The Kindling Heart (2 page)

“Be at peace, Ewan,” Ruan said, giving the lad’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. Raising his voice, he added, “Be at peace. Ye’ve shown more loyalty than many a MacLeod here this night!”

The clansmen averted their eyes uncomfortably. They were in an unenviable position. By their own lips, they had sworn loyalty to Tormod. However, their hearts belonged to Ruan.

Unnerved at Ruan’s troublesome influence over the clan, Tormod snapped, “I should behead the lot of ye!” His chin jiggled a little as he pointed to the men behind Ruan. “Inciting God-fearing men to break their oaths, stealing a man’s wife on his wedding night, and bringing the wrath of the MacDonald on the clan…these are all acts of disloyalty! Aye! Ye be my own blood, Ruan, but ye’ve scarce shown it this night!”

“I rescued my sister, a wee bairn, and brought her home!” Ruan exploded, temper blazing dangerously as he drew himself to his full height. “If ye dinna protect the innocents of this clan…I
will
!”

He cut a daunting figure. Every line of his lean, hard body, spoke of power.

Tormod faltered, taking a step back but it was a grave mistake. Every clansman witnessed it and every clansman knew it for what it was.

He was afraid of this compelling brother of his and his growing power.

“She is a MacDonald now! Wed proper in a kirk,” Tormod said. He wet his lips before addressing the men standing resolutely behind Ruan. “Dare ye risk the wrath of yer laird for this? Ruan is a penniless beggar who can give ye nothing! He has only the braw name of MacLeod and is unworthy of even that!”

Ruan opened his mouth to retort but it was cut short.

“Silence, lad, let it be,” a new voice inserted mildly.

Robert MacLeod, uncle to both men, stepped from the shadows to study his nephews. He peered at them, his iron-grey hair framing a stern brow.

“Ye didn’t…” Tormod whispered, shocked, unable to finish the question.

“Aye,” the man replied softly. Every inch of him exuded a commanding presence. “I too rode with Ruan.”

Tormod paled and took a step back in the stunned silence that followed. That his uncle, the most respected man of the clan, would ride with Ruan, was a devastating blow. Unconsciously, he took another step back.

“We are the mighty clan of the MacLeods and we protect our own,” Robert Macleod stated with authority. His grey eyes slid over the gathered men before returning to settle on Tormod once more. “Ye ken well enough this unholy union should never have been agreed upon! Cuilen has long been our friend, not Fearghus. Ye’ve only pulled us into their clan wars with this marriage and we’ve no cause to be drawn into their affairs! Ye should have been riding with us— nay, leading us—to that accursed pit of evil!” He radiated disdain.

Visibly intimidated, Tormod merely stared. He was at a loss for words. The silence in the hall grew oppressive and then metal rasped as swords were drawn.

“A MacDonald!” someone called in warning.

Ruan whirled. His hand dropped instinctively to his sword.

A short, grizzled man dressed in MacDonald plaids leaned against the entrance of the great hall, observing the proceedings with overt interest.

“I’m Cuilen’s man of Dunscaithe,” the man said. He raised his hands and stepped slowly into the circle of naked dirks surrounding him. “I bring a message.”

Ruan expelled a pent breath.

Aye, Tormod had made a muckle mess.

The MacDonalds of Dunscaithe had long been an ally of the MacLeods until Domnall’s Irish sister named Bree and his uncle Robert had fallen in love. Their affair had caused a rift bordering on a feud when the lass had died in Dunvegan. Though that had taken place some years ago, relations were still tenuous. They just might break now, with Tormod’s decision to wed his sister Merry to Fearghus, the MacDonald of Duntelm.

Ruan clenched his jaw.

It was a marriage that only the English would make, wedding wee bairns for political gain. His blood boiled in anger, but he took comfort in the fact he’d succeed in procuring an annulment on her behalf. She was a bairn and the marriage was against church law.

The men in the hall were murmuring, eying the messenger with apprehension.

