The Kindling Heart (3 page)

The hall was quiet. The dying fire cast eerie shadows, barely illuminating Tormod and Cuilen’s messenger, who was seated by his side. Several men lounged in front of the fireplace; a few perched on the tables.

All of them shifted uneasily as Ruan passed.

“Aye, The MacLeod calls and ye obey, like a whipped cur!” Tormod gave a pompous nod of satisfaction, but his jaw was tense, nervous.

Ruan scowled speculatively.

Slowly, Tormod walked around the table, trailing his hand along the wooden surface. Finally, he stopped in front of him. “Ye’ve started a war with Fearghus this night and ye’ll do as I say now or hang on a tree as a warning to all.”

Ruan gave an audible snort, but said nothing. It was true enough.

Arrogantly hooking his thumb under his belt, Tormod addressed everyone, “Aye, Ruan will do as The MacLeod bids. By thieving the McDonald’s bride on his very wedding night, he owes us all.”

Ruan raised a brow, but remained quiet.

Tormod sneered a little, causing his pasty chin to jiggle, “Ye’ll return Merry to her loving husband or…”

All color drained from Ruan’s face. With Merry’s moans ringing in his ears, sounds no child should ever make, he leapt toward Tormod. “Curse your cowardly heart!” he shouted. “She’ll nae be going back! She is a bairn, ye murderous, black-hearted bastard! I’ve had enough of ye!”

Tormod fell against the table as Ruan lunged at him, his fingers closing about his throat.

“Ruan!” Robert’s voice rose above the sudden hubbub.

Ruan fought the hands pulling him back. “Ye’ll have to kill me!” he swore harshly, lunging again, but several men moved to block his way.

“Traitor!” Tormod snarled, beads of sweat glistening on his brow.

“I’ll have your head on a—” Ruan began as Robert’s hand clamped firmly over his mouth, muffling his words.

“Merry is safe, lad!” Robert shouted in his ear. “‘Tis you! Ye’ll be taking her place!”

It took some time for the words to sink in. They didn’t make sense. Slowly, Ruan twisted around, still uncomprehending.

Robert sighed wearily and said, “Aye, ye’ll be taking her place, lad.” His hands fell to his sides.

Puzzled, Ruan straightened, adjusting his shirt and snapped, “I’d hardly pass for a lass. The McDonald is old, but nae yet blind.” A hard edge entered his voice.

A few guffaws greeted these words.

“Aye,” Tormod said, lifting his shoulders and speaking far louder than necessary. “Ye’ll do as I say. You’re not but a dog to follow its master’s bidding.” Planting his feet apart, he held out his hand with a pleased, expectant smile, as if waiting for a round of applause. When greeted with silence and stony stares, he licked his lips and unconsciously sidled closer to the table.

At this, the messenger stood. Bowing deeply, he addressed Ruan, “I’m Sean McDonald, Cuilen’s man.”

“Aye.” Ruan nodded curtly.

“Cuilen joined Tormod several months ago, against Fearghus, to—”

“Against Fearghus?” Ruan exploded, dark brows rising in shock. He rounded on his brother, shouting. “Pray tell, why Merry was wed to that black-hearted bastard then, nae a week hence?”

Astonished hisses greeted Ruan’s words as Tormod’s face began to purple.

“I’ve no need to explain!” he shouted in reply, shaking his fist threateningly. “Ye’ll do as I bid ye, or I’ll be sending Merry back to her husband this
very
night! I’ll have ye wed Aislin, Cuilen’s aunt, before month’s end—to seal our new alliance—and that’s an end to it!”

Ruan blinked, forgetting what he’d intended to say in an instant. He was expected to wed Aislin MacDonald? It was obviously Tormod’s latest attempt to belittle him in front of the clan.

“Cuilen’s willing to let the past stay in the past,” Tormod said, voice rasping like a snake. “Ruan will marry the woman as I say!”

Marry? Ruan took a deep breath, oddly shaken. The thought of women made him shiver.

