by Carmen Caine
The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series - Book One
The Kindling Heart
By
Carmen Caine
Bento Box Books Second Edition
Published By
Bento Box Books
Edited By
Louisa Stephens
Copyright © 2011 by Carmen Caine
ISBN: 978-0-9835240-0-7
Bento Box Books Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and didn’t purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Table of Contents
Chapter 01…..The Trap
Chapter 02…..The Journey Home
Chapter 03…..Dunvegan
Chapter 04…..A Proper Husband
Chapter 05…..The Moors
Chapter 06…..Women!
Chapter 07…..The Lass is Daft!
Chapter 08…..Not a Widow
Chapter 09…..The Mad Lady of Dunvegan
Chapter 10.….Spiders and Handsome Men
Chapter 11.….Jenna’s Sorrow
Chapter 12.….Trust No One
Chapter 13…..I’m Nae in Love!
Chapter 14…..Mo Ceisd
Chapter 15…..The Escape
Chapter 16…..Reenan
Chapter 17…..Attacked by a Bucket
Chapter 18…..The Kiss
Chapter 19…..The Unexpected Confession
Chapter 20…..Jealousy
Chapter 21…..A Night of Passion
Chapter 22…..Fearghus
Chapter 23…..Taming the Beast
Chapter 24…..Which Clan She Favors?
Chapter 25…..The Gift
Epilogue
Coming Soon - Excerpt from “The Bedeviled Heart”
The Kindling Heart
Prologue
Thurston Hall, Yorkshire, England
Latter part of the 15th century
“Harlot! Whore!” Wat whistled through his teeth as he unbuckled his belt.
Sinking to her knees, Bree mentally retraced her steps as she cowered before Wat on the dirt floor of the cottage.
In the cold before dawn, she’d drawn the water and made the porridge before joining the other peasants in the fields to pull onions. These were hardly the pastimes of a whore. She was cold, exhausted, and hungry.
“I’ll not have a whore live under my roof!” Wat shouted.
She’d never understand why her mother stayed with such a despicable man. Strings of greasy grey hair plastered his balding scalp. Years of grime and other things lived under his blackened nails. He hadn’t bathed since spring. He reeked.
Wat studied her for the slightest hint of rebellion. His fingers twitched in anticipation.
Bowing her head, Bree forced herself to grovel even as she imagined herself screaming defiantly in his face. The man thrived on ale and anger, one feeding the other in an endless cycle of rage and cruelty. She doubted she’d escape unscathed, but it was worth a try. She forced her eyes meekly to the floor, outwardly subservient, and waited for an explanation of what was amiss.
“Jenet!” Wat shouted, his beady eyes glinting in pleasure. “Come see what your whore of a daughter is wearing!”
It was the first hint.
A cursory inspection of her shoes, dress, and hair revealed nothing. She frowned, slightly perplexed. Last week, her rotting skirt had torn on the brambles, but Wat saw in this a wicked desire to expose flesh. A month ago, one of Bree’s brown curls escaped its binding as Lord Huntley wandered the fields nearby. It mattered naught to Wat that the man was ancient, half-blind, and as simple-minded as a child. He accused her of the worst sin: a brazen seduction of the castle lord. She’d paid dearly for both incidents.
Wat gleefully popped his knuckles and smiled. It was a cruel, malicious smile.
“Yes, Wat?” Jenet’s tired voice filtered through the cottage doorway. She paused on the threshold. Though her face still held traces of beauty, years of oppression had taken their toll. Her hazel eyes were as lifeless as the limp hair on her shoulders.
“Look at your daughter!” Wat ordered, spittle flecking his beard. “This time she has gone too far!”
Lest they betray her emotion, Bree lowered her eyes and held her breath as her mother subjected her to a nervous inspection.
The silence lengthened.
Finally, Jenet hesitantly cleared her throat.
Wat exploded, “Can you not see? Only a harlot would adorn her hair to catch a man’s eye! She is a whore!”
