The Kindling Heart

by Carmen Caine

  Aye, his brother would be one to torment her. He was unholy enough. An anger arose deep within Ruan’s chest. He clenched his fists. He took a step forward, lip lifting into a snarl of its own accord.

  Tormod shrugged. Looping his thumbs in his belt, he retraced his steps and disappeared back into the castle.

  Ruan could not pursue him for Bree suddenly emitted a yelp and proceeded to topple his way. He was there, catching her deftly in his arms but losing his balance in the process. He saw the wide green eyes and a nose even more swollen and purple than before. Then, they were rolling, miraculously avoiding the jagged rocks but collecting bits of bracken in their clothes before landing in the shallows, a tangle of arms and legs.

  Ruan was cold and he growled, not particularly in the mood to be wet yet again. Rising to his feet, he offered Bree his hand in assistance.

  She refused to look at him. Instead, she sat in the shallow water, sucking in her breath in shock.

  “’Tis fair cold, best get back to bed before ye catch ill,” he said, moving to lift her.

  Bree scrambled clumsily to her feet, obviously wanting to avoid his touch, but her wet skirts knotted about her knees like a rope and pitched her directly into his arms. She was soft, shapely. For a brief moment, his blood coursed hotly in his veins, but then she sneezed, startling him into control. Scowling at his temporary lapse, he firmly pushed her away.

  She was looking worse each time that he saw her. Her hair clung in damp strings fastened to her pale, bruised face and her ripped gown revealed scrapes and bruises. His scowl deepened, wondering if he surveyed Tormod’s handiwork. She sneezed again. They were still standing ankle deep in the cold water and while it wouldn’t harm him, she was obviously already ill.

  “Best get back to the tower,” Ruan ordered, gruffer than he intended.

  Her teeth began to chatter as she lifted her foot, but slipped on the slick stones. He tried to steady her but somehow her elbow dug into his stomach. He grunted, taking a step back, but lost his own footing and tumbled back into the loch, once more doused in freezing water. A whimper gurgled from under him, and to his dismay, he discovered this time he’d taken the poor lass with him, half-landing on her.

  Sounds of hooting laughter reached his ears, but he ignored it. His pressing concern was for Bree. He hoisted her to her feet, filled with remorse. “I’ll nae harm ye,” he offered as comfort, half carrying her out of the loch. The poor lass deserved a better life than he’d given her so far. “Best get warm before ye take ill.”

  She didn’t seem to hear.

  “’Tis a wee nippy for a swim, Ruan.”

  Several men had gathered at the top of the stairs, his uncle Robert, Domnall, and Ewan among them, all grinning. He shot them a withering glare, but another sneeze from Bree made up his mind. Ignoring the good-natured jests hurled his way, he unceremoniously tossed her over his shoulder once more and strode up the steps without speaking a word.

  “Ach, yer hands are full with that one, lad,” Robert’s eyes crinkled in amusement as he passed by.

  “Aye,” Domnall agreed, but there was a worried glint in his eye. “Would ye expect ought else from a lass called ‘Bree’?”

  “Nothing less, Domnall, nothing less,” Robert murmured. A shadow of sorrow fell across his brow.

  Ruan frowned. He’d heard tales of Bree, Robert’s love, and her short stay in Dunvegan. She’d died of fever, though some claimed it was fairy mischief while others swore it was her weak Irish blood.

  Suddenly, Bree sneezed. He clenched his jaw and pushed past them all. He made his way back to the tower to drop her once more upon the bed. Belatedly, he recalled her bruises and prepared to apologize, but it was too late.

  She’d fainted.

  She was not moving. Someone should remove the wet clothing. A bluish pall had settled over her skin. With a growl of frustration mingled with a large dose of guilt, he pulled a dry plaid from the chest. Tossing it over his shoulder, he returned to the bed and gripped her torn gown.

  She exploded into a flurry of scratching nails and biting teeth.

  “I’m trying to help ye!” his temper flared, but his words ended in a grunt as a knee connected with his groin. Dropping to the rushes on one knee, he drew a long breath, but when something bounced off his head, he decided he was done.

