by Lily Baldwin
As he drew near, she felt a spark inside her blossom into fire, fueling her temper. She fought to remain calm, but when he stood before her, his scowl pushed her temper beyond her control. She threw her shoulders back, wincing from the tightness, which seemed to worsen by the minute, but she was determined to ignore the pain. What she was through ignoring, however, was Duncan’s disregard. She was ready for battle.
When Ewan was alive she kept her silence for his sake, but he was gone. No longer would she feign indifference. She was blameless, and Duncan needed to be called to task. More than that, a storm brewed within her, and a part of her liked it. Whatever planted the scowl on his face merely served to fuel her mettle.
She stood tall and with an expression meant to convey a simple message: Duncan MacKinnon, I would tread carefully if I were you.
“Who plowed your field?” Duncan said.
“What? No good evening. How are you, Brenna? Or perhaps an apology for your consistent rudeness.”
“Answer the question, Brenna,” he growled.
“My land is not your affair.” She crossed her arms over her chest, which drew his eyes to her hands.
He walked closer, his eyes fixed on her bandages. He did not speak. He did not demand to see her hands. He just stared.
Long moments past, and she grew uncomfortable beneath his quiet gaze. Then slowly he reached out his hand, but just as he was about to touch her, he stepped back, raking his hand through his hair and muttering a curse under his breath.
Did the idea of touching her repulse him that much?
Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath and turned back to face her. She stared at the hand reaching out to touch her once again. It was almost imperceptible, but she was certain his hand shook. His fingers grazed the top of her bandages and then folded around her hand, drawing her arm toward him.
His gentle touch and nervous bearing doused Brenna’s fury, leaving confusion in its wake. Her feet shifted as she searched for something to say to break the silence, but then he stepped closer, cradling her hand and began to unwind the bandages. Despite his soft administrations, the fabric, having dried to the open wounds, pulled her skin. She winced, and he whispered an apology, encouraging her to be still.
The final unraveling revealed at least a dozen ruptured sores across her palm and lining her fingers. The red exposed flesh burned. The harm done was greater than she had realized.
“The other hand is the same?” he said. She lifted her eyes and drew a sharp breath, startled to meet his gaze. He never looked at her. He always faced away, but there he was, staring into her eyes, his face tense with worry. She sooner would expect the ground to open and swallow her whole than to feel his tender touch, but that was not all.
She felt rather than saw something other than concern in his gaze—something restrained, choked back from the surface. His breathing was shallow, and despite his soft handling of her injuries, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexed with tension.
“Aye,” she said, realizing she had yet to answer his question. “The other hand is the same.”
He nodded, wrapping an arm around her waist. He led her inside to a seat at her table. “Do not remove the other bandage. Wait for me here.”
Dumbfounded, Brenna watched Duncan’s tall figure duck beneath her door frame and disappear.
She expelled a long breath. Her heart pounded. She stared down at the sores on her hand. Some oozed with puss, others with blood. Her injuries surely were the cause for her unrest. Confusion is certain to accompany pain, and the pain, she had to admit, was not insignificant. Still, what of the knot in her stomach?
She exhaled again, shaking her head. Accustomed to his indifference and even his contempt, she did not know what to make of the softer side of Duncan. She kept jumping at the slightest noise, thinking he returned, but who would walk through the door? Indifferent Duncan, contemptuous Duncan, or this new confusing Duncan? She decided then and there she did not enjoy surprises. Her breathing became shallow as she thought of his strong hands and the strange emotion she witnessed in his black eyes.
Sweet Jesus, what was wrong with her? Flustered, confused, and not unaffected, it was clear that Duncan MacKinnon just unraveled a great deal more than her bandage.
***
What was she thinking taking up the plow? He clenched his fists as the answer readily presented itself. He had given her no other choice. Either she surrender to his demands or make the impossible happen. Hell, he practically dared her to do it. Any other woman would have been terrified living in complete isolation and would shun such back-breaking work, but not Brenna. Everything he had said or done to convince her to move to the village only served to strengthen her resolve to stay.
