The Kindling Heart (33 page)

“What is all this shouting, lad?” She asked, knitting her brows in concern.

Merry pushed past her and after a moment Ruan followed, leaving Isobel to eye Bree, still dripping wet, with curiosity.

“Aye,” Isobel finally said. “They’ll sort it out, lass. Let’s be off now, it might snow.”

They bade their farewells to the elderly couple and mounted their horses. Brother and sister were uncommonly subdued the remainder of the morning and they all traveled in silence. It was early afternoon and they had just cantered to the bottom of a hill and into a small thicket of trees when Ruan motioned to a gurgling stream.

“We’ll water the horses,” he announced curtly.

It was a pleasant enough glen. The gnarled trees moved softly in the cold wind as several deer nearby lifted their heads in languid curiosity, observing them for a time from a safe distance before returning to their grazing.

Bree shivered, rubbing her stiff neck when a strange whistle chased by a thud startled them all.

Stunned, she stared dumbly at a feathered shaft of a quivering arrow, embedded deeply in the trunk of a slender tree before Ruan knocked her down to the ground, shouting.

Several more whistles thudded about them and then Ruan was on his horse. Crouching low over the animal’s neck, he brandished his dirk as three men, their faces swathed in cloth to hide their identities, appeared from seemingly nowhere. He wheeled the beast into them before leaping off to take one down. The other two fell back, endeavoring to avoid the frightened beast before recovering to resume their advance.

Bree didn’t have time to be afraid. Instead, she found herself coldly calculating, picking up several sharp stones to throw. One of the rocks hit its target, bouncing off the man’s head with a sickening thud that caused him to lurch her way. Then, all at once, she found herself focused solely on her own survival, trying to escape his brutal advance.

He lunged toward her, raising his sword with a curse, but then Ruan was there, plunging his blade through the attacker’s back until it protruded from the man’s belly. The man clawed at it fruitlessly before sinking to the ground without a word.

It was over, almost as soon as it had begun, Isobel still hovering nearby, clutching Merry in a protective embrace. Both were pale and silent. For a time, Ruan simply stood, blood dripping from his sword, and then one of the men groaned. Slowly, he knelt, and pulled the cloth from his face with visible reluctance.

He stood with a curse, turning white.

Bree stepped closer and then her heart leapt into her throat.

Gerland, Ruan’s nephew, lay in the wet grass, blood trickling from his mouth.

“I’m cursed!” Ruan hissed between his teeth. He ripped the cloth coverings from the remaining two men and choked, “These are my own kinsmen!”

“Ruan,” Gerland gasped, lifting a weak hand.

Slowly, Ruan returned to kneel stiffly by his side.

“Aye,” Gerland said with a wheezing, bitter laugh. “Ye always wanted Dunvegan. Only my father and Tormod stand in yer way now.”

Ruan’s dark eyes widened, startled. “I’ve never lusted for it to warrant killing my own kin.” He whispered hoarsely.

Gerland’s jaw clenched in pain, and he gritted his teeth. Blood flowed through his hands clutched over his chest. The wound was fatal and they all knew it. Finally, he managed a grim smile. “I ken that well enough now, uncle. Nay, I always knew it. I was… too weak to stand against father… I seek yer forgiveness, ere I leave this world.”

“‘Tis I who should seek yours,” Ruan wept, placing his hand over his nephew’s trembling fingers. “I’ve brought nothing but death upon us all. Robert, Albin…”

“Nay, listen!” Gerland said. He struggled to lift his head, adding, “Their deaths are on father’s head, nae yours! Tormod hired the men from the north, to burn the crofters, to make it look like Fearghus…The plan was to slaughter both ye and Robert, but they only succeeded with Robert. I was there when father ran him through, it wasna Fearghus…’twas father!” He reached up, fiercely grabbing the front of Ruan’s shirt. “This blood is nae on yer head, I swear it!”

Ruan held still.

“I canna do it,” His nephew’s voice cracked. “Father told me to kill him… I could nae. I…I was seeking father’s forgiveness by trying to …kill ye, but I … canna slay ye, either.”

