The Kindling Heart (9 page)

Speculatively, Bree eyed the door once again.

Ruan scowled at his scratched hands, Bree’s shrieks of terror still ringing in his ears. Wincing, he reached for the bottle of wine, saying, “Ye should have told her.”

“She’ll make a fine wife,” Domnall repeated, for the fourth time, as if by merely saying it, it would be so.

Ruan eyed him. He’d come to know Domnall well, since his son Dougall’s premature death. He knew the man was trying to project a confidence he didn’t feel, but why he would wed his daughter to him, of all men, mystified him. He thought of her flashing green eyes staring over hands clutching her bleeding nose. She was so small, far too young, and terrified.

The bench sagged beneath the weight of a newcomer, and he glanced up to see Ewan’s wide grin.

Ruan groaned and turned to his right only to see the amused face of his uncle beaming over him.

“And why the gloom and despair?” Robert asked, eyes twinkling with mirth. “If yer wife be younger and prettier than ye were expecting and a MacBethad as well, what is the harm? Tormod and Cuilen agree the tie still stands! The affair has worked out nicely, to be certain!”

“She’s too young,” Ruan growled, sweeping the cup aside to drink directly from the bottle, downing Tormod’s precious wine like water. Too young, and from what he could recall, far too enticing.

“She’s of age,” Domnall disagreed. “And ‘tis done. There’s naught to change.”

“There is still one… minor custom” Ewan said, lowering his eyes suggestively. “The wedding ni—”.

Ruan whirled. The young man averted his eyes to stare at the ceiling as if there were something there of great interest. But Ruan knew that Ewan understood him only too well. Ewan knew the exact source of his consternation. He knew that Ruan was done with women, finished with the lot. He hadn’t dealt with them in over a few, blissfully peaceful years. An old hag of a wife was fine; she’d fit into his plan. He had no desire to deal with a young and tempting one, one that could wake up feelings that he was better off without.

No, his behavior of the past, the overabundance of wine and women, had overly complicated his life and jaded his soul, turning him into something hard and bitter. He’d no desire to craft himself into another version of his father, known as The Black MacLeod. Everyone had suffered under that man’s cruel hand, his mother most of all.

“Aye, the wedding night,” Domnall boomed.

That and the great clearing of throats roused Ruan from his thoughts. The teasing annoyed him. This was hardly a matter for jest. How could they expect he would consummate the marriage to the terrified lass, who smelled oddly of lavender? She’d ridden weeks on horseback through the wilds of Scotland and suffered a sea voyage in a storm. She was bedraggled, mud-stained, and bone weary. How could she possibly smell of lavender? Annoyed at the turn of his thoughts, he grimaced.

“Aye!” Domnall beamed with pride. “’Tis uncommon luck ye have. Bree is a rare one — hardy, strong and bonny — as befits a daughter of mine!”

Ruan snorted, slamming his fist on the table. The cups rattled. Glaring, he raised his voice. “Ye canna think well of her, to wed her to a MacLeod.”

Slowly, Domnall rose, placing both hands far apart on the table. “I pride myself, second most, in my judgment of men,” he said softly, his voice calm, but edged with steel, “and foremost in my ability to exact revenge, in those rare cases where my judgment proves false.”

Ruan’s gaze didn’t falter from his.

“Ye may be larger than me, Ruan lad, but prove me wrong, and ye’ll taste another side of Domnall few live to speak of.”

The tension in the room was almost visible, before Domnall’s mouth eased into a smile. “Though ye be a MacLeod, ye’ve no taste for violence on women, lad. That I ken well enough, or else I’d nae give ye my last living bairn. I care for the lass, but whether she believes that or no is a different matter.”

Ruan clenched his jaw. Aye, Domnall’s daughter deserved a far more fitting husband. Why was the man blind? He had nothing to offer a wife. He had no land, no coin, and at present, few prospects in finding either.