In another day, he would have seen to the plow himself. Jamie and Cormac agreed to help turn the land in the morning. He was just hoping she would surrender before then. He was wrong to underestimate her. He could see that now. His poor judgment was to blame for the current condition of her hands, and he could only imagine how the rest of her body felt. He doubted she would be able to rise from her pallet in the morning. He promised to protect her and provide for her, but his own stubborn insistence blinded him to her real need. She was no maid whose mind was easily steered in the direction another chose. She was a woman—a capable, smart, stubborn woman with her own mind and a vision for her life.
His thoughts returned to the puss-letting sores on her hands. She flinched when he removed the wrapping, but that was her only acknowledgment of pain—a testament to her strength. Brenna did not need a protector or provider. With an astonishing demonstration of perseverance, she hand-plowed her own field. Regardless of his aid or the aid of anyone else, she would eat. She would survive. Hell, she would thrive. And this is why he loved her.
Still, despite her courage and resilience, her hands must throb with pain. In this, at least, he could provide relief.
Riding hard toward the coast, he arrived at a small inlet not far from Brenna’s land where salt and fresh water merged. Crouching by the shore, he emptied the ale from his flask and shoved it into the inlet. Bubbles rushed to the surface. He stared into the gleaming shallows. The smooth stones caught the sun’s brightness, reflecting points of light that danced in the water like spirits. She was like those lights—ever moving, doing, thinking, and hoping. She radiated a power as deep and strong as the waves rolling toward shore, but she wore it like a fine cloak or a light breeze. He, who had watched her, studied her for seven years, should know better than most that she would never surrender, nor would she throw her head back and scream. She just did what needed to be done despite any personal cost.
He knew from the moment he met her that she was a quiet force to be reckoned with. Ever composed, her strength could be likened to the very earth they built their homes upon—unyielding, unshakable, and capable of pushing beyond the bleakest of winters to deliver summer’s abundance. He smiled thinking of her recent uncharacteristic losses of temper, doubtless his fault. He truly was a scoundrel, undeserving of her.
When he returned to her hut and ducked his head under the door, her head whipped around, and she eyed him cautiously. He froze. God’s mercy, but she was lovely. Some of her silken hair had escaped its bindings, framing golden skin. Wide, blue eyes, as dark as the sea, met his own and he lost himself.
He did not know how long he stood there staring at her like a fool, but at length, she cleared her throat. His purpose returned. He rushed forward, intent on relieving her pain. He emptied his flask into a wide, shallow bowl. He searched her cupboards for fresh linen strips not trusting himself to speak lest a confession of his true regard were to slip from his lips. Then he found a salve he recognized as one of Bridget’s, grateful once again for the lady’s healing talents. With hands full, he turned back to Brenna and took a deep breath; he could not do this without touching her. With a silent prayer that he did not humiliate himself or shame her, he sat down beside her and slowly reached for her hand.
&nbs
p; ***
Hesitant fingers grazed Brenna’s arm, traveling down her skin over the top of her hand, causing her to shiver. With a hold like a whisper, he turned her hand over, exposing her injured palm. He leaned close. Then he dipped his head low, his lips hovering above her skin. She stiffened with surprise as he blew a gentle stream of air over her wounds, bringing instant relief wherever his breath fell.
“Does that feel good?” he whispered.
Her breath caught in her throat and she nodded, unable to speak.
His black eyes locked with hers as he continued to blow soothing currents over her skin, his full lips curved and intimate. She shifted in her seat, unsure of what to do or say. She tried to look away but could not, held captive by his gaze.
Her pulse quickened. His other hand descended on her arm, stroking her skin. Although calloused and rough, his powerful hands moved like a soft breeze that ignited a chain of sensation, causing her to tremble.
Her body leaned toward him of its own volition like a flower turning from shadow. Finally, she could bear it no longer. With a gasp, she stood up and pulled her hand free. He looked up at her with wide eyes. Then he lunged to his feet, his chair falling back with a crash. A string of curses filled the room as he stormed outside.