Aye, the Isles had seen more than its fair share of turmoil this past year. With John MacDonald forced to forfeit the Earldom of Ross to the King, the massive loss of land had splintered the MacDonald clan into factions. On Skye, the clan had split in two. Fearghus, MacDonald of the north, was now at war with his cousin Cuilen, MacDonald of the south.

Ruan shook his head.

Of late, Fearghus was behaving as a man deranged. There were rumors he was readying a revolt against the Mackenzies to reclaim the land the King had recently bestowed upon them. He was a fool. Such an action could end only in blood for the Crown solidly supported the Mackenzies. The loss of the Earldom of Ross had proven that.

The MacLeods had no place in these affairs.

Merry’s marriage would do nothing but anger Cuilen and cause harm to the clan. Could Tormod not even see his error?

There was a prolonged silence before Tormod lifted his voice, “Take him to my private chambers.” With that, he spun on his heel and quit the hall.

“Tormod will ruin us all,” someone muttered.

As the chorus of agreement grew louder, Ruan raised his arm.

The clansmen hushed.

“Tormod is The MacLeod,” Ruan said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “I’ll nae have it said otherwise. This matter of Merry lies between brothers and no one else.” He fixed the men in the hall with a firm eye, repeating, “No one else.”

They watched him, muttering amongst themselves as he slipped out of the great hall.

Ruan drew his brows in a brooding scowl. His dealings with Tormod had always been poor. Recent events were rendering them impossible. His brothers were obviously convinced it was his desire to wrest Dunvegan from their grasp. But it was preposterous.

Aye, Tormod was childless, but he had four heirs who would see Dunvegan theirs before Ruan ever did. Two half-brothers, Andrew and Michael, along with their sons, stood between them. Ruan would have to see all five men die before Dunvegan would be his. He sighed. How could his brothers think he’d want so much blood to be spilled?

They truly didn’t know him.

He sighed again.

If he were wise, he’d leave soon. He pressed his cheek against the cold stones of the passageway.

Dunvegan ran through his blood. It always had, even though he spent precious little time within its walls.

As the fifth son, of a fourth marriage, his father, The Black MacLeod, wanted little to do with him and had given him nothing, save the name of MacLeod. His father had been cruel and given to fits of violence. Ruan had been fortunate to escape.

At a tender age, they sent him to foster with Cameron, the young Earl of Lennox. He’d received the finest education and traveled widely in Cameron’s company, spending much time in court, but even more upon the battlefield fighting other men’s wars.

His blood family had all but abandoned him, but Dunvegan only grew stronger in his heart with each passing year. The moors, the forests, the stormy seas, were all rooted deep in his soul. Last winter, he’d finally followed his heart and had returned, much to Tormod’s distaste and alarm.

Having refused him quarters in the castle, Tormod was horrified to learn he’d been welcomed in the crofts. Ruan preferred them anyway. It was no hardship to harvest the fields and sheer the sheep. It was far better than having a man die by his hand. Living with his clan, sharing in happiness and tragedy alike, was healing to his soul.

Since his return, he’d experienced one calamity after another. Just five months past, he’d given all he owned to pay his mother’s ransom in Spain. It was no secret that Tormod and his older brothers had worked in concert with Fearghus to accomplish the kidnapping of his mother by Spanish mercenaries, and for no other reason than to ruin him. They had successfully assured that what little he’d acquired was reduced to even less. In his mind, their steadfast refusal to donate even one shilling to her ransom had all but proven their complicity.

He expelled a breath.

And now, they were using Merry.

Squaring his shoulders, he used the rope spanning the length of the tower stairs to climb the steps three at a time. An image of his tiny sister fled through his mind. The welts and bruises, the eye he feared would never see again. Overcome by emotion, he paused to compose his thoughts, banging his head lightly against the wall.

Aye, he knew the real reason Tormod had arranged Merry’s marriage to Fearghus was to show the clan that the half-brother he’d hated since childhood had no control over his own sister’s destiny, and that her destiny was a tool to be used against him. He’d always known of his brother’s hatred toward him, but he hadn’t known the depth of it. Not until now.

A bairn. Why had Tormod used an innocent bairn this way, his own blood no less?

