The Kindling Heart (13 page)

She blinked.

“Aye!” Ruan began to pace. Muttering as if merely thinking aloud he said, “I only agreed to this unholy union to save my sister Merry. Once I win her freedom, I’ll have this mockery annulled. So, ye’ve naught to fear. I’ll nae see it consummated, though ye best let Tormod and the others think otherwise.”

Bree caught her breath.

After a time, he sat gingerly on the edge of the bed.

Heart pounding, she could not resist the attempt to inch away.

Catching the movement, a gleam entered his eye and he smiled once more.

“There’s no cause killing yourself to run, lass,” he assured softly. “I’ve no desire for a wife, I’ll nae be touching ye. I respect Domnall and I’d nae harm his last living bairn. He knows that. It must be why he dreamt up this daft scheme. Once I have Merry’s freedom, we can have this thing annulled.”

The sincerity in those dark eyes was difficult to doubt. Bewildered but wary, Bree strove to subdue the hope kindling deep within her heart. With a growing difficulty, she reminded herself he was a man. Her father was a man. Men, by design, were simply untrustworthy. Her father had betrayed her. Why would Ruan be any different? She could not allow herself to trust him in the slightest.

“Aye, I’m hardly a fit husband for a daughter of Domnall,” Ruan scowled, brows deepening into a line. Then, he shook his head and his lips curved in a rueful smile. “Ye look dreadful.”

Leaning close, he slapped her playfully on the knee.

Bree choked in shock.

He seemed rather surprised himself. Jumping hastily to his feet, he hovered uncertainly, when to his obvious relief a knock on the door shattered the awkward moment.

Ruan opened the door and Ewan’s grinning head appeared and spoke Gaelic with a soft urgency. With a warm smile her direction, the lad was gone as quickly as he’d come, closing the door with a loud grating squeak. With a violent curse, Ruan pounded his fist against the bedpost.

Bree bit her lip nervously as she watched him stalk to the chest, peeling his wet shirt along the way. When his plaid quickly followed, she came to the disconcerting realization that he’d forgotten her entirely. Never before had she seen a man unclothed and certainly never one standing so grandly naked in so careless a manner. It was disturbing, yet, if she were honest to herself, strangely and oddly fascinating.

She hadn’t actually looked at him before. She’d been trying to run the opposite direction or had been too drunk to recall anything more than his immense height and voice rife with annoyance. Closer inspection revealed he was quite young himself. His shoulders were broad. His arms were well-muscled and his stomach hard. He was handsome; exceedingly handsome. In spite of her best intentions and the entire situation, her eyes drifted curiously down.

Blushing, she stared. While she was horrified at her boldness, she was also strangely mesmerized.

All at once, Ruan remembered her presence. Startled, he drew his plaid about his waist. A series of indecipherable expressions crossed his face, and then he hurried out the door without a backward glance, dressing himself along the way.

Perplexed, emotions in turmoil and extraordinarily drained, Bree closed her eyes.

She was hot. Burning. Crying for water one moment and freezing the next. Her throat seared with pain. Her head pounded and each breath was an enormous effort. Repeatedly, she felt the murky, frozen water of the loch closing in over her head. The icy water filled her lungs, chilling her very soul.

Voices called her name. More than once, a deep one resonated in her mind, ordering her to drink. Whiskey. It scorched her throat, making her vomit. Sweat drenched her body. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she could breathe.

Utterly worn, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

“Take this, lass, it slockens the cough.”

Someone pressed a cup to her lips. Steeling herself for the revolting taste of whiskey, she was pleasantly surprised with a salty broth.

“Aye, a strong one ...” the voice said. It was overly loud, irritating. “Broth is a sight better than that infernal drink Ruan forced down ye.”

It must be her father. Only Domnall had such a bothersome voice. Slowly, she lifted her lids, squinting in the light, and found him at her side, face drawn and haggard, but green eyes twinkling brightly.

“Ach, ye worried us, Bree,” he scolded affectionately, touching her forehead with a calloused palm.

