The Kindling Heart (24 page)

“Ho!” the blond lad laughed and caught him as he lost his balance. “’Tis too early to be about!”

“I must be leaving,” Ruan grated between clenched teeth, but allowed Ewan to escort him back to the bed.

“Nay, ye must rest,” Isobel disagreed, vehemently. “At least a week.”

“Nay,” he said, in a tone of finality. “The longer I stay, the more harm I’ll cause for everyone, myself included.”

They could not dissuade him, Isobel and Ewan both tried.

In the end, he won.

They knew he’d leave anyway, and none could argue against the fact that Tormod wanted him dead. And now with Robert out of the way, he was more likely to succeed. His concern was not so much for himself, but for those who might come to harm in the attempt to thwart Tormod’s plans. No, he insisted, he must leave that night. His wound was painful, but manageable. He could sit on a horse ... barely.

Isobel insisted on accompanying them for Merry’s sake, but Ruan knew she was worried about him. It was decided that Isobel and Merry would leave to assist Ewan in securing suitable horses and hide with them a fair distance away. Once it was dark, Ewan would return to find a boat and ferry Bree and Ruan to the hiding place. After which, Ruan made Ewan promise he would return to his father. The lad was ill set against it, and it took Ruan the better part of an hour to convince him to return to Mull for the present time. Traveling over Skye and onto Inchmurrin would be dangerous. Ruan was certain Tormod would follow them, but he could not let Ewan know that.

He sighed.

If all went well, they would be in Inchmurrin before the week’s end. Aye, in leaving Dunvegan for good, he’d be leaving his soul behind, but he’d do it. He’d send for Jenna and her bairn later, after Cameron took him as his sworn man. He knew Cameron would resist accepting him as a sworn vassal, but Ruan had no choice other than to try. He had nothing to offer but his arm and his loyalty. Of course, Robert, the proud clansman that he was, would not have wished it, but it was the only way to avoid any more bloodshed.

At the thought of his uncle, Ruan sighed again, feeling a deep, burning pit in his stomach. He willed tears to come, but they still wouldn’t form. His guilt was strong, but it was too late now for Robert and the crofters and he must move on. He squared his shoulders. In time, he could mourn. But now, he must act.

Ewan left, with obvious reluctance, to escort Merry and Isobel out of the castle and there was nothing for Ruan to do but wait and rest. Bree seemed nervous. He could not blame her. She paced in front of the small window in their chamber, trying her best to ignore him. Torn between amusement and guilt, he turned away. He had to conserve his strength if he was going to ride all night.

He woke to Bree’s light touch, and a curl fell forward and tickled his nose. He hadn’t meant to sleep. For a brief moment, he felt no pain, no remorse, only a wave of desire. His hand covered hers of its own accord. Her eyes widened in the candlelight, but then a wave of pain seared his chest and the moment was lost. He growled, recalling all at once that he soon must ride a horse through the cold, wet night.

Bree pulled her hand free as he gritted his teeth and forced his legs over the edge of the bed and attempted to stand. An unexpected wave of dizziness assailed him. He would have fallen, if she hadn’t been there. They almost fell anyway; he was much heavier than she was.

“Sweet Mary,” he hissed between his teeth. He grasped her shoulder tightly as nausea rioted with the pain.

“This isn’t wise,” Bree swallowed, the worry evident in her voice.

“I’ll be fine, lass,” he lied with a grimace. He forced his feet to move forward out of sheer discipline.

Swathed warmly in his plaid and with his sword and dirk belted into place, he felt somewhat stronger. Bree had helped him more than he liked. Under any other circumstances, he would have enjoyed the experience of her shy, timid touch, but thoughts of his uncle were foremost in his mind.

Navigating the narrow, spiraled stairs proved difficult, but he got it done and his confidence that he was strong enough grew with each step. At the bottom stair, Bree snuffed the candle and listened carefully before opening the door.

The way was mercifully clear, and they slipped out of the castle and down to the sea-gate undetected.

The cockman guarding the gate was snoring, propped up against the castle walls, and there were gaming pieces scattered on the walkway.