Tears welled as he again felt the cold rage and the utter horror of what his brother had done.

The night before, he’d left Dunvegan with Ewan and a handful of others to spirit his sister away. His plan to kill Fearghus ultimately failed, but he’d succeeded in wounding the man’s leg just as MacDonalds crashed into the chamber. Ruan had barely escaped.

In the confusion, Ewan had carried Merry to her uncle Robert who had left the horses to wait in a hidden boat outside Duntulm’s walls. When Ruan joined them, they slipped away in the misty night. He would never forget that first sight of his wee sister’s face. He’d held Merry close, brushing her matted hair and cradling her to his chest. The tears flowed.

His plan was to take Merry to Inchmurrin, to his foster brother, the Earl of Lennox but he’d fallen asleep in the boat, only to awaken and find they had returned to Dunvegan. Ruan had risen, ready to slay his uncle for this betrayal. Why would Robert, the man he revered as a father, betray him so? As much as he loved Dunvegan, he’d never intended to return knowing the monster serving there as Laird would use her as a pawn whenever he pleased. Merry was no longer safe. He’d yet to fathom Robert’s purpose in defying his plan.

But it was too late now. Merry could not move until she healed and regained her strength.

“She’s a strong lass, Ruan. She’s always been a wee hellion,” a voice said, breaking into his thoughts. “And, there’s no need to despair over her eye, lad, nae yet. Give it time.”

Ruan spun sharply to see Isobel standing on the steps above him. Isobel was his mother’s maid, but more a mother to him than his own had been. She was a short, round woman, long past her prime. However, to him, she was the most beautiful and dearest of women on earth. She’d been there from the minute of his birth, holding his heart in a way no one else could.

“She’s awake, now, lad, waiting for ye.”

Taking a deep breath, he joined her on the landing to kiss the top of her graying head. The gesture caused a tear to trickle down Isobel’s cheek. Ruan sighed. She was worried about Merry as well, even though she tried to hide it for his sake. He drew a long breath, preparing himself to see the worst. Ducking under the low archway, he slipped inside Merry’s chamber.

There was little light in the small, vaulted room. The glow of the fire didn’t reach the bed or its slight occupant. As he approached, a small hand stretched out in his direction.

“Ruan,” the thin, wavering voice croaked.

Choking back tears, he knelt beside her and forced his lips to smile. “Ye look much better, my Merry wee lass,” he said. It was a lie. He bent down and tenderly kissed the tip of her nose.

She appeared much worse. The shadows accentuated bruises that gave her the most grotesque of appearances. He wanted to scream from pure rage.

“Ruan?” Fear rippled in her voice. He clenched his hands, wanting to rip Fearghus and Tormod to shreds. With a great effort, he forced what he thought to be a reassuring smile. And he promised himself there would be time for Tormod and Fearghus later.

“Ye’ll never go back, my Merry wee lass,” he vowed fervently, tweaking her chin lightly as he always had. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on the mass of black bruises and added, “I swear ye’ll be safe now.”

Merry let out a sigh of relief. Her small frame shook with sobs.

With his own tears flowing freely, Ruan gently gathered her into a comforting embrace. He suppressed a sigh, desperately wishing he could erase the memory of her cries. He’d hear those sounds until the end of his days. He stayed that way, holding her in his arms long after she’d fallen asleep. He left only when Ewan came to take his place. Ewan was someone he could trust.

He’d scarcely taken a step from the chamber before Robert, Isobel and several elders accosted him.

“I tried, lad,” Robert said, greeting him with a sigh and rubbing his head, “I…tried.”

An elder brushed his uncle aside, holding out his hand, “Come. The MacLeod is waiting for ye in the hall.”

Ruan’s lip curled irreverently and he took a calculated step back. He was hardly in the mood to speak with Tormod again.

“Ye’d best go,” Isobel chimed in, oddly subdued.

At her strange behavior, Ruan tensed, suddenly alert. His fingers itched for his dirk, but he finally agreed with reluctance and allowed them to guide him back to the hall.