The Kindling Heart (16 page)

She was crying, wiping her nose on her sleeve, and then something pressed against her lips. A burning liquid seared her throat. Whiskey.

She gasped, choking.

“There,” Ruan said. “That should warm ye, lass.”

Bree drew a long wavering breath, startled into silence.

The corner of Ruan’s lip twisted as he pressed the whiskey to her lips once more.

Shaking her head, she pushed the flask away.

“Aye…‘tis vile stuff,” he agreed, shrugging his shoulders. He hefted the flask several times before draining it. “I’ve only taken back to it this past month. I’d sworn off of drink and women years ago … I should really … be done with it all … I’m really nae certain …”

His voice trailed and it was only then Bree noticed she was standing far too close to him.

Merry had disappeared.

Somehow, she’d moved to where he sat on the chest. His powerful thighs pressed on either side of hers; his arm draped casually about her waist. She could feel his chest heaving beneath her breast as she clutched his shirt. Horrified, she willed her fingers to let go, but they clenched tighter of their own accord, digging deeper into the cloth.

His dark eyes bore into hers, and she suddenly felt as if she were drowning. From far away, she heard her voice crack, “Thank you for … coming for me.”

“Thank Merry. The lass is quite smitten with ye,” Ruan gave her a half-smile. He grew serious and added, “‘Tis I who should be thanking ye, lass. For all ye’ve done for my wee sister.”

Bree swallowed, remaining where she was. She should move away, but there was an odd comfort in the arm of steel encircling her waist. What ailed her? She should be running. Was she no longer capable of clear thinking?

Ruan leaned close, his lips brushing the top of her ear.

A chill crept down her spine.

“I’ve … had a wee bit too much … drink,” he murmured as if in apology. “Ye’d best be … getting out of that gown.”

Alarm rippled through her, but she could not move.

“I meant, into something else,” Ruan hastily amended, clearing his throat. “Nae rid of it entirely! Aye, I know … ye have to take it off, to switch … but … ye canna stay undressed…”

The faint color creeping up his neck was strangely comforting.

All at once, he exploded, “By the Saints, woman, enough blethering! Ye just wailed your dress reeked of a pigsty! Sweet Mary! I only meant to help! Change and have done!”

Her dress did reek. She smelled as if she’d been wallowing in muck and there had been spiders. The thought of spiders creeping in her skirts made her panic once again. She leapt from his arms and began to stomp her feet, shaking her skirts in a mad dance.

He stared at her, open-mouthed.

Something tickled her neck and she gasped, trying to brush it off, “Is it gone? Is it gone?”

Ruan scowled, “Have ye gone daft?”

“The spiders!” Bree shivered uncontrollably, hysteria rising once again. She clawed the laces of her dress and had it half off before she belatedly recalled Ruan’s presence.

He was staring at her with an expression she decided not to interpret.

She flushed scarlet. Clutching her dress close, she took a step back. The whiskey must be affecting her adversely.

Ruan blinked and shook his head a little then reeled unsteadily to lean against the bed. Shrugging out of his shirt and plaid he began to curse profusely as he kicked his clothing halfway across the chamber. Pitching headlong onto the bed, he rolled onto his back and covered his face with a muscled arm.

When he showed no sign of moving, Bree wasted no more time in shedding her gown and shaking her shift. The slow, rhythmic sound of his breathing signaled he’d fallen asleep. She took a long, wavering breath. It had been a trying day. She wanted to sleep herself, but a man now occupied the bed.

Cautiously, she cast a furtive glance his way.

Ruan lay on his back, naked, and carelessly exposed. Even in the darkness of the chamber, she could see every inch of him. He was lean, a mass of muscle, his stomach sculpted and his thighs powerfully built. In spite of herself, she allowed a timid yet curious inspection. Her pulse quickened as warmth flooded her.

Confused, and with a growing sense of shame, she turned her head. The whiskey must be affecting her judgment.

It was chilly.

