The Kindling Heart (20 page)

She must have been tired. She fell asleep almost instantly. She was not aware she’d even done so until she awoke suddenly, disoriented. It took a moment to recall where she was.

The sound of an axe splintering wood resounded through the croft, and any remaining lethargy was shattered. She leapt to her feet.

“Bree!” Tormod yelled drunkenly through the door. “Ye’ve made me angry!”

Bree gulped.

“’Tis no cause to fret, love,” Jenna’s voice echoed softly. “Ruan will handle him.”

Ruan was already there, flinging the door open. He stood in the moonlight with arms crossed and feet planted wide.

“Ruan!” Tormod gulped in alarm, lurching back.

The brothers locked gazes and then Ruan raised a cold brow at the axe embedded in the door.

There was a deadly pause.

“Ye’re here…” Tormod mumbled, licking his lips nervously.

“And why did ye come?” Ruan cocked his head to the side.

“Bree,” Tormod slurred. “I’ve to speak with the lass.”

“What matter do ye wish to speak on in the dead of night?” Ruan drummed his fingers on his arms, flexing them in preparation.

Tormod mopped his sweating brow.

“If I see ye anywhere near Bree, I’ll have your head, be ye The MacLeod or no!” Ruan said through clenched teeth. “And, as violence is the only thing ye can understand, I’ll leave ye with this to remember it by!”

Tormod stared blankly.

It was an unfair fight. Tormod was too drunk to defend himself. In short order, he stumbled away clutching his profusely bleeding mouth and nose. Bree’s consternation warred with a deep ripple of pleasure. It was impossible to resist stealing an admiring glance at Ruan. She hoped Jenna wouldn’t notice.

Ruan wrenched the axe free and tossed it on the chest with a grunt, “That should keep him at bay. I’ll mend the door in the morning and I’ll speak with Robert on—”

“Ruan,” Jenna interrupted in a voice taut with pain. “Ye’d best nae wait to fetch Isobel. The bairn is coming.”

Jenna suffered long into the next day and night, panting and wheezing in excruciating pain. At dawn, Isobel arrived with Merry toting her collection of herbs. She promptly put Bree to work brewing a variety of teas, some for Jenna to ease her suffering and others to keep everyone else awake.

At times, Jenna could not sit still and insisted on walking about the croft. At other times, she huddled on the chair as they rubbed her back. Periodically, Bree stepped outside to inform Ruan and those waiting with him of the progress.

With each passing hour, their anxiety grew, but she did her best to pass on Isobel’s assurances that all was well. After seeing her endless suffering, Bree was convinced she’d much rather die than ever give birth to a child.

“’Tis taking too long!” Jenna screeched in agony.

“Ach, the MacLeods are ones to take their time, lass. It must be a boy…they tend to dally a wee bit,” Isobel crooned and beckoned to Bree. “Here, lass. Take Jenna’s hands for a spell, my fingers have gone numb.”

It hurt dreadfully. With each labor pain, Jenna crushed Bree’s fingers and they both shed tears.

After a time, Isobel took pity and replaced her, sending her out to keep the others abreast of the slow progress. The cycle repeated through the day and long into the night. She lost track of how many times she delivered the same message.

Evening arrived. Mercifully, there was no sign of rain. The moon hung large in the sky, the stars were bright and twinkling as she stumbled from the croft once again, yawning tiredly.

Ruan and Ewan had built a fire. Merry had joined them, leaving the croft after deeming the birthing process no longer interesting. Others from the village came and went. Someone was roasting a coney on a spit. Everyone stopped speaking when she appeared.

“Is it done?” Ruan asked, rising to meet her.

“No,” Bree said, shaking her head.

Ruan was obviously worried. He had hovered around the croft from the beginning of Jenna’s labor, taking little food and drink. It was rather heartwarming that he cared for his child so deeply. For whatever tales Jenna had spoken of, painting his past as a raucous and heartless man, he was now quite kind.

Collecting her scattered thoughts, she yawned again, “Isobel says these things take time, especially the first one. I’m sure your son will come soon.”

