by Carmen Caine
“Aye, when I return, we’ll be talking, mo ceisd,” he finally said and then he thundered away.
***
It was a week from hell.
They rode hard, sleeping little, as they hunted the men responsible for the unholy attack.
Several times, in the heat of battle, Ruan found arrows assailing him from behind, as in the previous raids. One succeeded in grazing his shoulder. He shared his suspicions with no one, but it heightened his state of alert. Perhaps he was foolish, but he still did not want to believe his own brothers were trying to kill him.
They had found some of the raiders camped in the mountains near several crofts. The encounter was over before Ruan could even order that they be kept alive for questioning. He exchanged heated words with Michael and the others over the loss of the opportunity to gather more information.
It began to rain.
They sloshed through the mud, their bare knees and plaids soaked, as they scoured the moors for signs of the raiders.
A few days later, they stumbled upon another encampment.
Again, Ruan found his attempts to take the men alive thwarted and this time by Gerland.
It was maddening.
The entire incident was unusual, from the manner of Fearghus’ initial attacks to the fact that though these men were dressed in MacDonald plaids, they did not wear them properly. He could have sworn they were shouting in French as the battle ensued. One swarthy man was definitely Spanish. He’d heard him praying aloud as he lay dying on the moors. Gerland’s sword cut it short. It made little sense and Ruan was perplexed how they came to serve Fearghus. That is, if they were in the man’s service at all.
The day was particularly gloomy. The clouds steadfastly refused to let the sun’s rays penetrate their forbidding layers. Ruan spent the night scouting the perimeter of the nearby forest. It was late when he finally returned to the others and discovered Robert had ridden with Michael to investigate a new set of tracks.
Ruan sat tiredly before the fire. Someone thrust a leg of fowl and a few bannocks into his hands. He adjusted his plaid, stretched his long, bare legs with a brooding scowl, and ate quickly. He didn’t trust Michael or Gerland. He was concerned for Robert’s safety.
He was asking what direction they had taken when a wail sounded from the men around him. Springing to his feet, he saw Robert’s horse following the others.
It was without a rider.
He didn’t recall mounting his horse; suddenly, he was just reining alongside Michael. His attention focused solely upon the grey-faced man his brother bore in his arms.
“He’s dead,” Michael said, his voice sounding as if it were from far away. “There was nothing we could do.”
“Aye,” Gerland murmured in agreement.
Finally finding his voice, Ruan asked hoarsely, “Did ye slay the man who did this?”
“He escaped,” Michael answered. “We stopped, trying to save Robert.”
Ruan bowed his head, willing the tears to come, but they were strangely absent. His heart sank. He was responsible for this, first the crofters, and now his uncle. Their deaths were upon his head. He could not think.
“We must return to Dunvegan,” Michael said. “This pursuit is over.”
Ruan followed, saying nothing. He watched them break camp and mount their horses to return.
He didn’t join them. Instead, he remained on his horse, vowing he wouldn’t leave until he’d avenged Robert’s death. He wheeled the animal toward Dunscaithe, paying no heed to the handful of men choosing to follow him. A mad quest, Michael had yelled after him, but Ruan brushed off his brother’s warning.
Time passed in a haze.
It was late the next day and they had been following a set of tracks for hours. As the sun sank low, Ruan caught sight of the elusive horseman and pressed forward with a surge of renewed energy. Charging down the hill, he burst through a copse of trees in hot pursuit.
This time, the arrow whistled without warning.
This time, it didn’t miss its mark.
Ruan crumpled from his horse without a word.
Chapter 14: Mo Ceisd
Over the week, Merry fretted for Ruan’s safety, and Bree found she did the same. It was odd how she wanted to be his wife, now that the possibility of him not returning loomed. They spent their days in Jenna’s croft with Ewan constantly at their side. They watched the lad absently fiddle with his dirk. It was a comforting gesture. They knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
In the evenings, Ewan entertained them all, including the still nameless infant, with tales so wild they could not be true, in spite of his insistence otherwise. It was then, in the darkness of the night, long after Merry had drifted off to sleep with her head in Bree’s lap, that Ewan told Bree how Ruan had ridden to save the young girl. He was an unusual man, and against her better judgment, she found her heart quickening. Mo ceisd. Ruan had called her mo ceisd. She puzzled over the meaning of the words: my problem. It was not surprising he considered her a problem, but he spoke in such a disturbingly gentle tone. She shivered. He was a troubling man, an enigma.
