by Lily Baldwin
He hastened from her land back to Gribun where he saddled his horse. A ride over the moors would rid his mind of Brenna. He winced, remembering her grief-stricken eyes and pale skin. Cursing with fury, he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks. Of course, he wanted more than anything to soothe her anguish. Still, he knew if he were to embrace her need, the love he bore her, suppressed deep within his soul, would bust through the wall he erected the very first night they met.
His mind wandered back seven years to that distant night when first he glimpsed her from afar. He inhaled deeply as she stood before him, preserved in exquisite memory.
There had been a dance celebrating Beltane in the courtyard of Dun Ara castle. Duncan’s replacement as watchmen over the stores had arrived, and so he hurried off to join the festivities. Upon entering the gate, his eyes had been pulled toward an unknown maid standing off to one side. She was alone and a vision with dark red curls unbound to her hips, wide eyes, and creamy skin.
Her features were not soft or delicate like so many of her female counterparts. Her eyes were sharp and angled, her jaw strong with a stubborn tilt, and her lips tempted with soft fullness. Despite the strength of her countenance, he had noticed her hands twisting at her belt, revealing her discomfort as a stranger within a new clan. He did not know who she was, but the overwhelming desire to meet her and ease her worries was not to be denied.
He had strode over to her and bowed low, placing a kiss on her hand. “Good evening, lass.”
His heart quickened as he remembered the full smile that lit her face, causing her eyes to sparkle—the only smile from Brenna he would ever earn.
Her smile was his undoing.
He had stared unspeaking, not breathing, feeling as though the wind had been knocked from his lungs. She had blushed under his scrutiny and looked away. As she did, thick, red strands of hair fell across her eyes. He stepped closer and swept the wayward curls behind her ear.
“’Tis a fine evening,” she stammered. He had continued to say nothing as he stared in rapture.
“Are you aware, sir, that you still hold my hand,” she said.
He laughed and brought her hand once more to his lips, “Painfully aware,” he said, still refusing to release his prize. “Are you real? Or will you vanish into mist like a cruel dream?”
She laughed, “I assure you that I am made of flesh and blood.”
He drew close and whispered in her ear, “Tell me your name so I might ask you to dance.”
“Duncan,” a voice had called. Duncan turned and saw Ewan approaching.
“Ewan, I did not hear of your return. I trust you were able to deliver the chieftain’s eldest daughter safely into the hands of her new husband.”
“Aye. That and a lot more,” Ewan said. “You’ve met my surprise, I see.”
“Surprise?” Duncan said. “What surprise?”
Ewan had extended his hand to the beautiful lass at Duncan’s side. She withdrew her hand from Duncan’s grasp and reached for Ewan who wrapped a possessive arm around her shoulder.
“This, Duncan, is Brenna. My wife.”
The pit of his stomach had seized. Ewan’s words echoed over and over again in his mind, but he refused to accept the truth. The creature at his side could not belong to Ewan. He had forgotten everything other than his longing for the lass; until he recognized Ewan’s expectant gaze.
He remembered swallowing the tightness that had gathered in his throat. As jealous and covetous thoughts took root in his heart, fear had entered his soul. He was a man of honor, and Ewan was his best friend. He had no business wanting Ewan’s wife, and he would do what he had to in order to ensure his attraction to Brenna never surfaced again. Stealing his shoulders, Duncan had forced his lips into a smile and congratulated Ewan with a slap on his back, but he said nothing to Brenna. He had not the will to look at her, and he never looked at her again—except from afar.
He reined in his horse as he neared the edge of the cliffs that fell straight to the rocky coast below. Waves churned and rolled toward shore. The arrival of each swell was marked by the constant timbre of water thrown against rock. Such was the sound of his continued suffering over the years, but he had not been noble enough to bear the pain alone. At times, he had even shown her more than just indifference; he had been downright cruel. His wasted heart blamed her for his betrayal of Ewan even though in his mind he recognized her innocence.
God above, he was the worst sort of man. What kind of man coveted his best friend’s wife, resenting their happiness? He growled and clenched his fists. Worst was the man who denied his best friend’s widow comfort.
He pictured her soulful, blue eyes, searching his for consolation, but despite how much he wanted to be of aid to her, his secret affection must not be revealed. To do so would shame Ewan’s sleep. He would shame himself, and worst yet, he would shame her.
He was damned.
He kicked his horse in the flanks and galloped over the moors, which blazed past his eyes in flashes of sparse springtime greenery and hard, jutting stones. Hooves beat the ground, scattering tufts of earth as he raced faster and faster, but despite how swiftly he rode, he could not outrun his desire or his obligation to face her again.
His earlier retreat may have saved him from confessing his secret adoration, but he left with unsettled business. For a moment, he wondered whether it might be best to send Cormac or Jamie in his stead, but the unpleasant nature of what must be done needed to befall his shoulders alone. She already despised him. What did it matter if he upset her further?
He turned his horse around and headed back toward the outskirts of Gribun where, in the loveliest croft on Mull, Brenna lived…although he hoped not for long.