  An ankle, a particularly slender and pleasing ankle, stepped over him on its way to the door. He grabbed it and gave it a sharp twist. She fell, landing across his chest. In moments, she was on her back as he straddled her, her hands effectively pinned to her sides.

  “Be done, ye wee hellion!” he shouted. The last day had found him kicked, punched, and drenched, several times. A red welt graced his cheek. His head pounded. Aye, but she was hard on a man!

  Large, green eyes stared back at him. Flashing eyes that gave him pause. An image of the shapely, slender ankle fled through his mind accompanied by the memory of soft curves and naked breasts in the early morning light. He shook his head in the attempt to clear his thoughts, focusing on the purple, swollen nose, streaked in different colors. It was a charming nose, a nose belonging to a fierce and fascinating, wee lass, who…

  Alarmed by his wandering thoughts, he drew back, shouting, “By the Saints! I’ll nae dishonor a daughter of Domnall.”

  It was more of a reminder to himself than an offer of comfort.

  She began to shake. Her lips and skin were almost purple.

  “Ye look horrid,” he said, throwing the plaid on top of her. “Aye, would be best to wear this.”

  She simply stared at him.

  Chapter 08: Not a Widow

  Bree was too exhausted to move. Her throat hurt, her ears rang, and her stomach convulsed as a violent spasm overtook her. Dimly, she was aware of Ruan hovering over her, brows drawn in a line. Once more, he picked her up and placed her upon the same accursed bed in the same accursed chamber that seemed destined to forever be her prison.

  As a shadow fell over her she cringed, closing her eyes. When the minutes passed uneventfully, she slowly raised her head.

  Ruan stood next to the bed, his expression unreadable. His eyes caught and held hers for a time before asking, “What were ye doing outside the castle, lass? Were ye trying to run?”

  Run? She shivered uncontrollably, remembering the icy water. She could not explain, even to herself, why she’d bolted. She just had. Tormod had made her uncomfortable. She merely stood there. The words stuck in her throat as her mouth convulsed.

  “Answer me, woman! Did he touch ye?”

  Bree jerked, surprised at the question. Surely, Ruan was not implying his own brother would be so unholy.

  “Well, best stay out of his way. I’ve no trust left in the man.” Ruan stooped to pick up the plaid from the floor and tossed it in her general direction. “Wear that.”

  She tried to move, but her body refused to obey.

  “Faith,” he said dryly after a time, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “There’s naught about ye to entice a man. I’ve no intention of ravishing you.”

  Alarm rippled through Bree. In all her frightened panic of the day, she hadn’t considered that. Her pressing concern had been a beating. She’d entirely forgotten the inhabitants of Dunvegan considered this man, this stranger, to be her husband. Most likely, he’d do as he pleased. Here, in the opinion of all, she was his possession.

  Panicking, she leapt off the bed, lunging for the door, but he moved to block her. She succeeded in doing nothing more than launching herself into his arms. She screamed, blood-curdling screams.

  “By the Saints!” he cursed. “I should bind ye hand and foot!”

  Then, miraculously, she was free. Again, she’d managed only a single step before strong arms encircled her from behind, trapping her. With two, swift jerks, Ruan yanked her fine new shift off with practiced ease. His hands were hot against her cold, naked flesh. Mustering what strength remained, she struggled, knowing there was little she could do. A rumble of laughter caused her to meet
the smoldering, dark eyes, only mere inches from her own. They were odd, those eyes, filled with neither rage nor lust, but amusement only.

  She froze.

  Ruan grinned.

  She didn’t know how long they stood there before he deftly tossed her over his shoulder. Once again he dropped her upon the bed in a rough, but oddly gentle manner. He quickly tossed the plaid over her naked flesh with a dexterous swirl and proceeded to roll her in it. With her hands trapped, she could do nothing but move her head. He propped her up against the headboard.

  Wiping his hands, Ruan studied his handiwork, a smile quirking in the corner of his lips. “Ach, ye wee spitfire… that should keep ye in hand for a bit.”

  Bree stared. Several jagged scratches graced his chin, below a smudge of blue on his cheek. She gulped. What man would fail to exact vengeance for such un-wifely behavior? Well, he had her now, bound and helpless. She waited expectantly for the violence to erupt.