The day came when the men returned bearing Robert’s body, a death that sent a ripple of shock through the entire clan. Ruan’s choice to remain behind and to hunt the killer would have won him even more hearts hadn’t they already been his. A day passed and then several more. They all worried, even Ewan, though he tried his best to conceal it.
“He’s a strong man. He’ll be fine,” he told them for the fifth time.
Late the following afternoon, Silas pounded on the croft door, insisting Bree and Ewan return at once to Dunvegan. Ill tidings, was all he’d say, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his eye. Bree followed the priest with a sinking heart. They heard Effric shrieking long before entering the hall and Bree knew something was dreadfully wrong.
Tormod paced before the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. He pointedly ignored Effric, who had collapsed in a crumpled heap on the floor. She was wailing, pulling her hair and scratching her cheeks in the most alarming manner.
“Dead,” she sobbed her voice cracking. “Dead!”
Michael leaned on the edge of the table, casually swinging his leg as Isobel sat nearby, simply staring into the distance, nose red-rimmed and her face grey.
Bree’s heart skipped a beat, and it was suddenly difficult to breathe.
“Dead,” Effric whispered.
“Aye,” Tormod sneered, obviously pleased. “Ruan’s dead, Bree. Ye are a widow.”
They all stared at him, dumbfounded.
“’Tis no cause for concern, lass,” Tormod continued pompously. “I’ll see ye well taken care of, well taken care of indeed.”
Isobel’s voice shook with emotion. “The lass should be sent to her father.”
“I’ll be taking Bree away now,” Ewan rasped, placing his hand on his dirk.
“I should have tossed ye out months ago!” Tormod roared, he raised his hand and motioned to several men lounging about. “Lock this hag in her chamber and send the Earl’s whelp home. I’ve no place for either!”
It was over quickly. Ewan struggled valiantly, but he was no match for four well-armed men. A sharp blow from behind rendered him unconscious. Bree gasped in horror as they lugged him away.
“Ye’ll pay for this,” Isobel shouted, as they hauled her from sight.
Effric ran after her, screeching.
Silence blanketed the hall. In a matter of minutes, Tormod had destroyed Ruan’s plans for their protection. Bree watched, numbly, as the man smiled and rubbed his fingers together in glee.
“Ye are a right winsome lass,” he leered. “Aye, one that can give an heir.”
She stared, still in shock and unable to believe the implications, but as he moved closer, she managed to blurt, “You are wed!”
Tormod’s mouth gaped wider, his beady eyes slowly roved over her body as he said, “Effric is mad. None would deny an annulment!”
There was some truth
in that. Surely, surely, her father would rescue her, but her heart sank, knowing he could not be swift enough with Tormod’s intentions degrading by the minute. She took a step back, but he followed. Frantically, she fished for the small hidden knife Ruan had given her, not allowing herself to think of the man himself yet, and then Tormod’s hands were suddenly upon her.
“Aye, it matters naught of Effric.” He licked Bree’s neck and thrust his tongue in her ear. “I’ll get my heir on ye now.”
“No!” Bree shouted hoarsely, unsheathing the knife and lashing out.
Tormod grabbed his ear, cursing, as blood spurted between his fingers. He raised his hand and struck her across the face. She lost her balance, but he pulled her close with his free arm. He was a large and strong man, and she struggled in vain. He held out his hand, staring numbly at the blood on his fingers. A deep gash ran over his cheek.
She’d nearly sliced off the top of his ear.
“Ye’ll pay for this,” Tormod grated, grabbing a handful of her hair and forcing her lips on his.
She gagged. His mouth tasted of whisky and onions. There was the sound of ripping cloth, and his hands were on her flesh. She struck back with renewed vigor, twisting away to scream. He struck her, harder this time. Her vision blurred as a pain shot through her head. For a minute, she was unable to move. He was pinching her, pushing her toward the table when a slight movement by the fire caught her attention, and her heart leapt with joy.