Given how well their first meeting went, he did not look forward to his return visit, but she could not stay in her home. It was too isolated. More than ever she needed the protection of the village. He doubted she would readily agree to leave the home she had known with Ewan, but she was a reasonable woman known for her practicality. No doubt she already considered the danger of living in solitude without the protection of a man.
***
Brenna quirked an eyebrow at Duncan. “When I observed your approach just now I admit a jest was the not what I expected to hear.” Her attention returned to the cabbage she chopped. “I can’t decide whether this is an improvement to your usual coldness. Not that humor is a stranger to you, for I’ve seen you joke with others. I appear to be the one exception in that regard.”
“I’ve never been more serious, Brenna. You cannot stay here alone with Nellore.”
“Your concern is ill-advised and no doubt insincere, Duncan. I’ve been alone these past months while Ewan was away,” she said.
“Circumstances have changed. The clan made provisions for you while Ewan was away. Your home was included in the watch. You cannot expect these measures to be put in place indefinitely.”
She chose not to reply. He was right of course. The months Ewan planned to be gone, he made arrangements to ensure her safety. She could not ask Ronan to continue at the expense of the clan, and even if she felt inclined to impose upon Ronan’s generosity, without Duncan’s support, her wishes meant little. He was her guardian. Her grip on the knife tightened.
“How is it possible that you, a man who detests me, has control over my future?” she snapped, the sound of her growing ire unfamiliar to her own ears.
Duncan did not look at her as he answered. “Ewan trusted me.”
“The blind love he bore you was perhaps his only error, but I now pay for his misjudgment.”
Her old frustration resurfaced. How many times had she spoken to Ewan about Duncan’s ill treatment of her? Each time Ewan came to his defense. Duncan was the one thing she and her amiable husband never agreed upon. Ewan refused to see how much Duncan’s indifference hurt her, and now the insufferable man was trying to force her from her home.
She could ask Ronan to interfere and name someone else as her guardian, but th
en she shook her head. He would not listen. Ronan was no different than any other MacKinnon who was under the false impression that Duncan was somehow a good and decent soul.
“Your croft is the loveliest on Mull, Brenna, but ‘tis too isolated. If you will not put your own well-being first,” he continued, “then at least consider Nellore.”
“Do not dare to inform my decisions as a mother,” she snapped.
He stood in her home, filling it with his height and breadth. Despite his size and honorable reputation, she knew him for what he really was—a coward. He aimed to shirk his new-found responsibility. He must know that Ewan would never wish her to relinquish their home, which also happened to be one of the most prosperous plots of land on Mull. Aye, he was a coward. Even now he did not have the decency to look at her while he presumed to advise her on what was best for her and her daughter.
“I am not naïve. I am aware of the danger of my current situation, but I am also aware of the value of this land. I will not give up this splendor to live the life of a sad widow at the mercy of clan charity. That is not the life I wish for Nellore.”
Still he refused to look at her. “What do you intend to do? Work the land yourself”, he said.
“Mayhap. But I shall not discuss these matters further. They are not of your concern.”
He turned around then and closed the distance between them. “You are my concern,” he said. “Everything about your life, every choice, is now my concern. I highly recommend you resolve yourself to this truth. I am not going away.”
With that he bounded out the door, heading up the hill toward Gribun. She watched as he crested the hilltop, but he did not disappear down the other side as she expected. Instead, he unfolded the top of his plaid, which he laid on the ground as a blanket. Then he stretched out on his makeshift pallet as though he were retiring for the night.
“By the saints,” she said as she stormed out of her house.
She stood above him, “What do you think you are doing?”
“What I’ve done these three nights past,” he said not bothering to open his eyes.
“You’ve been sleeping here?”
“Aye. And until you move into the village, this is where I will sleep every night.”
“But it rained last night,” she said.
“Aye. I know.”
She stared down at him. Her eyes traveled across his strong calves and over the folds of plaid. His waist was narrow but then flared into a broad chest and even wider shoulders. His sleek jaw was sprinkled with black stubble and long black lashes rested against tanned cheek bones. She was suddenly struck by how handsome he was. She seldom was given the opportunity to look at him, and when he was near enough for her to see, he usually faced away. Still, his good looks did not make up for what he lacked in character. He was despicable. She had never wronged him. His dislike of her was unwarranted and mean-spirited. She was the one person on Mull who knew his true disposition.
His nose flared as he inhaled. “I can still smell the lavender from your bath. Why do you linger? Are you waiting for an invitation to join me?”
Her mouth dropped wide with shock, and then much to her own surprise her temper flared. He went too far insulting her honor.
“My husband’s body is not yet cold, and still you mock my pain and insult my virtue. Do not play the cad with me. Your disdain I will tolerate as I always have. Its source is known only to you, and I suppose you can choose to like me or not. But you’ve made an affront to my honor, and this I will not tolerate. Is that understood, Duncan MacKinnon?”
He remained silent. She knelt on the ground and grabbed his hair, pulling his face toward hers. “I asked you a question. Do you ken, Duncan?”
“Aye,” he said, staring up at her, his black eyes clear and honest for once.
“You do not have to like me, but you will respect me.” She released his hair and darted back down the hill with wobbly knees and shaking hands.