Ruan bowed his head.

“Forgive me, uncle.” Gerland whispered.

“Aye, die in peace, lad,” Ruan replied in a low voice.

It didn’t take long.

At last, Gerland groaned, then blood gushed from the corner of his mouth all at once, and he went limp.

Ruan didn’t move for some time. Finally, he rose and whispered, “The fault is mine, lad. I should have stopped this, long ago.”

“Let us be gone!” Isobel tried to pull Ruan away. “Ye dinna ken ‘twas him, lad, ye canna have known.”

“No!” Ruan shook his head. He collapsed to his knees. Horrible, great sobs ripped from his chest. “Robert! Robert!” he gasped, choking on his tears.

Bree rushed to his side, and he clung to her, weeping, repeating Robert’s name.

“Aye,” Isobel murmured. Her face was grey. “’Tis time ye wept for him, lad.”

It was some time before his tears finally dried and a deep sadness covered his face.

“We must go, love,” Isobel crooned softly. “Michael could be here soon.”

Ruan shook his head, rising to his feet grimly. “Aye. I hope he is.”

“’Tis too dangerous to stay here,” Isobel said, shaking her head.

“I canna leave my nephew here to be eaten by carrion,” Ruan grated.

There was no dissuading him.

He lifted Gerland’s body onto his horse, taking him a good way to the top of the mountain. There were many stones and it didn’t take long to place them over the body. When they finished, Ruan stood for some time before shouting, “Tormod! Ye are no longer a brother of mine!” Tears were heavy in his voice.

Timidly, Bree touched his forearm in a comforting gesture. To her surprise, he whirled upon her, crushing her wordlessly to him, and then lifting her onto the horse said, “We must ride quickly.”

They mounted in silence, urging their horses on with great haste, riding the day and long into the night. As an eerie mist descended, they happened upon an abandoned croft and slept. In the morning, Ruan made an announcement.

“Inchmurrin is too dangerous,” he said. “Michael will be searching that path. I shall take us to Stalcaire, one of Cameron’s smaller holdings. ‘Tis nae far.”

These words were greeted with smiles. These soon turned into frowns as he pushed them hard on paths that seemed nothing more than goat tracks through the brush. The way was difficult. They rode for hours, rising with the dawn, stopping only in exhaustion and never daring to light a fire.

Bree’s stomach continually growled, gnawing in hunger. Aside from a few bites of bannocks swallowed hurriedly as they rode, none of them had eaten much the past few days. After the bannocks were gone, they subsisted on a mixture of oats and water.

Ruan was tense. He slept little, but as the days passed, there were no further signs of pursuit.

They galloped across stretches of the moors, down ravines and around treacherous bogs, until finally, one late morning, they crested at a rise to see before them a loch, large and deep, that gave birth to a river. Stands of birch trees graced the surrounding hills, a stream running through them like a thread of silver. At the edge of the loch, on an islet, perched a small castle.

“Stalcaire,” Ruan announced. “One of Cameron’s small holdings. We should be safe here whilst I send word to him.”

“’Tis nae Inchmurrin, but ‘tis wonderful to behold,” Isobel said. She smiled in anticipation of a dry bed and a hot meal.

Ruan didn’t reply as he pushed forward over the scant earth-covered rocks down to the shore. As they neared, he slowed his pace, frowning at the banners streaming from the castle walls. Sounds of music drifted their way, accompanied by loud guffaws of laughter. Drawing his brows into a brooding scowl, Ruan urged his horse straight to the boats. Several clansmen leapt up in alarm, but upon recognizing him, relaxed and lifted their arms in greeting.

“Come for the feast, Ruan?” one of them asked with a grin.

“Feast?” Ruan repeated.

“His lairdship will be grateful for yer presence,” the other man stated.

“The Earl is here?” Ruan’s brows lifted in surprise.

“Aye,” the man said, nodding solemnly.

“At last, a wee bit of good fortune!” Ruan heaved a sigh of relief, dismounting. “Take me to him, at once!”