She could still feel the heat of his touch on her skin, burning hot, masking the pain of her wounds. She closed her eyes, yielding to the sweet fire. Then her eyelids sprung open.
What in God’s name was she doing?
She looked over at Nellore who had fallen asleep curled up beneath her blanket. Relief poured over her as she realized whatever had just occurred had not been witnessed by her daughter—short-lived relief as her mind returned to Duncan.
She was no maid. She knew the name of the feelings he awakened with his touch. It was desire, but what sent her mind reeling was the intensity of feeling from the lightest caress. This was new. It felt like a wave washing from his body into hers, except the water was not cool or crisp like the ocean. Heavy, undulating currents seeped through his fingers, pouring warm honey into her veins.
Sweet Jesus above, had he felt it too?
Horrified, she laid her head on the table, hiding her face in the crook of her elbow, burying her head deeper when a worse idea presented itself: what if he hadn’t felt anything at all? He despised her, could not even tolerate the sight of her. He likely deplored the contact that had made places within her come alive.
She started and sat up with a jolt as the door swung open, and he ducked inside.
“Unwrap the other bandage,” he growled. The muscles in his arms and chest were flexed with tension.
She sat unmoving as a chill crept up her spine. Dark emotion twisted in his eyes like seething whirlpools of fury. She had never liked Duncan. She did not trust him, but until that moment, she had never been afraid of him. She continued to stare with wide-eyed trepidation.
“Damn and hellfire,” he cursed loudly.
She stood pointing to Nellore, her instincts as a mother trampling her fear. “You will check yourself at all times when my daughter is near, Duncan MacKinnon.”
He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. When he looked at her again, it was as though he was leagues away. Indifferent Duncan had returned. This Duncan she knew how to handle.
She stripped away the bandages, tearing them off heedless of the blisters beneath. The sooner he was done dressing her
wounds the better. Judging by how quickly he hurried over, he agreed.
“This will hurt at first, Brenna, but it will clean the sores and encourage healing.”
He did not look at her as he spoke, which she could only pray continued.
“Just be done with it,” she said.
He dipped a rag in the bowl with the sea water mixture then applied the saturated fabric to her blisters. She flinched but more because of his touch than the sting of the salt. Nothing was pouring out of his body into hers this time, but it brought back the all too recent feelings. She swatted his hand away and immersed both of hers into the bowl. Her face twisted with pain, but she refused to utter a sound. She could not avoid his touch as he smeared the salve and wrapped her hands in fresh linen, but she knew he was just as eager to be done. Beneath his hurried motions, she detected a hint of desperation.
“There,” he said after tying a final knot. Then he took a few strides back, away from her and closer to the door.
“I shall speak to Bridget and tell her of your need. She will send a woman from the village to stay with you for a spell to help you tend house and care for Nellore.” Without another word, he was gone.
She exhaled and slumped into her seat. Her mind was reeling like a wounded bird spiraling toward land. She put her head once more on the table as she prayed for God to restore her self-possession.
***
Barely an hour past when help arrived in the form of Rona, the youngest daughter of the cottar who lived just beyond Brenna’s land. With an eager knock, she chirped, “’Tis I, Rona.”
Brenna groaned before encouraging the lass to enter. Rona’s fine qualities could fill a room. Never could fault be found with her kind and hardworking nature, but her chatter never ceased. She would have preferred Rona’s older sister, Nessa, who guarded her words like precious keepsakes.
“Good evening, Brenna,” Rona said as she danced inside. Brenna imagined Rona was grateful for her new duty. A change from the everyday routine was always welcomed by young lasses who craved excitement more than anything else, something Brenna never had time for in her youth.
“Forgive me for saying so, Brenna, but you look terrible,” Rona said with gasp.
“I’ve felt better,” Brenna said as she wondered exactly what about her looked unwell. Her hands were bandaged, but the rest of her should be just fine. Did her face reveal how unnerved she was by her last encounter with Duncan?