Belatedly, Bree recalled the small bit of dried lavender tucked behind her ear. She loved the scent; it always reminded her of spring. She clenched her jaw, furious at herself. Why, oh why, had she not remembered to remove it? Why had she succumbed to the silly impulse in the first place? She could not afford such errors.
“Be rid of it, Bree,” Jenet said flatly, devoid of sympathy.
Obediently, she raised a hand to remove the offending sprig only to have it slapped away.
“That is not enough!” Wat roared. He clenched his belt, a sneer settling on his lips. “Why would you flaunt yourself so boldly? Why?”
Struggling to remain silent, Bree bit her tongue. Hard. She winced as the salty taste of blood spread in her mouth. Soon, she knew her back would be bleeding as well. A cold anger gripped her heart and her jaw clenched.
It was a minute gesture, but it was enough for Wat.
He gloated in satisfaction as Jenet shuffled heavily from the room. She never intervened. She always left the room.
Wat began to hum as his belt arced in the air.
Chapter 01: The Trap
“A man has the right to discipline his own wife,” Tormod MacLeod, Laird of Dunvegan bellowed to the gathered clansmen. “’Tis his God-given right!”
The subdued murmurs of assent following this statement transformed quickly into coughs as Ruan MacLeod strode into the castle’s main hall with a handful of men at his heel.
Tormod stood at the high table, chin raised, and from under partially closed eyelids observed his younger half-brother moving purposefully in his direction.
The brothers shared nothing, save the unusual height of their sire. Ruan favored his mother, the daughter of a lesser Spanish noble. His dark hair was thick, shoulder length, and bound by a strip of leather. And his eyes were darker still, were alive with passion. He was lean, muscular, and his movements were swift and virile.
Tormod was quite the opposite, boasting the large belly of a man more interested in being in his cups than anything else. His blue eyes watered continuously in his flaccid face, which was framed by thinning brown locks that clung to his scalp in wispy strings.
It was not in physical traits alone that the brothers differed. Their temperaments conflicted as well. Ruan was hot-blooded, obsessive, and stubbornly loyal while his brother seemingly existed in a perpetual state of lethargy. Tormod excelled in revenge and in the ability to delay a decision for as long as possible, particularly dangerous habits for a Laird of Dunvegan to possess.
The clansmen craned forward for a better view of the impending clash.
“Wife?” Ruan’s deep, rich voice resounded as he stalked toward his brother’s high table, “My sister is a bairn and has nae even ten years!”
Tormod swallowed a little, but sneered and said, “She was wed proper! Whether ye like it or no.”
“Proper? A bairn? ‘Tis against church law and well ye know it!” Ruan’s
lip curled in a scathing smile as he surveyed the men clustered in the hall. “I should have had more than this handful riding with me to rescue a wee lass from the hell that was heaped upon her innocent head! Those gathered here this night are nae worthy to bear the braw name of MacLeod!”
Uneasiness descended upon the great chamber as a mixed chorus of “Ayes” greeted this statement, most of them coming from the men clustered behind Ruan, but the loudest from a lithe young man at his side.
“Well said!” The fearless youth stepped forward. “Aye, we should nae have been so few!” He faced Tormod with a fierce anger terrifying to see in one so young. A few years would truly make him a forbidding man.
Ewan, heir to the Earldom of Mull, was a tall, strapping lad, fair of face and heart. He was the eldest son of the MacClean of Duart Castle, an ancient and powerful clan. His startling blond hair fell loose over his shoulders and he wore the yellow, fine-spun, plaid of his clan with an easy grace.
“May those that harmed a wee bairn rot in hell!” Ewan clenched his fist and spat.
Tormod cut him short with a scornful laugh and said, “Beware! Ye aren’t yet Earl of Mull, young cur!”
A murmur of displeasure rippled through the hall at that, and Tormod tensed, checking his anger with difficulty. While the Earl of Mull was a man well-loved, it appeared his son was even more so.