  He leaned closer and smiled.

  She watched him from the corner of her eye, wincing.

  “Why was she screaming?” said a voice from behind them.

  Ruan straightened and Bree followed his gaze to find the tall young blond man who had gently carried her after she’d broken her nose.

  Ewan.

  “Why was she screaming?” Ewan repeated. His blue eyes were hard but his voice soft.

  Brows knitting into a scowl, Ruan remained silent several moments before replying, his voice deadly, calm. “Are ye asking what I think ye are?”

  “Aye,” Ewan flushed, but held his ground. Pointing to Ruan’s scratched chin, he pressed, “What happened, then?”

  Ruan’s mouth dropped open in astonishment.

  “It sounded like—”

  “Be gone!” Ruan exploded. Striding toward the door, he roared, “Go, before I treat ye to the thrashing you deserve!”

  Oddly, Ewan’s face flooded with relief.

  To Bree’s utter astonishment, after a perfunctory bow in her direction, the young man left the chamber. He was apparently satisfied. It was astounding. Ruan hadn’t answered the question in the slightest. Instead, he’d threatened bodily harm and Ewan had merely smiled in relief. What manner of men were these?

  Growling, Ruan kicked the door shut with such force it rattled on its hinges.

  Bree swallowed. How could Ewan infuriate the man and then simply leave? She wanted to cry. She was trapped by the plaid and alone with an enraged beast of a man.

  Catching her eyes upon him, Ruan stalked to the bed.

  Too afraid to breathe, she could only watch, aghast.

  “I’ll nae have ye trembling in such a manner!” he barked.

  It would be much easier to faint. She willed herself desperately to faint with no success, but then to her amazement, the man’s demeanor softened.

  With a deep sigh, Ruan wiped his forehead with the back of his arm.

  “I’ve no intention of touching ye, out of anger or lust, lass,” he smiled. It was a bitter sort of smile, “Aye, I’ve no desire to be wed, less than even ye have, and ‘tis no secret how little ye wish it!”

  She blinked.

  “Aye!” Ruan began to pace. Muttering as if merely thinking aloud he said, “I only agreed to this unholy union to save my sister Merry. Once I win her freedom, I’ll have this mockery annulled. So, ye’ve naught to fear. I’ll nae see it consummated, though ye best let Tormod and the others think otherwise.”

  Bree caught her breath.

  After a time, he sat gingerly on the edge of the bed.

  Heart pounding, she could not resist the attempt to inch away.

  Catching the movement, a gleam entered his eye and he smiled once more.

  “There’s no cause killing yourself to run, lass,” he assured softly. “I’ve no desire for a wife, I’ll nae be touching ye. I respect Domnall and I’d nae harm his last living bairn. He knows that. It must be why he dreamt up this daft scheme. Once I have Merry’s freedom, we can have this thing annulled.”

  The sincerity in those dark eyes was difficult to doubt. Bewildered but wary, Bree strove to subdue the hope kindling deep within her heart. With a growing difficulty, she reminded herself he was a man. Her father was a man. Men, by design, were simply untrustworthy. Her father had betrayed her. Why would Ruan be any different? She could not allow herself to trust him in the slightest.

  “Aye, I’m hardly a fit husband for a daughter of Domnall,” Ruan scowled, brows deepening into a line. Then, he shook his head and his lips curved in a rueful smile. “Ye look dreadful.”

  Leaning close, he slapped her playfully on the knee.

  Bree choked in shock.

  He seemed rather surprised himself. Jumping hastily to his feet, he hovered uncertainly, when to his obvious relief a knock on the door shattered the awkward moment.

  Ruan opened the door and Ewan’s grinning head appeared and spoke Gaelic with a soft urgency. With a warm smile her direction, the lad was gone as quickly as he’d come, closing the door with a loud grating squeak. With a violent curse, Ruan pounded his fist against the bedpost.

  Bree bit her lip nervously as she watched him stalk to the chest, peeling his wet shirt along the way. When his plaid quickly followed, she came to the disconcerting realization that he’d forgotten her entirely. Never before had she seen a man unclothed and certainly never one standing so grandly naked in so careless a manner. It was disturbing, yet, if she were honest to herself, strangely and oddly fascinating.