Guiltily, she wrapped herself in Ruan’s discarded plaid, the smell of heather and smoke oddly comforting. She yawned, tired. She’d have to find some place to sleep. The loud, boisterous laughter wafting up from the hall below banished any thought she might have had of venturing outside the chamber. No. Ruan hadn’t been jesting when he warned that Dunvegan was dangerous, especially at night.

The tiny chamber yielded few options. The floor was unsuitable; the thin layer of rushes did nothing to dampen the cold. The bed, covered by an unclothed man, was entirely out of the question. The only item remaining was the chest.

It proved hard, cold, and bumpy. For a time, she perched on it, resting her forehead upon her knees and struggled to keep warm as the night chill deepened.

Ruan began to snore.

She shifted uncomfortably. There was no fire and the chamber grew colder by the minute. The man on the bed sighed contentedly in his sleep. She sent him a resentful stare. For a time, she rubbed her fingers together briskly. Her nose was icy to the touch. She shivered, recalling the coldness of the moors.

Ruan twisted on his side, dragging the covers with him. He appeared extraordinarily comfortable. Bree eyed him enviously. It was simply unfair that the man would lie, stripped bare, impervious to the chill while she huddled, freezing, on a hard chest.

As her nose began to drip, her convictions wavered.

Ruan’s sleep was deep.

She could huddle at the foot of the bed and leave before he woke. He’d never be the wiser. He truly lacked interest in her, anyway. Domnall had said every lass lusted after him. He must have a lover. The thought caught hold and gave her a sense of security. Of course, a man so handsome would have his pick of anyone. Relief filled her. He wouldn’t be interested in her. She didn’t want to acknowledge that thought was disappointing.

Time marched on. Finally, cursing herself for her weakness, and Ruan’s heart was firmly taken by another, she crept to the foot of the bed.

Eager for a warm place to rest, she slid under the coverlet and huddled in a tiny ball. She reveled in the warm softness, promising she’d wake first and be gone before dawn.

“Such a fine, naked arse, lad!” A woman chuckled.

Groggily, Bree frowned and wished the voice would go away. She was incredibly warm. She hadn’t been this comfortably warm in ages.

“Isobel?” A voice grunted in her ear.

Bree grimaced at the loud rumbling. She didn’t want to wake up. She was warm. She briefly wondered what the leaden weights across her chest and legs were, but it didn’t matter. It was the source of the wonderful warmness. With a smile of pleasure, she burrowed deeper, preparing to drift once again to sleep.

The weight stirred. Something tickled her cheek. Startled, she lifted her lashes to spy several strands of long, dark hair falling about her.

Ruan was examining her, with great interest, from mere inches away.

Her heart stopped.

“This thing reeks, lad. I’ll have it washed.”

From the corner of her eyes, Bree saw Isobel suspend Ruan’s shirt at arm’s length.

“Ach, and Bree, what have ye done to yer dress? It smells like a dung heap!” Isobel clucked, adding Bree’s gown to the pile. “I’ve another for ye in Merry’s room. I’ll fetch it. Ne’er have I seen a lass go through gowns as fast as ye, love!”

Bree swallowed as Ruan continued to stare.

“Just lie abed with the wee wife, lad. After these latest doings, few will blame ye,” the woman said, her aged face bright with amusement.

Frantically, Bree searched her memory. She’d slipped under the covers at the foot of the bed. How had she maneuvered to end up under the man?

Ruan hadn’t moved. He lay half upon her, still observing in a manner she dare not interpret. Her lips remained paralyzed, but she could not find the words to say anyway. She didn’t know how long they stayed there. Time seemed suspended and then from outside the window the sound of bagpipes split the air.

Startled, she jumped, her elbow striking something hard.

Ruan growled, sitting up and rubbing his jaw. “’Tis only the piper with the morning lament.”

“Aye,” Isobel said, bustling back into the chamber and dropping another gown on the chest. “’Tis how proper folk wake, lass.”