Dropping his voice so only Ruan and Ewan could hear, Tormod hissed, “I doubt our illustrious Earl will be overly pleased when he discovers how Ruan has ensnared ye this night.”
“It was my own choice—” Ewan began hotly.
“Aye? It was yer own choice to ferret the MacDonald’s bride from his very bedchamber on her wedding night?” enquired the Laird of Dunvegan in a cold, cruel humor. “Your father will nae be happy ye’ve made Fearghus his enemy once again.”
For a brief instant doubt clouded the young man’s face. Anger quickly replaced it. “How little ye ken my father!” he retorted.
“Be at peace, Ewan,” Ruan said, giving the lad’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. Raising his voice, he added, “Be at peace. Ye’ve shown more loyalty than many a MacLeod here this night!”
The clansmen averted their eyes uncomfortably. They were in an unenviable position. By their own lips, they had sworn loyalty to Tormod. However, their hearts belonged to Ruan.
Unnerved at Ruan’s troublesome influence over the clan, Tormod snapped, “I should behead the lot of ye!” His chin jiggled a little as he pointed to the men behind Ruan. “Inciting God-fearing men to break their oaths, stealing a man’s wife on his wedding night, and bringing the wrath of the MacDonald on the clan…these are all acts of disloyalty! Aye! Ye be my own blood, Ruan, but ye’ve scarce shown it this night!”
“I rescued my sister, a wee bairn, and brought her home!” Ruan exploded, temper blazing dangerously as he drew himself to his full height. “If ye dinna protect the innocents of this clan…I will!”
He cut a daunting figure. Every line of his lean, hard body, spoke of power.
Tormod faltered, taking a step back but it was a grave mistake. Every clansman witnessed it and every clansman knew it for what it was.
He was afraid of this compelling brother of his and his growing power.
“She is a MacDonald now! Wed proper in a kirk,” Tormod said. He wet his lips before addressing the men standing resolutely behind Ruan. “Dare ye risk the wrath of yer laird for this? Ruan is a penniless beggar who can give ye nothing! He has only the braw name of MacLeod and is unworthy of even that!”
Ruan opened his mouth to retort but it was cut short.
“Silence, lad, let it be,” a new voice inserted mildly.
Robert MacLeod, uncle to both men, stepped from the shadows to study his nephews. He peered at them, his iron-grey hair framing a stern brow.
“Ye didn’t…” Tormod whispered, shocked, unable to finish the question.
“Aye,” the man replied softly. Every inch of him exuded a commanding presence. “I too rode with Ruan.”
Tormod paled and took a step back in the stunned silence that followed. That his uncle, the most respected man of the clan, would ride with Ruan, was a devastating blow. Unconsciously, he took another step back.
“We are the mighty clan of the MacLeods and we protect our own,” Robert Macleod stated with authority. His grey eyes slid over the gathered men before returning to settle on Tormod once more. “Ye ken well enough this unholy union should never have been agreed upon! Cuilen has long been our friend, not Fearghus. Ye’ve only pulled us into their clan wars with this marriage and we’ve no cause to be drawn into their affairs! Ye should have been riding with us— nay, leading us—to that accursed pit of evil!” He radiated disdain.
Visibly intimidated, Tormod merely stared. He was at a loss for words. The silence in the hall grew oppressive and then metal rasped as swords were drawn.
“A MacDonald!” someone called in warning.
Ruan whirled. His hand dropped instinctively to his sword.
A short, grizzled man dressed in MacDonald plaids leaned against the entrance of the great hall, observing the proceedings with overt interest.
“I’m Cuilen’s man of Dunscaithe,” the man said. He raised his hands and stepped slowly into the circle of naked dirks surrounding him. “I bring a message.”
Ruan expelled a pent breath.
Aye, Tormod had made a muckle mess.
The MacDonalds of Dunscaithe had long been an ally of the MacLeods until Domnall’s Irish sister named Bree and his uncle Robert had fallen in love. Their affair had caused a rift bordering on a feud when the lass had died in Dunvegan. Though that had taken place some years ago, relations were still tenuous. They just might break now, with Tormod’s decision to wed his sister Merry to Fearghus, the MacDonald of Duntelm.