Once more, she felt the heat of his fingers stroke her arm and the curious weight of his gaze. Unnerved, she decided, was a trifling compared to how she truly felt. Mortified was a more apt description.
“You look as though you’ve not slept for days and days. You will never find a new husband if you do not rest.”
Brenna lifted a chiding brow, “My husband passed but two months ago. Hold your tongue, Rona.”
“Forgive me, Brenna, but a new season is at hand, and you have a home and family to consider.”
Brenna took a deep breath as she tried to remember that Rona was little more than a child. Likely, she was repeating gossip said by her mother or some of the other ladies in the village. A tug on her tunic provided a necessary distraction.
“My sweet lass,” Brenna said, smiling down at Nellore’s expectant face. Chubby, wee arms stretched high. “How did you know your mama needed a hug?” Suddenly, the peace Brenna craved returned. All that mattered was Nellore.
Enough nonsense. Real concerns awaited her attention.
“I thank you for coming, Rona. There’s much to be done before nightfall.”
Brenna doled out chore after chore with the hope of silencing Rona’s wagging tongue, but much to her dismay, Rona seemed to pause for nothing. How she managed to breathe was a mystery.
“Well, you ken ‘tis only a matter of time before men in the village make their intentions known. You should always put extra fish to fry so you are prepared for when a suitor decides to call. In fact, Tara told me that she overhead Jamie telling Duncan he intended to ask you to dance during the festival for Lughnasa. She also said that Duncan did not seem very happy about this, which of course I dread to consider. Duncan always smiles at me. I can’t imagine him unhappy. I said as much to mum who agreed that Duncan was the most affable of men.”
“So I’ve heard,” Brenna said dryly.
“Nothing could be truer. He is forever laughing. But then you of course know this better than anyone. He does not stray far from your lands these days. My mum told my da that he sleeps up on the hill to make sure the MacLeans do not run off with your steer. Mum sa
id that if you had any decency at all, you would have at least offered him a dry place to sleep in the barn.”
For pity’s sake, the man was rude, insufferable, and now she could add confusing to the list of his supposedly fine attributes. When did she become the villain?
“My mum said that Duncan was of course the obvious choice for a husband. Besides being the handsomest man in the village—she said that. I actually think Jamie is the handsomest. Still, Duncan is sworn to protect you. And he already lives here…”
“He most certainly does not live here,” Brenna snapped.
“Well, my mum said he does. And my mum said that you would be a fool to ignore his advances.”
“Is that right? Well, Rona, you can assure your mum that Duncan finds my company barely tolerable as it is. I doubt he is going to make any advances, as you put it.”
“Well, perhaps if you took that ugly scarf off your head, he might notice how attractive you are. You really do look dreadful like that.”
Dear God in heaven, how could one lass have so much to say? And why did everyone care so much about her hair?
Finally, after supper was prepared and Nellore fed and asleep for the night, Rona’s older brother appeared to escort her home.
“I shall return on the morrow, Brenna,” Rona promised.
“Not too early,” Brenna said with a forced smile.
Then she collapsed next to Nellore. She could not remember ever being so tired, but sleep did not come. A strange nagging kept her awake.
“Damn Rona and her Mother and their meddling ways,” she said as she threw off her blanket.
Grabbing an extra blanket, she cursed again and stormed out the door. Why could people not mind their own affairs?
Huffing up the hill, Brenna crested the top and spotted Duncan straightaway. He was stretched out on the ground with nothing to cushion his rest but grasses and bracken. The moon gleamed overhead, casting a soft glow over everything it touched including Duncan’s skin. Her eyes trailed across his broad chest left bear to the new summer. His face was soft and relaxed, his lips slightly curved as though he was enjoying a pleasant dream. She settled her gaze on his broad hands, folded and at rest on his hard stomach. A whisper of longing passed through her, tightening her chest and filling her once again with confusion that gave birth to anger.