Angrily sweeping the wine aside, he reached for the whiskey. Aye, whiskey had been a sin of his past as well, and one he’d long since given it up. He frowned to find himself taking to it once again.

There were several snorts of growing amusement, followed by Domnall’s outright laughter.

“A bit nervous, are ye?” Ewan chuckled. “Over bedding your bride?”

Ruan jerked, gripping the bottle tightly.

“Ye’ll do fine,” Domnall said and gave a mock shudder. “Aislin was an eyesore and dimmer of wit. She truly was bigger than a horse.”

“One should nae speak ill of the dead,” Robert chided softly.

“Aye,” Domnall agreed. He shrugged unapologetically. He gestured to the empty bottle in excuse, “Wine loosens the tongue overly much.”

Ruan wiped his brow with his forearm. He didn’t intend to bed anyone. He’d suffered far too many ill consequences for the rashness of his youth. He helped himself to more whiskey, knowing in his heart that if a decent woman were to hear of his past and inability to provide for her, she’d run away as fast as she could. He’d be the first to understand. His life was mercifully simple now, peaceful and pleasant, and free of scheming women. He intended to keep it that way.

Robert laid a hand on his arm, cautioning “Careful, lad. Best nae be drunk on the wedding night. Women have a long memory for things of that nature.”

“I’ll nae be touching her,” Ruan snorted, brows burrowing deeper. Despite himself, the thought of those remarkable green eyes framed by sooty lashes started a pleasant hum burning his blood. He grimaced, hoping he was merely drunk. Whatever the cause, he was certain of one thing. He must keep her at a safe distance, where he wouldn’t have to see her, to find what else there was besides those startling green eyes.

“Ach now, there’s no need to be afraid, lad. The only thing ye must remember ‘tis a strong man who shows gentleness to his wife.”

His uncle and Domnall’s continual sprinkling of fatherly advice suddenly grated on his nerves.

Mercifully, Isobel flung the door open and barreled into the room, but then asked, “Where’s yer lady, Ruan?”

“What do ye mean, woman?” Domnall stood abruptly.

“I left her for a wee bit, but now she’s gone,” Isobel replied, agitated. “I canna find her, and I’ve searched every nook and cranny.”

Domnall swore.

***

Caught in a wave of panic, Bree fled down the stairs once again, unable to believe she was now married to a complete stranger. How could this have happened? Her father had used her as a pawn in some ancient feud. She’d never thought to marry. In fact, she’d always dreamt of returning to Skye with Afraig. The two of them would live in their cottage, growing herbs.

She’d been so naïve.

A little voice in her mind asked why she was running, that surely living here was better than going back to England to suffer under Wat, but she shook her head. No, she’d seen the man. Ruan was huge. Men beat women. It was the way of the world. She’d never survive that man’s violence.

Slipping out of the castle had been easy.

Finished with their evening chores, the servants headed for a boat that took them to the village, which was scarce more than a stone’s throw away.

Bree had merely to join the line.

Several times, she experienced a wave of doubt, but the fear of marriage kept her moving forward.

The women didn’t ask questions; perhaps they were too tired or simply didn’t care. One by one, they shuffled into the boat, past an exceedingly drunk youth strumming an oar like a lute and singing loudly. He pinched each woman soundly as she boarded.

Bree grimaced, but submitted to the humiliation in silence.

Finally, with all seated, he dipped the oars in the water and rowed them the short distance to the village and as the bottom scraped loudly on the submerged rocks, the women disembarked.

“Ye’ll have us drowned soon, Iain,” they grumbled.

“Give a kiss, now, love,” Iain slurred with a crooked grin, not caring in the least that all were much older than he was.

“Ach!” they all snorted in disgust, filing past the tipsy lad.

Bree cautiously followed, trying her best to appear as if she’d done it a thousand times before. As she lifted her foot over the edge, Iain gave her bottom a healthy slap.

She yelped, lost her balance and nearly fell back into his arms.