Ruan broke his stride and raised his brows as Ewan glanced up from the fire.

“I’m sure all is well,” Bree repeated tiredly.

“Ruan?” Ewan queried softly.

“My… son?” Ruan’s brows lifted, shushing Ewan with his hand as he peered down at Bree. “Aye, I can see how that takes time.”

Ewan promptly swallowed a chuckle.

Ruan shot him a black look.

“Yes,” Bree agreed, feeling suddenly timid. “Isobel says the MacLeods tend to dally.” She attempted a smile, but found Ruan’s scrutiny unnerving.

“Dally?” Ruan repeated softly. His expression altered and he added, “In the birthing or the getting?”

It was Bree’s turn to frown.

“What are ye trying to say, lass?” Ruan asked. His dark eyes gleamed strangely almost as if he were laughing. “Are ye complaining?”

“Complaining?” Bree repeated, frowning deeply. “Your son’s arrival has nothing to do with me!”

“Oh? My son has everything to do with ye,” he said. His lip curved in the oddest fashion. “I thought ye wanted naught of husbands.”

“I… do not even have a husband!” Bree replied, a little stiffly. The man made no sense. If she didn’t know better, she would think he was jesting at her expense.

“Oh?” He bent close to whisper in her ear. “Mayhap ye should spend more time in my company. Ach, with those eyes and curls ye might find things different soon enough.”

Surely, she misconstrued his tone. He must be overly exhausted. Annoyed, she spun on her heel and slammed the door in his face, but not before she heard his distinct chuckle. She devoutly hoped Jenna hadn’t heard the baffling exchange.

She need not have worried. Jenna hadn’t heard anything. She was in the final birthing pains, crouching low over the stool and screaming loudly.

At last, the baby arrived with a high-pitched cry. Bree nearly fainted and Jenna actually did. Isobel chuckled at them both. In short order, a tiny, wrinkled creature swaddled in a plaid was thrust into Bree’s arms.

“A wee lassie,” Isobel said, pleased. “And she has her mother’s hair.”

It was a girl.

Briefly, Bree wondered if Ruan would be disappointed.

“Introduce the wee one to her kin whilst I tend to Jenna,” Isobel ordered kindly. “Go, before ye faint on yer feet, lass. Ye did well.”

Timorously, Bree clutched the crying bundle. She’d never held a baby before. She was not exactly sure she cared for it. It was unnerving. Isobel should not have trusted her with so precious a thing. Carefully, she tiptoed across the room and opened the door to the happy roar of the gathered onlookers. They crowded close, Ruan grinning widely, Merry at his side.

“Your… daughter,” Bree said nervously, relieved to give the infant away before she accidentally dropped it. She searched his face, wondering if he’d be disappointed that it was not a boy.

Ruan’s dark eyes narrowed.

Unaccountably, she felt a twinge of disappointment. “A daughter is… as fortunate as a son,” she said, compelled to defend the helpless baby.

“Aye, I thought as much, after that last conversation with ye, lass,” Ruan snorted. He threw back his head and laughed. “Just who do ye think Jenna is?”

All at once, Bree tensed uncertainly.

Ruan caught her chin and forced her eyes to meet his. “By the Saints! I thought ye knew she was my sister!”

A smattering of laughter rang about her.

“Faith, lass, I share the same father with every lass within a league of this place, and that includes Jenna!” Ruan leaned forward, playfully tweaking her nose.

She’d thought she blushed before, but she was gravely mistaken. Her skin felt aflame as a tide of crimson swept from her head to her toes.

With a rich laugh, he pushed past her into the croft, carrying his newly born niece with him.

It was very late before the croft was silent once again.

Isobel had returned to Dunvegan, and Jenna slept peacefully with her newborn daughter. Bree curled in front of the fire in the tiny, uncomfortable ball she seemed to favor; Merry, as always, by her side.