Ruan clenched his jaw.
It was a marriage that only the English would make, wedding wee bairns for political gain. His blood boiled in anger, but he took comfort in the fact he’d succeed in procuring an annulment on her behalf. She was a bairn and the marriage was against church law.
The men in the hall were murmuring, eying the messenger with apprehension.
Aye, the Isles had seen more than its fair share of turmoil this past year. With John MacDonald forced to forfeit the Earldom of Ross to the King, the massive loss of land had splintered the MacDonald clan into factions. On Skye, the clan had split in two. Fearghus, MacDonald of the north, was now at war with his cousin Cuilen, MacDonald of the south.
Ruan shook his head.
Of late, Fearghus was behaving as a man deranged. There were rumors he was readying a revolt against the Mackenzies to reclaim the land the King had recently bestowed upon them. He was a fool. Such an action could end only in blood for the Crown solidly supported the Mackenzies. The loss of the Earldom of Ross had proven that.
The MacLeods had no place in these affairs.
Merry’s marriage would do nothing but anger Cuilen and cause harm to the clan. Could Tormod not even see his error?
There was a prolonged silence before Tormod lifted his voice, “Take him to my private chambers.” With that, he spun on his heel and quit the hall.
“Tormod will ruin us all,” someone muttered.
As the chorus of agreement grew louder, Ruan raised his arm.
The clansmen hushed.
“Tormod is The MacLeod,” Ruan said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “I’ll nae have it said otherwise. This matter of Merry lies between brothers and no one else.” He fixed the men in the hall with a firm eye, repeating, “No one else.”
They watched him, muttering amongst themselves as he slipped out of the great hall.
Ruan drew his brows in a brooding scowl. His dealings with Tormod had always been poor. Recent events were rendering them impossible. His brothers were obviously convinced it was his desire to wrest Dunvegan from their grasp. But it was preposterous.
Aye, Tormod was childless, but he had four heirs who would see Dunvegan thei
rs before Ruan ever did. Two half-brothers, Andrew and Michael, along with their sons, stood between them. Ruan would have to see all five men die before Dunvegan would be his. He sighed. How could his brothers think he’d want so much blood to be spilled?
They truly didn’t know him.
He sighed again.
If he were wise, he’d leave soon. He pressed his cheek against the cold stones of the passageway.
Dunvegan ran through his blood. It always had, even though he spent precious little time within its walls.
As the fifth son, of a fourth marriage, his father, The Black MacLeod, wanted little to do with him and had given him nothing, save the name of MacLeod. His father had been cruel and given to fits of violence. Ruan had been fortunate to escape.
At a tender age, they sent him to foster with Cameron, the young Earl of Lennox. He’d received the finest education and traveled widely in Cameron’s company, spending much time in court, but even more upon the battlefield fighting other men’s wars.
His blood family had all but abandoned him, but Dunvegan only grew stronger in his heart with each passing year. The moors, the forests, the stormy seas, were all rooted deep in his soul. Last winter, he’d finally followed his heart and had returned, much to Tormod’s distaste and alarm.
Having refused him quarters in the castle, Tormod was horrified to learn he’d been welcomed in the crofts. Ruan preferred them anyway. It was no hardship to harvest the fields and sheer the sheep. It was far better than having a man die by his hand. Living with his clan, sharing in happiness and tragedy alike, was healing to his soul.
Since his return, he’d experienced one calamity after another. Just five months past, he’d given all he owned to pay his mother’s ransom in Spain. It was no secret that Tormod and his older brothers had worked in concert with Fearghus to accomplish the kidnapping of his mother by Spanish mercenaries, and for no other reason than to ruin him. They had successfully assured that what little he’d acquired was reduced to even less. In his mind, their steadfast refusal to donate even one shilling to her ransom had all but proven their complicity.