Ruan scowled at the man’s negligence, and then Ewan stepped forward, grinning in the moonlight.

“He’s drunk…finally,” he said, indicating the man with a nod. “It took all evening.”

“‘Tis fair ridiculous that ye succeeded at all,” Ruan muttered in disapproval as he made his way to the waiting boat. He managed to jump into it without assistance though he experienced a dull jolt of pain.

Bree followed quietly.

“Are ye certain this is wise, Ruan?” Ewan queried softly, as he dipped the oars into the water.

“Aye,” Ruan said, nodding. He didn’t add that he had no choice.

Ewan rowed in silence.

The loch around the castle was a still, black pool of shadows that reflected the bright moon illuminating Dunvegan and the hills behind it in a scene that would be burned into his memory forever. Part of him would always belong to these hills and the heather slopes melting into the jagged, sea cliffs. The castle glimmered bright, nestled on the edge of the loch with the dense forests and the village behind it. He watched it slowly disappear and savored each glimpse until it was finally lost from sight.

Ewan rowed for some time before the shore drew closer and they could see a dark line of trees.

“You’re late!” Merry cried out as they came ashore. She bounded into the water and helped pull the boat aground. “We were worried.”

“Ach, lass! Leave that to the lads,” Isobel called. “Ye’ll be getting wet!”

Ruan waded ashore and tousled Merry’s hair and said, “I’m afraid ye canna be rid of me that easily, my Merry wee lass.”

“I don’t need ye anymore,” Merry replied. Dimples appeared on her cheeks. “’Tis Bree I was fretful about.”

A surprised smile jerked Ruan’s lips. He cast a side-length glance as Bree joined him, wringing the hem of her dress. Her face was pale in the moonlight and looked taut and worried. Without thinking, he gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

They both stiffened at once.

Hastily, he snatched his hand back. He turned to Ewan and spoke rapidly to mask his discomfort, “Did ye find it much trouble to take the horses, lad?”

“Nay,” Ewan shook his head and smiled. “Tormod will nae be missing these two for a few days.” He pointed to the animals tethered a short distance away.

Ruan inspected them with a frown. They were ancient, creaking beasts. Ruan doubted if Tormod would ever miss them at all. “Two?” he muttered, less than pleased.

“We’d best start,” Isobel said. She looked up from tying a small bundle onto one of the saddles. “Merry and I will ride the dapple. Bree, ye’ll ride in front of Ruan so ye can guide the horse if he faints. Which, by the look of ye, lad, is fair likely.”

Ruan tensed at the thought of Bree in such extended, close contact, but the nagging pain of his wound reminded him Isobel spoke wisely enough. With Ewan’s assistance, he succeeded in mounting the beast and sat stiffly as Ewan caught Bree about the waist and tossed her into his lap.

He clenched his jaw. Her curls were everywhere. His brows furrowed into a deep line. He had to keep his wits entirely about him. He could not afford to be distracted. Impatiently, he brushed her hair away and warned in a low voice, “Keep your hair out of my face.”

She stiffened and twisted her hair into a braid as Isobel and Merry said their farewells to Ewan.

Ruan cast his eyes about, seeking to keep his thoughts away from the slender, wriggling form planted firmly between his thighs. He was annoyed that the pain of his wound failed to prevent his body rousing in response. “Hold still,” he growled.

With Isobel and Merry ready at last, they exchanged their final farewells and rode away, leaving Ewan standing alone in the moonlight.

Ruan lost track of the countless times he had ground his teeth together on that unrelentingly, torturous journey. It was a small miracle any teeth remained. Every step the horse took jarred his wound unmercifully. Bree proved a constant distraction, but one he’d rather not have. Her softness pressed against him could cause his body to respond with lust, should he allow it.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve, and inadvertently caught a strand of her curling hair. An image of her asleep, hair fanning across the pillow, flashed in his mind, and a surge of desire stirred his blood.

“By the Saints!” Ruan swore aloud and swatted at the low branches overhanging the path.