Ruan leaned heavily against the wall, grasping it for support. His skin was white, but his dark eyes were filled with a rage that warmed her soul.
“Ruan!” she gasped in relief.
“Ach, ye canna be mourning him,” Tormod grunted, pressing against her as his lips descended over hers once again.
As Bree watched, Ewan appeared as well, but Ruan was already moving toward her.
“Aye, she canna mourn me,” Ruan’s cold voice hissed as he pressed his dirk against his brother’s throat. “Nae when I’m still alive.”
Tormod froze in disbelief.
Bree could feel his heart pound against her breast, and then she pushed him back with all her strength. This time, he let her go.
“Ye should be dead!” Tormod mouthed, his lips pale and convulsing as he gasped for air.
“Nay, ye failed again,” Ruan’s voice was low. He stood stiffly, hunching to one side and swaying on his feet before asking her, “Are ye well, lass?”
He pulled her briefly into a protective embrace she hadn’t known that she wanted until she stood in the circle of his arm. She leaned her cheek against his broad chest, nodding and swallowing a gulp. At that moment, she understood why Merry worshiped him.
Clansmen filed into the hall.
“Ye’ve some explaining to do, Tormod,” someone shouted from the crowd.
“Aye,” Ruan’s voice dripped with a passionate anger. “But I’m scarce in the mood for it. I’ve sworn already if ye touched my wife, I’d slit your throat, brother or no, and The Macleod or no.”
Letting Bree go, Ruan pressed his dirk deeper into the flesh of Tormod’s neck, its blade glittering in the shaft of sunlight streaming into the hall.
Tormod squealed, sounding remarkably like a stuck pig, but then Ruan gave a sudden gasp. Bree watched in horror as his eyes rolled in his head, and he fell back even as Ewan stepped forward to catch him.
A bright red stained his shirt.
“He’s wounded!” Tormod wheezed, clutching his ear and feeling his neck, as if to assure himself he was still whole.
“Ye’d best pray he will nae die,” Ewan said grimly.
Suddenly, a scream reverberated in the hall accompanied by a flurry of voices. Whispers circled the gathering and then Isobel ran into their midst, tears cascading down her cheeks at the sight of Ruan. She hugged him fiercely to her breast in obvious relief, even as she pointed frantically toward Tormod’s chamber.
Confused, Bree glanced through the parting clansmen.
Effric’s lifeless form hung suspended by a rope thrown over a beam, still swinging slightly. Her head angled sideways. As they watched, a slipper slid off her dangling foot to land amidst the rushes with a soft thump.
***
Effric’s suicide cast a grim pall, but happiness abounded over Ruan’s unexpected return.
“The lass just could nae bear to think him dead,” Isobel repeated, shaking her head as they laid Ruan on his bed with great care.
“Robert?” Ruan moaned upon waking. He grasped Isobel’s arm. “I must speak to him, can ye send him in?”
Isobel paused and quickly blinked tears away.
“What is it?” Ruan frowned.
“Ye must rest, love,” Isobel said. She laid a hand on his forehead. “Aye, ye’ve a bit of a fever. ’Twill likely worsen soon.”
“I must speak with Robert!” Ruan insisted, knitting his brows to deepen his frown. “I…was hunting Fearghus’ man… I think… why was I doing that?” he stopped, confused. “I’m sure some of them were French.”
“Robert is resting,” Isobel replied, patting him on the cheek. “I’ll leave ye with Bree now, and go fetch the webs. We must halt the bleeding, love. Drink this whilst ye wait.”
Ruan accepted the whiskey with a tired smile, but there was a furrow between his brows and then his lids fluttered closed.
Thrusting a basin of water and a cloth into Bree’s hands, Isobel reassured, “He’s a strong lad, love. Clean him. I’ll return shortly.”
Giving Bree’s shoulder a comforting squeeze, she left and for the first time that day, Bree allowed herself a shaken breath of relief, but it was a relief that didn’t last long.
The blood coloring Ruan’s shirt was alarming.