“I’ll be… needing this,” Ruan growled, pulling the plaid from her and averting his eyes. Swathing himself, he pushed past Isobel just as a loud bang sounded on the door. He flung it open to reveal a grim Ewan.

“They found Sean,” the blond youth said bleakly.

“Blessed Mary!” Isobel’s voice caught, her shoulders sagged in grief.

Ruan sucked his breath and then banged his forehead against the wall several times before sighing, “I’ll tell her.”

“Your nephew… Andrew’s son… Duncan…” Ewan’s voice trailed.

Ruan bowed his head.

“Well, we’ll never know now,” Ewan cleared his throat. “His throat was slit from ear to ear.”

“Blessed Mary!” Isobel repeated, but this time, her tone seemed only dutiful.

“Aye, well,” Ruan said, heaving a deep sigh. “I’ll be going to Jenna then.”

He hesitated on the threshold, half turning her direction, but then he shrugged and pushing past Ewan, disappeared down the passageway.

Bree expelled a sigh of relief, glad the man was gone. He was unsettling, in all respects. Rubbing her burning cheeks, she met Isobel’s all-knowing gaze.

“Ach, now, lass,” the woman said softly, cocking her head to the side. “Out of bed with ye now, we’ve work to do. I’m sending ye down to the dairy. Jenna needs a wee bit of help.”

Ruan paused outside the dairy, reeling a little from the tidings of Sean and Duncan’s deaths.

The last few weeks had been grueling—and disturbing.

They had become involved far deeper in MacDonald affairs than they should have. Now, the Mackenzie clan was tangled in the mess, keen on defending their newly acquired land from the Crown. The Mackenzies were readying themselves for a much bigger war, having suffered several attacks from Fearghus already, and some of them saw the split of the MacDonald clan as an opportunity to rid themselves of future threats once and for all.

Ruan, Robert, and a handful of MacLeods had ridden hard to meet with the Mackenzies, to ease the rising tensions, and were rewarded with some measure of success. Even though the King had greatly damaged the power structure of the Isles, including Skye, by seizing the Earldom of Ross, he could not entirely erase the relationships that had been cultivated over centuries.

It was on the way back that mysterious arrows began to fly in Ruan’s direction.

The last evening, before they had rejoined Cuilen’s raid against Fearghus, Ruan had narrowly missed a shaft whistling his way and had wheeled his horse toward the thickets to ferret out the culprits.

He had stumbled upon an unexpected scene. Robert stood over the body of Andrew, his half-brother, wiping his dirk on his plaid. He looked up and saw Ruan approach, but said nothing. He merely kicked a quiver of arrows across the clearing.

The arrows didn’t stop with Andrew’s death, but the numbers lessened.

Robert warned Ruan to avoid Andrew’s son, Duncan, and then had disappeared on his horse. He was gone several days before he returned to assure Ruan that it was over.

The arrows had stopped completely then and neither Ruan nor Robert had spoken of it since. Ruan didn’t want to hear if his nephew Duncan was involved. He did not want to believe the lad he’d laughingly dandled on his knee as a bairn was attempting to kill him.

Sadness weighed on his heart.

He’d never understand why his brothers had convinced their offspring that he was intent on their deaths, desiring to kill any who stood in his way of taking Dunvegan. It was entirely untrue.

He shrugged the thoughts away to focus on Jenna. Now, he must tell her that her lover, Sean, was dead.

Jenna had always been his favorite half-sister. Though some within Dunvegan named her the harlot, shunning her for bearing a child to a wedded man, he hadn’t been one to find fault. How could he? She was his sister and the child was innocent. He sighed. Aye, Sean and Jenna had been doomed from the start, but there was naught to do about it now.

She must have seen him approaching. With a wail, she threw herself in his arms.

“He is dead, then!” she gasped, burying her nose in his shoulder.

“Aye, lass,” Ruan sighed, folding her close.

She simply cried for a time before beginning to jabber about the bairn.

“I’ll see to ye both, Jenna,” Ruan said, wiping her tears with his sleeve and patting her belly. “There’s no cause for fear.”