He roared.

A smattering of laughter sounded from the women and for the first time several interested pairs of eyes inspected her with curiosity. With her heart pounding loudly in her ears, she drew her plaid over her head, and strode off with an air of purpose through the village.

Mercifully, no one followed.

In a matter of minutes, she left the last cottage behind and was alone.

She was free. Free!

A twinge of fear assailed her, but she straightened her shoulders and firmly reminded herself that at least she was free.

It was pitch black. Clouds blanketed the moon. The wind blew hard, chilling her to the bone. A blast of wind almost ripped the plaid from her head and it began to rain.

Ignoring the feeling of impending doom, she stumbled forward and tripped, landing face first in the mud. Staggering to her feet, she boldly pressed on, but within minutes sank into a mire with icy water up to her knees. The heather scratched her ankles. She bit back a sob and continued on.

In her wine-affected, panicked state, she hadn’t thought to bring food. She’d been gone only an hour, and already her skirt was soaked. Her nose ached and both feet were numb. How could she possibly survive? Doubt surfaced and she felt like a fool.

For a brief moment, she considered returning to Dunvegan, but the thought of the beating she would receive spurred her on. She would likely die in either case, but she would die her own way. With determination, she stumbled on.

As the night aged, matters worsened; each gust of wind seared her wet clothing as if it were a blast of fire. Her throat burned and her reddened fingers stung, responding slower each time she clawed the damp plaid closer.

It was becoming difficult to convince herself that her new course of action was worth it.

There was a break in the trees ahead. The sky was brighter there, announcing the impending arrival of the dawn. Her stomach growled. She’d have to worry about food, soon, but she was distracted by another fall. She felt more water seep into her shoes. This time, it seemed almost warm.

What would happen, if by some miracle she actually made it to Thurston Hall? Would Afraig bundle her up and send her back? Would she, heaven forbid, allow the marriage to Raph? Surely, Ruan was better than Raph?

Tears stung her lashes. Why did she have to wed at all? Not every woman wed, she’d seen plenty that hadn’t. Why couldn’t she be one of them?

Finally, she staggered into the small clearing and peered into the lifting gloom.

Her heart stopped.

A short distance away, Dunvegan gleamed with its village twinkling on the shore.

She caught her breath in despair.

If she continued, she would die on the moors, crows and other wild things would pick at her bones. For a time, she crouched miserably where she was, her mind reeling with the choices before her.

Dying was much harder than she imagined. Why had she run? Surely, being the wife of Ruan, whatever the man might choose to do, was better than freezing in the cold darkness of the moors. At the thought, she began to sob. She was a fool. Now, she’d willingly be the wife of anyone, maybe even Wat’s uncle, if the pain in her ears, neck, hands, and feet would simply go away.

Sobbing at her foolishness, she staggered to her feet.

She would return to Dunvegan and face whatever beating she was given.

At the moment, it didn’t really matter if she survived there or not. She was going to die, anyway, if she didn’t get out of the wind-torn hell of the moors.

The day passed with her mind in a fog. Her ears were ringing and it was difficult to feel her feet. Gulls wheeled and screamed in the bleak skies above her. She had lost track of how many times she had fallen, sliding down hills only to tumble in a heap at the bottom. Several times she heard hooves, but they were distant, leaving her to wonder if it was merely her imagination.

Finally, she acknowledged what had been a growing fear.

She was lost.

The hounds were baying and Ruan kicked his horse into a gallop as Domnall followed. They, along with many others, had spent the night and most of the day searching for Bree. At first it had been difficult to remain seated on his horse, the wine and whiskey having taken their toll, but the bitterly cold wind had soon sharpened his wits.

Reining at the crest of the hill, he watched the hounds streak to the bottom. It would likely be another false alarm. Domnall paused by his side. The man’s face was grey with worry. Night was falling and if Bree was without shelter, they both knew she wouldn’t survive.