Bree smiled feebly in return. For one, blissful moment, she felt safe, as if she belonged and then her smile faded. Her father was the man who had betrayed her; wed her to a complete stranger.

Domnall chuckled, delighted, “Aye. Now, there’s a flash of the MacBethad spirit!”

“She’s a MacLeod now,” Isobel commented dourly.

“She’ll always be a MacBethad, woman!”

Bree knit her brows, puzzled and strangely tired. How long had she been ill? Closing her eyes, she drifted off to sleep once more.

At first, the days passed in a patched, hazy sort of way.

Domnall kept a constant vigil by her side assuring her she was safe. He told her that Ruan was gone with Tormod to speak with the Mackenzies and to join Cuilen on raids against Fearghus. Apparently, relations with Fearghus had deteriorated once again. Domnall explained the feuds in detail, along with the role of the Mackenzies now joining the fight, but she could not keep it straight. She listened only because she liked her father’s company and the fact that he’d chosen to remain at her side.

It meant little to her that Ruan was away fighting. She didn’t know the man. If he were to die, she’d be a widow. She was indifferent to that prospect, but then felt guilty that she was. She settled for relief that he was gone and hoped he’d take his time in returning.

The morning was bitterly cold. The sun was unusually bright and for the first time since she’d fallen ill, and Bree thus felt somewhat alive. The window was open and she could hear the sound of a small waterfall. It was pleasant. With a grateful sigh, she stretched full length only to gasp at a small form hunched nearby.

Perched on top of the chest, a pair of brown eyes materialized. The eyes seemed far too aged for the young body they inhabited. One lid was nearly swollen shut, a mass of yellow bruises dusted both cheeks. A young girl, black hair twisted in a severe braid, observed her with an unblinking stare.

Bree licked her dry lips uncertainly.

For a time, the small girl seemed content to just sit, but then she whispered something in Gaelic.

Bree shook her head, uncomprehending.

The youngster frowned, but obligingly switched to English. “Ye’ll be learning the Gaelic, ‘tis nae proper to speak English. I’m Merry.”

Merry. The name sounded familiar.

“I’m Ruan’s sister,” Merry offered, straightening the hem of her dress.

At the sound of his name, Bree unconsciously drew the blanket closer.

Shouting filtered through the open window. They were the sounds of angry men. She shuddered. She was still in Dunvegan. Violence hung in the air.

“—And Ruan has four languages in him,” Merry was still speaking. “He can read… Can ye read?”

Read? She shook her head, wondering why she’d do such a thing.

“I can,” Merry announced. “Ruan has taught me."

A stilted silence fell and they eyed each other for some time before the young girl pointed to the clothing folded at the bottom of the bed.

“Isobel found ye a new gown.”

Under Merry’s watchful eye, she slid from under the warm covers to inspect the dress. Lifting it up, she saw The MacLeod plaid folded underneath. She studied it, disheartened. It would be a surrender to wear it. She turned her attention to the dress and slipped it on.

It was simple and for someone larger than herself but in a serviceable state with only one worn spot on the skirt. It was cold and she shivered, eying the plaid. She hesitated, but quickly caved. She never wanted to be cold again. Grimacing, she flung it over her shoulders.

Merry had moved to straighten the bed, smoothing the coverlet repetitively in an almost obsessive manner. She clearly found it comforting. Not wishing to disturb the child, Bree peered through the small window into the courtyard below.

A few men milled about, shouting angrily. They were large, violent, and fierce. Several had dark hair, and she could not tell if any were Ruan.

She shuddered involuntarily.

“Ruan will come soon,” Merry’s voice broke into her thoughts. “He’s gone to slay Fearghus for ...”

The child’s voice trailed off, and she gestured to her eye. It was enough for Bree to understand that Fearghus had been the cause. She swallowed a gasp. How could anyone harm a child so? Besides Wat, she added grimly to herself.

“’Tis nothing. Ruan will set it right,” Merry said. She lifted her chin firmly and gave the bed a final pat. “’Tis time for the midday meal. Come.”