Ruan tipped his chair back, balancing on two legs. He enjoyed tormenting Bree. His pulse leapt at every flash of her green eyes. Those eyes were dangerous. He should be ignoring them, but in spite of his best efforts, he was finding it impossible.

She’d been mortified to discover Jenna was his sister. While it was amusing, the misunderstanding was confounding in another sense. What a scoundrel she must have thought him! Already, she must have heard many of the tales. He wondered which ones. Most were not even true, but he knew there was little hope of convincing her of that.

He was annoyed to find his thoughts perpetually revolving around Bree.

How could he forget that most women were greedy and troublesome? Aye, and the reputable women saw him only as a rogue, incapable of love and loyalty. Even Bree thought he’d brought his own wife to serve as a handmaiden to his lover. What manner of beast did she think him? He could not fathom women.

He slammed the chair back on all four legs.

The noise startled the bairn. As the thin wail cut the darkness, he ruefully slipped outside the croft into the cold night wind, hoping to clear his mind, but he failed miserably. His thoughts remained on Bree. Not wanting to think what that might mean, he finally returned to throw a plaid next to Merry and force his eyes shut.

Sleep was long in coming.

By morning, they were all exhausted.

The infant dozed only in fitful spurts, doing a grand job of keeping them awake the rest of the time. Jenna, though tired, didn’t appear to mind in the slightest, she’d obviously met the love of her life. While fascinating to observe, he suddenly felt smothered by females, all of them exceedingly complex. Even the tiny one Jenna had brought into the world the night before was already tormenting him. How was he going to feed her, along with the rest? He had nothing left to his name.

As the sun rose, Bree stumbled about, making porridge while burying yawns in her sleeve. She did her best to avoid him, and, for the most part, succeeded quite well. Why did he find that a challenge? Repeatedly, he caught himself seeking ways to spark those green eyes into life.

He was daft.

He shook his head to clear it. He had to leave the croft before he turned mad. With great relief, he discovered several loose stones under the window, and Ewan’s arrival gave him the perfect excuse to escape. Pointing to the stones he announced, “I’ll be off to mend these.”

There were plenty of shells in the bucket to grind as mortar, but he needed to breathe the fresh salty air. He simply had to remove himself from the intoxicating influence of so much femininity in one place. The door of the croft closed behind him with a satisfying thud. He leapt easily over the low stone wall and made his way to the pale, yellow beaches. Kneeling, he scooped up handfuls of small snail shells and dried seaweed, absently letting them run through his fingers. This had always been one of his favorite places.

He was on the beach for only a short time before he spied Bree and Merry coming his way, fighting the wind. Alarmed, he dropped the bucket, but Merry’s wide smile indicated nothing amiss.

“Isobel sent us to help,” she informed him, skipping happily. “She says we need a wee nip of fresh air.”

Bree was not thrilled to be there. That was readily apparent. She watched him warily and he caught himself smiling like a fool, unable to stop. She was such a suspicious lass. He had never quite met one like her before. Who could resist the challenge? After showing her the shells to gather, he offered the bucket merely as an excuse to capture her hand. Unable to comprehend at first, she waited politely for him to let go. As his fingers trailed over her wrist, his amusement grew and her indifference shifted into confusion.

She pulled her hand away.

“Ach, lass, I dinna bite,” he said. Then, from under half-closed lids, he added suggestively, “Well, perhaps I do, but those that I do dinna seem to mind much.”

“It is no affair of mine,” Bree replied stiffly, bending to pick up a shell.

If he were honest to himself, he was a wee bit insulted. Aye, more than a wee bit, his pride was grandly hurt. Rare had been the lass to resist his charms. Not that he was charming her, he hastily reminded himself. He folded his arms irritably. What would she do if he swept her in his arms and soundly kissed her? Catching the thought, he swore abruptly and halted mid-step. What was he thinking?

He nearly tripped over Merry. Aye. Bree’s suspicion was catching. Merry observed him with a dark scowl, her brows drawn together in a manner that promised trouble. He opened his lips, feeling the need to defend himself, when he spied Robert riding hard toward him.