  She hadn’t actually looked at him before. She’d been trying to run the opposite direction or had been too drunk to recall anything more than his immense height and voice rife with annoyance. Closer inspection revealed he was quite young himself. His shoulders were broad. His arms were well-muscled and his stomach hard. He was handsome; exceedingly handsome. In spite of her best intentions and the entire situation, her eyes drifted curiously down.

  Blushing, she stared. While she was horrified at her boldness, she was also strangely mesmerized.

  All at once, Ruan remembered her presence. Startled, he drew his plaid about his waist. A series of indecipherable expressions crossed his face, and then he hurried out the door without a backward glance, dressing himself along the way.

  Perplexed, emotions in turmoil and extraordinarily drained, Bree closed her eyes.

  ***

  She was hot. Burning. Crying for water one moment and freezing the next. Her throat seared with pain. Her head pounded and each breath was an enormous effort. Repeatedly, she felt the murky, frozen water of the loch closing in over her head. The icy water filled her lungs, chilling her very soul.

  Voices called her name. More than once, a deep one resonated in her mind, ordering her to drink. Whiskey. It scorched her throat, making her vomit. Sweat drenched her body. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she could breathe.

  Utterly worn, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  “Take this, lass, it slockens the cough.”

  Someone pressed a cup to her lips. Steeling herself for the revolting taste of whiskey, she was pleasantly surprised with a salty broth.

  “Aye, a strong one ...” the voice said. It was overly loud, irritating. “Broth is a sight better than that infernal drink Ruan forced down ye.”

  It must be her father. Only Domnall had such a bothersome voice. Slowly, she lifted her lids, squinting in the light, and found him at her side, face drawn and haggard, but green eyes twinkling brightly.

  “Ach, ye worried us, Bree,” he scolded affectionately, touching her forehead with a calloused palm.

  Bree smiled feebly in return. For one, blissful moment, she felt safe, as if she belonged and then her smile faded. Her father was the man who had betrayed her; wed her to a complete stranger.

  Domnall chuckled, delighted, “Aye. Now, there’s a flash of the MacBethad spirit!”

  “She’s a MacLeod now,” Isobel commented dourly.

  “She’ll always be a MacBethad, woman!”

  Bree knit her brows,
puzzled and strangely tired. How long had she been ill? Closing her eyes, she drifted off to sleep once more.

  At first, the days passed in a patched, hazy sort of way.

  Domnall kept a constant vigil by her side assuring her she was safe. He told her that Ruan was gone with Tormod to speak with the Mackenzies and to join Cuilen on raids against Fearghus. Apparently, relations with Fearghus had deteriorated once again. Domnall explained the feuds in detail, along with the role of the Mackenzies now joining the fight, but she could not keep it straight. She listened only because she liked her father’s company and the fact that he’d chosen to remain at her side.

  It meant little to her that Ruan was away fighting. She didn’t know the man. If he were to die, she’d be a widow. She was indifferent to that prospect, but then felt guilty that she was. She settled for relief that he was gone and hoped he’d take his time in returning.

  The morning was bitterly cold. The sun was unusually bright and for the first time since she’d fallen ill, and Bree thus felt somewhat alive. The window was open and she could hear the sound of a small waterfall. It was pleasant. With a grateful sigh, she stretched full length only to gasp at a small form hunched nearby.

  Perched on top of the chest, a pair of brown eyes materialized. The eyes seemed far too aged for the young body they inhabited. One lid was nearly swollen shut, a mass of yellow bruises dusted both cheeks. A young girl, black hair twisted in a severe braid, observed her with an unblinking stare.

  Bree licked her dry lips uncertainly.

  For a time, the small girl seemed content to just sit, but then she whispered something in Gaelic.

  Bree shook her head, uncomprehending.

  The youngster frowned, but obligingly switched to English. “Ye’ll be learning the Gaelic, ‘tis nae proper to speak English. I’m Merry.”

  Merry. The name sounded familiar.

  “I’m Ruan’s sister,” Merry offered, straightening the hem of her dress.