The meal had apparently ended, there were few left in Dunvegan’s main hall when they arrived. The massive fireplace burned low, unable to penetrate the gathering gloom. They sat timidly at a table in the corner, and a kindly woman brought a loaf of bread along with a platter of meat and pears. Bree ate hungrily, but Merry spent her time tearing up the bread in little pieces and positioning them in lines along the table.

“You should eat,” Bree said, and offered her a chunk of meat. When Merry didn’t respond, she pushed it closer and repeated, “Eating will make you strong. You’ll heal faster.” She was beginning to sound like Afraig, she thought.

Merry regarded her suspiciously and Bree thought she’d slap it away.

“I supposed I should trust ye,” the small girl agreed, albeit grudgingly. “Now that ye wed Ruan, we are sisters.”

Bree frowned, not wanting to hear about Ruan.

Neither spoke the remainder of the meal. Merry only ate what Bree offered, making no move to eat on her own. She concentrated on her lines of bread, fretting if they didn’t share the exact length. Bree eyed her curiously; she was an odd child. But Dunvegan was a peculiar place. They had both just wiped their hands clean when Domnall’s voice from behind caused her to jump.

“Ah, Bree! ‘Tis satisfying to see ye about, lass.”

She bobbed her head in greeting, not knowing whether to be pleased or stoic with him.

“’Tis time ye met Effric,” her father said. “Tormod’s lady, the Lady of Dunvegan.”

“Effric is daft,” Merry cocked her head sidewise. “She spends her days staring out the window. No one pays her any heed.”

“Aye, but she is the Lady of the castle,” Domnall boomed. “Mayhap a wee bit of Bree’s company will do her good.”

“Bree?” Merry gaped at him incredulously. Adopting a visage far too old for her years, she added, “Then, ye ken naught of Effric’s madness. She’ll hate Bree more than any other.”

“Why is that?” Bree asked, disturbed, but Merry frowned and slipped away, obviously wanting nothing to do with this Lady of Dunvegan.

“The lady was a wee bit enamored with Ruan in times past,” Domnall shrugged the matter aside. “’Tis no matter now. Come.”

Uneasiness rippled down Bree’s spine, as he cupped a hand under her elbow and guided her forward.

“Aye, she is Tormod’s third wife and one to pity, lass.” Domnall leaned close to her ear and pointed to a chair placed facing the fire. “There!”

Bree had noticed it earlier, but had assumed it was empty.

As they drew closer, a face peered around the back of the chair. A woman rose as if to greet them, clutching a small ornamental cage that housed a yellow bird.

A rank, disagreeable odor pervaded the air. As Bree stepped closer, it was apparent something was dreadfully wrong with Tormod’s Lady. From a distance, Effric appeared quite lovely, but upon closer inspection her blonde hair lay limp, and unwashed. Her gown was wrinkled and as stained as her bare feet stretched out beneath it. She was a young woman, though she hardly seemed it. And by far the most astounding thing about her was that the source of the unpleasant smell that made it difficult to breathe was the Lady of Dunvegan herself.

“Lady Effric,” Domnall addressed her, bowing respectfully. “May I present ye my daughter, Bree.”

The woman stared vacantly, apparently having lost interest.

Domnall cleared his throat, adding softly, “Ruan’s wife.”

The words had an astonishing effect. The dull blue eyes focused instantly.

“Bree?” Effric repeated.

“Yes, my lady,” Bree swallowed, dipping into a nervous curtsey.

Effric said nothing for several minutes and then suddenly screamed in pure rage, “Is this true? Is this true?”

Involuntarily, Bree stepped back.

“What is this?” Isobel queried as she hurried into the hall, followed by a heavily pregnant woman with flaming red hair.

“Ruan is wed?” Effric screamed. “Wed?”

“Domnall!” Isobel cursed, sending the man a sour glance. “Hold yer tongue, man! I said a wee bit of company and nae to mention the lad!”

“She was nae responding, woman!” Domnall explained brashly, appearing very unapologetic. “I dinna ken she’d—”