but more in blows of frustration than anything else. In spite of his best efforts, he grinned. Battling to the last breath was something he could understand, even for a hopeless cause such as this one. Lips twitching, he easily recaptured her wrists in a single hand. They were unusually small hands, perfectly shaped.

The fingers jerked free from his grasp. Startled, he met her eyes once more.

“You’ll die if you touch me!” her slurred threat ended with a hiccup, rendering it anything but intimidating.

He could smell the whiskey on her breath.

His grin widened.

Her hand fumbled near his belt before closing over the hilt of his sword. Assuming a fierce expression, she attempted to frighten him. “I’ll sever your manhood whilst you sleep!”

To emphasize the statement she tugged at the blade, several times.

On the third attempt, the sword cleared the scabbard almost an inch.

“Aye,” Ruan laughed outright, his lips curving into a suggestive smile. “But ‘twould take even a larger blade; ye’ve nae a prayer if ye canna lift this one.” His hand closed over hers. Not as a deterrent, but simply to watch her eyes flash defiantly once more.

As expected, they did, and he felt an unexpected tingle of desire creep down his spine. Shocked, he caught his breath. What ailed him? Had he forgone the company of a woman so long that anything was tempting? She was hardly appealing in her physical state and, frankly, she smelled like a pig. Why was he staying? He should be walking away. Unnerved, he pried her fingers from his chest and pushed her back as if she were poison, nearly falling into the tub. With a curse, he regained his balance and shook his hands as if ridding himself of her. Yes, the less he saw of this particular female, the better. She was disconcerting.

Straightening his plaid, he prepared to leave.

Domnall stood next to Isobel, both silent, and both smiling.

He flushed, startled. Again, he’d forgotten them. He felt strangely exposed, but Isobel didn’t allow him to dwell on it.

“I’ll be needing ye now, lad,” she declared, scuttling forward. “The lass needs a washing and—”

Ruan jerked in dismay. In faith, did they believe
he
would bathe her?

“By the Saints!” he swore, shouting at the top of his lungs. “I’ve had enough!”

Nearly tripping over the tub again in his haste to leave, he bolted.

At the foot of the stairs, Domnall caught up with him.

“Ruan, lad, a word with ye!”

Gritting his teeth, Ruan spun on his heel with exaggerated slowness.

“Ye’d best be getting yer arse up the tower and to the wife,” Domnall said. He seemed inordinately amused, but his tone was commanding. With an ever-widening smile, he added, “’Tis yer wedding night.”

Ruan stared.

“The sanctity of this marriage canna be questioned, lad, there is—”

“Is there trouble?” Tormod’s voice slithered through the darkness. “Did she run, again? If she has, I’ll flog her within an inch of her miserable life!”

Ruan whirled to find his brother observing them from under the arched entrance. His paunchy face was cold and hard.

“Touch her and ye’ll be gutted like a pig, Tormod!” he promised passionately. “Is that simple enough to remember?” It was not that he felt the need to protect his newly wed wife. Well, perhaps he owed the lass for such a miserable start. No, he told himself, he simply desired to be done with Tormod, once and for all.

Tormod paled in anger.

“All is well,” Domnall inserted smoothly, placing a restraining hand on Ruan’s shoulder. “The lad’s on his way to his bedchamber even now.”

Cuilen and Robert appeared behind Tormod.

Ruan swallowed, appalled, and then Domnall was pulling him up the stairs.

“Ye don’t have to touch her,” the man hissed in his ear at the chamber door. “Just stay the night, that’s all that is needed, lad.”

Domnall’s strong arm caught him off-guard, thrusting him into the room and Ruan stumbled, catching his balance. He straightened to find Bree slumping in the wooden tub, in the most peculiar manner; eyes closed and mouth open, seeming more dead than alive.

Isobel’s brows formed a grim line as she said, “Come here, lad.”

He held still, not intending to step closer to that alabaster expanse of naked skin.

“Come here!” Isobel ordered uncharacteristically. “And be quick!”

Ruan obeyed out of mere surprise. Rarely did Isobel speak sharply to anyone, and as he drew close, he understood. Scars and healing bruises covered Bree’s exposed shoulders and back.

“She’s been ill-used, the wee lass,” Isobel said with thin lips.

He scarcely heard. He stared at the fading injuries. The journey from England must have been excruciating.

“Ye’d best be careful,” Isobel warned, wiping her hands on her skirt. “She’s drunk.”

Ruan turned to her, baffled.

“Ach, lad, she’s slipping.”

Bree’s nose was perilously close to the water.

“I’m nae staying here,” he said quickly. He stepped back, but Isobel was already gone.

He cursed vehemently, but a gurgle from the tub brought his attention back to Bree just in time to observe her sinking blissfully under the water. Swearing again, he grabbed her hair and tipped her upright.

She coughed, sputtering for air, but her eyes remained closed.

Involuntarily, Ruan peeked at her back once more. She was painfully thin. Her ribs and spine sharply outlined. Scars from past whippings laced her back. He wondered who had dared to treat her so cruelly. He could not think of much that would warrant such punishment. Certainly, nothing a slip of a lass could do. He knitted his brows in a brooding frown.