For the past several years, he’d shunned all women. He had walked away from his wild past and his life had been blessedly simpler for it. With difficulty, he forced his thoughts to slow down. Aislin was hardly just any woman. Everyone knew of Aislin; she’d long been the source of many a ribald jest. She’d borne four bairns out of wedlock, none of them sharing the same father. Coupled with her love of wine, food, and precious few remaining teeth, she provided ample fodder for humorous storytelling. He’d been particularly eloquent on the subject himself.

Cuilen was a formidable man, though why he’d chosen to marry off his aunt to forge this new alliance puzzled Ruan and he frowned. Perhaps, it was a directed insult.

“Are ye struck dumb?” Tormod asked.

Taken aback, he rounded on Tormod to find him waiting expectantly, almost uncertainly. He opened his mouth, not knowing what to say, but then hesitated, suddenly struck by a new idea. Tormod’s purpose in this scheme was difficult to fathom, but he apparently needed his compliance. This could be the leverage he needed to win Merry’s freedom. Tying himself to that revolting woman would be a small price to pay for his sister’s safety.

“Well?” Tormod prodded again.

Slowly, and with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel, Ruan folded his arms. “I’ve no means to support a wife. You and the rest of my loving kin have seen to that.”

Tormod smiled, a cold, gloating smile, even as he shifted his weight uneasily. His eyes darted to the messenger seated at the table and then returned to Ruan. “The lucky bride and ye’ll be living here in Dunvegan.”

Ruan swallowed. This was by far the worst news. The danger in his life would increase a hundredfold.

“Then, ye’ll wed her?” Tormod pressed him.

He wondered, briefly, what might happen if he refused? But then Merry’s torn face flashed in his mind, and then all desires fled, save the one to ensure her safety. “Swear, in front of all, ye’ll have Merry’s marriage annulled,” he countered and with only a fleeting moment of hesitation, he added, “…and I shall.”

Tormod exhaled, in obvious relief, nodding readily, “’Tis done.” He rubbed his hands together, cracking his knuckles and beamed widely at his guest.

Cuilen’s man said nothing. He leaned back in his chair and eyed Tormod with obvious distaste.

As expressions of relief circled the table, Ruan frowned.

“Aislin will, no doubt, make a fine wife,” his uncle murmured sympathetically, catching him by the arm and offering him a pewter goblet filled to the brim with wine. “No doubt, her time in England accomplished… er… some… um… good.”

At this, Tormod threw back his head and laughed, long and mockingly, “I dinna share yer faith, uncle. She is only older and last I heard, as plump as a horse. England sharpened her lust and loosened her morals. She gave the local brewer a son and two daughters to pilgrims!”

The muffled snorts that greeted this comment were quickly hushed. Ruan knew it was out of respect and sympathy. He sighed at the odd twist of events. As a rule, the mere mention of Aislin would signal the mirth to begin, each man claiming knowledge of her latest escapade, each attempting to outdo the other, until all lay drunk on the floor. And as for Aislin’s reputation, she’d committed every known crime twice over.

He sighed.

He cared little what Aislin would do once they were wed. He’d marry her, but he wouldn’t be spending time in her company. Pushing the wine away, untouched, he prepared to quit the place.

“Aye,” Tormod whispered loud enough for all to hear. He leaned close, “She’s long past the age for breeding now, though, if she ever had another bairn ye could never be sure of the father!”

Ruan sent him a level look, even as the men behind him surrendered their good sense under the influence of the free-flowing ale. As the comments began, he stalked away.

“At least, she’ll be willing in bed!” someone offered.

“Aye…if she can fit in one!” another added.

As rounds of bawdy laughter greeted lewd comments, Ruan escaped the dim, smoky hall to pace the walls of Dunvegan.

It didn’t matter.

He had no desire for children. He no longer had the means to feed them. Besides, he certainly wouldn’t be spending any time in her bed.

He was done with women and the nets they wove to ensnare men.

“Rest, lass, ye’ve done plenty this day.”

Bree jerked, startled from her reverie and winced a little. “You needn’t worry, Afraig. I’m quite well,” she promised.

It was a lie.

It had been over a week since Wat last raised his belt, and she was still sore.

“Aye, lass,” the old woman muttered dryly, “that bruise is the finest purple this eventide.”