For a moment, she did not know herself. Never did she give into temper. She was Brenna—calm and composed even when angry, even when being pushed too far, but something had taken hold of her. A surge of fury tore through her like a bolt of lightning splitting the surface of her composure. She blushed, thinking of how hard she gripped his hair and of the vehemence that laced every word she spit in his face—you will respect me.
She smiled, deciding he got what he deserved.
***
He stared after her, his conscience stinging from the bite of her words. She was everything good and strong and true. Aye, he respected her. He adored her. He winced as honesty claimed his mind. Hell, he loved her, a love that ran so deep he drowned every time she stood near. Still, she could never be his. His affection might be as big as the sea, but reality confined it to the shallows. Before Ewan died, he ran from his feelings, avoiding her, distancing himself. Now, he had no place to run. He was shoved into a tiny space, crushed by the weight of his silent affection.
The black sky burst with endless stars that surrounded him in a blanket of darkness and light—as conflicted as his soul. He wished for a moment that he could float high up to the heavens like a ship bound for nothing but sweet relief from his thoughts, somewhere far away from lavender scented skin and strawberry hair.
Chapter 5
The morning sun crested over the hill, painting the sweeping slope in golden light like streams of new honey. May brought fullness to the trees along the forest edge, and the river surged with summer’s speed and abundance. Brenna smiled as she looked with gratitude upon the splendor of her land.
Two months had passed since Ewan’s life was stolen from her on the streets of a city she would never see, yet he lived on in the trees surrounding the home they had built together and in the river that had sung them to sleep at night. She had been very fond of her husband, and it pleased her to see the lushness of the land he loved so well. But her smile faltered as she circled around her hut and stared at her unplowed fields. By now the fields should be turned, planted, and ready to sprout with new life.
“’Tis too much work for one woman,” Duncan said behind her.
She cursed under her breath. She could not abide another hope-wrenching conversation with Duncan. He was trying to force her surrender to a life in the village by breaking her spirit, but she would be damned before she gave him that satisfaction.
“You could pay some cottars to work the land, but then ‘tis unlikely you would have enough for your rent, especially this late into the season,” he said.
“Time and again, I have told you to stay away from me. I tire of this argument,” she said, not turning to face him.
He continued, pretending not to hear her protest. “You could ask the clan to take on the burden without cost to you but that would be dishonorable.”
She whirled around and stormed over to where he stood. “My husband saved your life, and then you ask me to give up mine. You are the one lacking in honor.”
“Your husband bid me protect and provide for you, which I am better able to do in the village. I’ve spoken to Ronan. He will take over these lands, have them worked properly and maintained, and he agreed to hold them as Nellore’s dowry. ‘Tis a very generous offer. Accept and you will honor your husband.”
“Get off my land,” she said through gritted teeth. She swelled with rage as she fought the urge to slap his face.
“As you command,” he said. Then he turned on his heel and headed off toward the forest.
***
Sweat gushed from Brenna’s brow as she leaned into the unwieldy hand plow. Lacking the strength to maneuver the ox driven plow, the hand tool was her only recourse. This new struggle was not one of brawn but rather of endurance against fatigue and pain.
But perseverance was never something Brenna lacked.
She paused to adjust the strips of linen that circled her palms, shielding raw skin and swollen blisters, which throbbed beneath the pressure of the plow. Her arms, numb from the strain, protested the new mot
ion, prickling with dull sensation, but even this was a relief from the sharp pangs that stabbed from shoulder to wrist just an hour before.
Her day began with fiery determination. She awoke before first light. After a couple of bannock cakes and a cool sip from the stream, she approached her untended fields. Spring had slipped past. If she wanted to celebrate at Lughnasa, the plant could not be delayed.
She stopped and stared up at the blue sky as she fought to catch her breath. Her body ached but she welcomed the pain. The labor, fatigue, and searing palms would be worth an abundant harvest come autumn. Like the green grass in the stream, she was determined to cling to her home with her very blood if need be. She glanced at the red fluid saturating her bandages.
For Nellore.
She examined her progress with surprise, and before she knew what she was doing, her feet kicked up in a joyful but agonizing jig. Once on solid ground, she blushed and surveyed her surroundings to make sure no one observed her outburst. Such an emotional display was certainly unlike her, but then again, she had never singlehandedly plowed a field. The only witness joined in with laughter and giggles and a jig attempt that landed her on her backside. Brenna rushed to her daughter, ignoring the protest from her legs and scooped Nellore into her arms, twirling the wee lass through the air.
“Do you see what mama did?” She said pointing to the overturned earth spread out before them, ready for seed.
“Two fields remain.” Pulling Nellore close, she kissed her plump cheeks. “But no more for today.”
She turned to head inside.
“Brenna, wait,” Duncan called out.
Halfway down the hill, Duncan approached with long determined strides. She put Nellore down and urged her inside, reminding her of the bread she kept on a low table just Nellore’s size for when she was hungry.
Then she whirled around. She did not know what he wanted, but his furrowed brow spoke of his displeasure.
“For pity’s sake,” she said.