The minutes passed and he waited impatiently for Isobel’s return. He faithfully rescued Bree each time she sank below the surface. Finally, he sighed, acknowledging that Isobel had truly abandoned him. As Bree slouched again, he lifted her out of the tub in a smooth motion accompanied by a loud growl of frustration. Averting his gaze, he carried her to the bed, though carefully, and swiftly covered her with a blanket.

For a time, he stood mesmerized by the strangely fierce lass, unable to believe the recent chain of events that had tied his life to hers. He felt a ripple of admiration that she’d fought so valiantly, with such injuries. There was a strength there he’d seen in few, man or woman.

With his heart stirring in the most uncomfortable manner, he moved to take advantage of the still-warm bath water, reminding himself once again that he was finished with women. Aye, what decent woman would want him, anyway?

Bree burrowed deeper into the softness with a smile. She must have fallen asleep on Aislin’s bed. The woman would be far from pleased, but she savored the moment with guilty pleasure. A sudden image of Aislin’s pale face with the priest praying over her unleashed a host of memories.

No. Aislin was dead.

Groggily, she forced her heavy lids to open.

She recognized only that she was not in Thurston Hall. The grey light of morning revealed a small hearth, a chest, and a wooden tub wedged between it and the bed. Puzzled, she slowly sat up, strangely sore.

It was then that she saw him.

A man sprawled half across the foot of the bed, half on the floor.

She screamed.

He leapt to his feet, dazed, reaching instinctively for his sword but bumping against the wooden tub. Losing his balance, he fell heavily. A cold wave of water rose to deluge the bed, and its iciness jolted her memory.

Ruan.

Yes, the man struggling to his feet, shaking his wet shoulder length hair, the man with the scowling brows and dark, angry eyes focused solely on her was her husband. Her father had simply delivered her to him. Her
husband
.

Her scream abruptly shifted into a squeak.

She ducked her head, frantically searching the clutter of memories returning all at once. The priest had been standing in front of her, blessing her with hands unwashed for months. She’d tried to escape several times. Her nose had been broken.

Gingerly, she felt the swollen tip.

She’d slipped into a boat and then wandered on the moors. The howling wind had been so bitterly cold it had almost burned. She’d lost sensation in her toes and finger.

She shuddered.

The thought of dying had been much easier when not faced with it.

At present, she was willing to do anything rather than be wet and cold again. Almost anything, she amended quickly, anything that didn’t have to do with the man glaring down at her. There was no need to fret. He’d be so furious that she wouldn’t survive the day.

Heart pounding loudly, she waited, trying in vain not to think. The minutes passed. The silence lengthened. Finally, unable to bear the suspense a moment longer, she opened an eye.

She was alone.

She scanned the room, half expecting him to jump from the shadows, but the chamber was small and there was no place for a man of his size to hide.

Then, she saw the open door.

He had gone.

Bree expelled a long breath, not knowing whether to be relieved or worried. She was exhausted and she ached. She didn’t have the strength or desire to attempt another escape. Yet, neither did she want to be there when Ruan returned.

A fine shift and gown lay on the wooden chest next to the bed. Shivering, she glanced down and caught her breath in horror. She was unclothed. Flushing hotly, she reached for the clothing and dressed quickly, making her mind up all at once. She had to find her father. He had created this chaos, and it was his duty, his obligation, to mend it. She’d demand he take her away from Dunvegan.

Wanting to avoid Ruan at all costs, she forced her weary bones to carry her out of the chamber and down the stairs. The passageway at the bottom appeared empty, but she’d scarcely left the safety of the tower before the sound of advancing feet sent her scurrying to the nearest door. A quick peek revealed a dimly lit but empty chamber, and she slipped in.

Her relief was short-lived.

As her vision adjusted to the darkness, she saw that it was not empty after all. In the corner stood a man, the cold one who had remained seated during her wedding. He’d observed her with watery blue eyes that made her flesh crawl. Ruan had called him Tormod, and she vaguely recalled him to be Ruan’s brother. He leaned against a chair holding a book, but he was not looking at the pages.

He was watching her.

“Bree,” his eyes dipped over her body. “Aye, ‘tis time ye knew me. I’m the laird, The MacLeod.”

Bree swallowed.

Tossing the book onto a nearby table, he strode forward.

She watched him draw near, knowing she should curtsey, but it was impossible to move. He was standing close, too close. She could smell the whiskey on this breath. Panic flooded her. Much to her horror, his eyes seemed focused upon her breasts.

“Ye aren’t much to look at now,” he tripped over his words. “Aye…but ye’ll be as ye were. Soon, I’ll warrant.”

The sun had just risen, and the man was already drunk. Mercifully, the door to the chamber opened, and he jumped guiltily. With his attention distracted, she escaped the room to flee down a passageway and run up a narrow flight of steps. Poised at the top, she took a deep breath and trembled. She’d just bolted from the Lord of the castle’s presence. He’d be furious at her impertinence. How could she explain herself, how could she tell him that he’d simply stood too close? She wrung her hands.

“Bree!”

She cringed.

Tormod had followed.

He was likely going to beat her. Succumbing to fear, she ran forward, half stumbling in her haste to the bottom of the steps and into the open air. She squinted in the intense sunlight, gradually becoming aware of men, many of them, eyeing her curiously.