They followed a stream winding along the edge of a steep and stony ravine for some time until the terrain turned marshy. Cliffs rose in the distance and when they arrived at the base of them, they entered a thick wood that blotted out any light the moon might have given. The going was slow. After what seemed like hours, a break in the trees afforded him a glimpse of the sky. Dawn was approaching. The dull light grew brighter as they winded uphill through the woods and out onto the open moors.

In the distance, he could see the Old Man of Storr turning pink in the rising sun. He drove them at a faster pace. It seemed to take forever until they finally arrived in the shadow of the black precipices.

“We’ll rest here a wee bit,” he murmured, dismounting in relief. He was exhausted and in severe pain, but they had made it. Tormod would not think to look for them here so soon.

“Ach, I’m right glad to see these rocks,” Isobel grumbled, sending Ruan a sharp glance. “Ye rode as if auld cootie himself was behind ye, lad.”

Ruan snorted. No,
auld cootie
hadn’t been behind him. He wanted to shout that the devil had been sitting in his lap, with a wealth of curls blowing in his face.

Isobel took one look at him and pushed him down onto the nearest stone. Pursing her lips, she said, “We should have waited. Ye were too hasty, lad.”

A haze of fatigue settled over Ruan. “Aye, and that is exactly why no one will ever believe we were foolish enough to leave,” he sighed heavily, attempting to rise. “The horses—”

“The lassies can care for them.” Isobel frowned. “I’ll nae have ye falling ill again. I’ve nae the time for it.”

Ruan didn’t resist. Sliding to the ground, he leaned tiredly against the boulder and bowed his head. A warm plaid dropped about his shoulders. “Thank ye, Isobel.” He yawned.

“You are welcome,” Bree replied, hesitantly.

Surprised, he opened an eye. She attempted a smile, but her lips were too tight. He watched as she joined Merry to struggle with the saddles. Part of him wished he had the strength to help—he’d make short work of it—but the rest of him enjoyed the fascinating way in which she moved. Tilting his head, he allowed his gaze to rove over her slender figure, enjoying the pulse of his blood before becoming aware of the nature of his thoughts.

Expelling a sharp breath, he clamped his eyes firmly shut.

Ruan seemed gravely ill. His skin was grey and he was in obvious pain. A fresh, red patch of blood stained his shoulder.

“He should be abed, foolish lad,” Isobel mumbled, searching the saddlebags for her bundle of herbs. Her expression was grim.

“He is strong,” Merry said loudly, too loudly.

Bree squeezed her hand in comfort.

They watched Isobel clean his wound and sprinkle it liberally with herbs. Once satisfied that it was no longer bleeding, she leaned back on her heels. “Bree, love, I’ll need a wee bit of help.”

Prepared to be squeamish, Bree stepped forward, but this time the expected nausea didn’t arrive. His wound was healing remarkably well, and she found his muscular chest occupying her thoughts instead.

He was lean and strong and his skin was warm to her touch. Several times, she fought the urge to run her fingers through his hair.

Finally, they were done and she became aware of Isobel observing her with twinkling eyes. Bree ducked her head to hide the color rising in her cheeks.

“Ach, now, we should rest a wee bit,” the old woman said. “A lassie on each side should be enough to keep him warm.”

In short order, Bree found herself promptly tucked in next to him with Merry on the other side.

Isobel dusted her hands, surveying her handiwork with satisfaction. “I’ll watch for a spell. Rest while ye can. I’m sure the lad will wake soon and have us moving once again.”

Bree expelled a breath and burrowed deeper in the plaid. She could feel Ruan’s steady breathing. He generated an enormous amount of heat even though he was ill. His eyes remained closed and this time he did not awake under her curious inspection. His lashes were incredibly long and black. Once again, she experienced an urge to touch him, especially the curve of his lower lip.

Catching the nature of her thoughts, she frowned and instead forced herself to ponder what lay ahead.

She awoke some time later.

A thick blanket of fog had fallen, draping the mountains above them in mist and cloud. It was growing late and the sun struggled to shine weakly from its position low on the horizon. Thunder muttered far away, signaling the arrival of a storm as fine droplets of rain caressed her cheeks.