Bree wrinkled her nose in Afraig’s direction and then leaned over the cauldron, scrutinizing her reflection. Large, green eyes stared back, prominent in a face too thin, and with lips a shade too wide. Unruly brown curls escaped the kerchief that covered the dark purple and yellowing bruises.

“You’re a fine sight to behold,” she criticized herself and stuck out her tongue.

Afraig approached to give the cauldron’s contents a critical sniff before turning an even more disparaging glance her direction. “Aye, ye are a sight scrawnier than a half-fed chicken, love. Ye’ll not be finding a proper husband, unless ye plump up a wee bit.”

Bree stopped stirring, astounded Afraig would even mention the word ‘husband’ in her presence.

“Aye,” Afraig said, moving away, “that Evil Eye yer offering me, ‘tis in sore need of work, now. I’m nae feeling a thing.”

In spite of her annoyance, a smile tugged Bree’s lips.

Most thought Afraig a rude and intolerable harridan, but Bree knew her gruff mannerisms were only a prickly exterior to guard an unusually soft heart. On the outside, everything about the woman was hard and sharp, from her wit to her bony hands, from the angle of her chin to the cut of her black hair liberally sprinkled with grey.

Life for Afraig had been harsh. Years ago, few had welcomed the highland lover of Lord Huntley. Now that he was old and feeble-minded, his care was widely seen as solely her responsibility.

“Jenet bade ye be home by sundown, didn’t she now?” Afraig asked for the third time that hour.

Drawing her lips into a thin line, Bree gave a noncommittal grunt. She added a few more onions to the dye and stirred it far more vigorously than necessary. Her eyes watered. No, she’d much rather peel onions for this obnoxious brew all night. She didn’t intend to return while Wat was still awake.

“Lass, ‘twould nae be wise to tempt his wrath,” Afraig warned quietly.

Bree rolled her eyes and slammed another handful of onion skins into the pot. “He’s still in high spirits,” she replied.

The last beating had been enough to ensure his good humor a few more days. To her relief, Afraig dropped the matter, and they silently tended their chores.

A short time ago, Thurston Hall had thrived and these very kitchens had been the domain of men. There had been fish, venison, wheat, candles and spices locked in the cupboard. Now, the grey stone manor had fallen into decay and only Afraig, along with the aged Lord Huntley and his niece, Aislin, lived within its walls. Matters darkened each year and with no one capable of protecting them, more tenants left for safer places.

Afraig began to sing.

The soft, soothing lilt of her Gaelic song drew Bree back into the comforting days of her childhood. Whenever time permitted, she’d found her way to Afraig, to eat warm bread slathered with butter and to listen to tales from the Isle of Skye.

Afraig dreamt aloud of the day she could return to Skye, and Bree imagined herself returning with her. They would live in a cottage by the sea and together they would grow herbs and raise sheep.

After living under Wat’s tyrannical rule Bree was determined to never wed, and Afraig had assured her that she could live comfortably in Skye as a maid her entire life.

Bree yawned, suddenly aware the song had ended. “What was that about?” she asked.

“Your father will be right ashamed to find ye canna speak his own tongue!” Afraig snorted, slamming a bucket onto the table to wag an accusing finger. “I’ve tried, Sweet Mary, I’ve tried, but ye havena, lass!”

Bree looked up in surprise; no one ever spoke of her father.

Once, she had dared to ask her mother who her father was. Her reward had been a sound cuff on the ear. She had only asked Afraig after that, and while Afraig didn’t strike her, she always responded with a vague smile and a name. The name changed with such regularity that Bree eventually lost interest. Angus. Brinan. Silas. Edward. Jamie. However, while the names changed, upon one thing Afraig was adamant. Her father was a rugged Highlander, from the bonniest isle on earth: Skye.

Bree hadn’t thought of him in years. Why should she? He’d left her with her husky voice, elfin looks, and nothing else, not even his name. The only thing she knew was the vague story she had pieced together: of how he’d arrived one autumn, escorting the Lady Aislin from her latest scandal in Scotland to the respectable Thurston Hall. After two days, he’d returned whence he came, never to be seen again. And then nine months later, Jenet had given birth to a squalling baby girl. She was an unwanted infant, so much so that she’d lived nameless for almost a year before Afraig had taken to calling her Bree.