He swung Bree down from the horse, lightly brushing her forehead with his lips. She tensed a little, but he didn’t seem to notice as he focused his attention on Merry.

“Ye’ll be safe now, ye wee beastie,” he said, pinching his sister’s cheek. “’Tis time ye met Cameron.”

“Aye and I’m sure I’ll be delighted,” Merry grumbled blackly as she followed them all into the boat.

They had scarcely stepped foot in the courtyard when a deep baritone rose to greet them. “It has been far too long, brother!”

The man approaching them with the sleek grace of a cat could be none other than Cameron, the Earl of Lennox. His presence, his every move spoke of elegance, wealth and power. He was long-legged and handsome. Chiseled lips curving in an almost outright sensual manner accented his face. He was of the same age and height as Ruan. Though his hair was several shades darker, they could easily have passed for blood brothers.

Ruan moved close, wearily clasped forearms, and leaned forward to murmur in Cameron’s ear.

The man listened, saying nothing, as his dark, compelling eyes swept over them. Then, patting Ruan on the back with a long-fingered hand, he captured Isobel’s fingers between his and raised them to his lips. “Ah, ‘tis a wondrous sight to behold ye once again, fair Isobel.”

Isobel blushed.

Turning to Merry, he executed a courtly bow. “Last I saw, ye were but a wee terror and now I stand before the fairest maiden in Skye. Soon, the mere touch of your hand will be worth a king’s ransom.”

Merry’s mouth dropped open and then her dark eyes began to sparkle.

“I see your charm is fatal to the young as well,” Ruan remarked dryly.

“’Tis a gift from the powers that be,” Cameron said. His eyes crinkled in what seemed a minute display of humor.

“Aye, but is it a gift from above or below?” Isobel murmured congenially.

Cameron’s expression flickered with interest as his attention shifted to Bree.

“Bree,” Ruan cleared his throat. “My… wife.”

Brows lifting ever so slightly, he cast Ruan a curious glance. “Ruan? Wed?”

“Aye.” Ruan’s expression grew unreadable.

Bree felt her cheeks redden.

For a fleeting moment, Cameron regarded Ruan in open disbelief for a moment before gallantly kissing Bree’s hand. “My Lady Bree, I stand in awe of the rarest of women, but I see your dazzling beauty played no small part in bringing Ruan to his knees.”

It was impossible not to smile back at the man.

Ruan indulged in a prolonged stretch accompanied by an exaggerated yawn.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the chamber. From the window, the waning light had turned the loch into a sheet of silver, with not even a ripple on its glassy surface. He must have fallen asleep. He’d bathed, changed into fresh clothing and had sprawled across the bed for a brief moment, but apparently the day had almost passed.

He smiled, a little, recalling Bree’s abrupt shyness as he stripped in preparation for his bath. She’d suddenly remembered a promise to Merry and had hurriedly left.

Aye, he’d have to think about what to do now they were safe. His original intention to annul the marriage was unthinkable, and though he suspected she felt the same, he’d never actually discussed the matter. Grimacing in thought, he strode from the chamber and down the steep newel stair in search of Cameron.

He was easy to find.

The Earl of Lennox sprawled before a crackling fire in the small vaulted chamber behind the hall, impeccably dressed in a fine silk shirt and richly woven black breeches. A plump wench balanced on his knee. He was attempting to kiss her as she giggled and tipped a bottle between his lips.

Ruan eyed him thoughtfully.

Cameron only drank when he was upset, and it was exceedingly difficult to upset the Earl of Lennox. Women were the only thing that reliably distressed the man, but he had made it a practice to avoid them. The wench meant nothing. Time and again, he’d seen Cameron’s playful act. It never went beyond a kiss. He’d never shared Ruan’s brash predilection of casual dalliances.

Not that he did himself, anymore, Ruan thought firmly as he strode into the room.

“Ah, Ruan!” Cameron’s face broke into a wide smile.

Ruan paused. Rarely did the man display anything but exceptional self-control. He lived under a guarded mask of restraint, even when relaxed and in the company of friends. His overt display of emotion meant only one thing.