With a somewhat timid touch, she picked at the dried blood caked with sweat and grime. She tried to be gentle, but it proved impossible. Fearing he was bleeding to death under her hand, she tugged the shirt over his head, and he erupted into a struggling mass of muscle, wrestling with the confining cloth. Panicking, she yanked the shirt hard, ripping it off.
“Sweet Mary!” Ruan bellowed. His hair stood on end as tears of pain wet his lashes. “Are ye trying to slay me, lass?”
Bree opened her mouth, wanting to shout back, but fell silent as she caught sight of the wound cutting his naked chest. She’d never seen such a thing. The flesh was purple and black. The swollen gash was encrusted with blood and matted hair. She covered her mouth with her hand.
“The men had to …dig the arrow… it was fair dark… he…” Ruan explained weakly and then, blanching, fell silent.
Bree nodded once, and reached for the wet cloth with a shaking hand.
“Just turn your head when you retch, lass.”
It was too much. She could no longer ignore the rising nausea. She’d a brief impression of dark, amused eyes as she rushed to the chamber pot and was violently ill. After several minutes, faint chuckles emerged from the bed, and she returned, cheeks flushing.
“Forgive me,” she whispered in a strangled voice. “I’ve… never seen…”
She winced and picked up the cloth, dabbing his chest and wondering if she should dash to the chamber pot again.
“I’ve had worse,” he said, attempting a weak smile.
Bree swallowed, wringing the cloth, and asked, “You… don’t do this, often, do you?”
“Aye, do ye mean if ye’ll have to?” Ruan gritted his teeth in pain, but managed a half-smile. “I hope not.”
Bree smiled feebly, then dabbed the gash again.
He gasped.
“I’m sorry,” she gulped, and drew back in alarm.
“It has to be done,” Ruan gave a resigned sigh. Spying the whiskey flagon Isobel had tossed him, his lips widened into a grin.
He didn’t flinch much after that, she thought wryly as she continued her gentle assault. The wound was hardly half-clean, and already the water in the basin was as red as blood. Her nostrils flared at the smell. She moved the basin to the other side of the bed in the effort to co
ntrol her riotous stomach.
“Ye’ve nae done this before, have ye?” he murmured, voice sounding thick.
“No,” Bree shook her head. “I’ve never seen such a grievous injury.”
“Nay, mo ceisd, nae that,” Ruan’s voice sounded guttural, sensual. “I meant touched a man’s naked chest.”
Bree pulled back sharply, upsetting the basin. As the bloody water tipped into the bed, she lunged for it. Ruan grunted in pain as her elbow dug into his stomach.
“I’m sorry!” she gasped.
Red stained the covers and she wanted to retch again, but she was distracted as Ruan’s strong fingers closed about her wrist to pull her close.
“Ach, there’s nae harm done,” he said, with a wicked glint in his eye. “I can think of nothing better than to lie in bed, drinking whiskey, with a lass bare to the waist draped over me.”
Bree froze. His words were shocking, but she was even more astonished at her own reaction. Her heart fluttered and her pulse began to beat erratically.
“Aye, well, and here I’ve been told ye were dead, then sore wounded. Now, I find ye half-drunk trifling with a bonny lass,” Isobel chuckled in obvious relief as she swept into the room, followed by Ewan. “I told ye he was a strong one, Bree!”
Blushing, Bree attempted to jerk free, but Ruan gripped her arm with a firm, yet gentle pressure. His touch felt like fire. She bit her lip.
“Cover up, Bree,” he murmured, eyes deliberately dropping as his lips twitched. “Ewan shouldn’t see ye like that.”
She drew her brows in confusion and then glanced down. She gasped. She was indeed bare to the waist. Tormod had ripped the entire bodice and a healthy part of the shift as well. Flushing an even deeper crimson, she scrambled to pull the tattered cloth together. How dare the man laugh at her! She’d been concerned for his life, cleaning that odious wound, and he’d been drinking and ogling her the entire time. Lifting her chin, she allowed her anger to show, but his expression made her suddenly uncomfortable. There was something there besides humor, something that made her wish to run and stay at the same time.
