Highland Thunder (Isle of Mull Series) (12 page)

She spread the undyed linen on the grass to dry. The wind rushed around her, and she felt the breeze lift her hair. The air refreshed her hot skin, cooling her ire. Once again, she had lost her temper. Her eyes followed the swirl of water racing down the river. Currents navigated the curve of banking and twirled around protruding rocks. Resilient green grasses flailed beneath the flow that beckoned to be followed.

“Forgive me, Duncan. I do not ken myself.”

“Nay, Brenna. You were right to take offense. We are bound to each other for a time, and although occasions may arise when I do insist you follow my instruction, any question or concern you might have should be answered with care and never dismissed.”

She quirked her brow as she contemplated his sincerity. Whenever she felt as though she understood Duncan MacKinnon, he threw something else in the soup, completely changing its flavor: cool and indifferent Duncan, kind and gentle Duncan, playful Duncan, and now a Duncan she might confide in, but who was the real Duncan?

“Have you any other questions,” he asked.

Aye. Tell me once and for all what sort of man you are?

“When do you leave?” she asked

“Before daybreak,” he answered.

“Will you spend what wee part of the night you have to rest here?”

“Aye, but I shall be gone before you rise.” Then he cursed under his breath.

“What ails you now?” she asked.

“I’m afraid I leave long before daybreak. I do not want you here alone at night with your useless hands, which means…” He winced not wishing to finish his thought, but Brenna had no trouble completing it.

“Nay, Duncan,” she said.

He shook his head. “There is naught else to be done.”

“But ‘tis so quiet without her,” she said, resisting the urge to sulk.

“I could fetch a different lass,” he said.

“Nay,” Brenna grumbled. “To do so would only hurt Rona’s feelings. I wish her no ill will. If only she would curb her tongue.”

“I will not fetch her until ‘tis time to sup. At least if we must suffer, we will do so with a good meal.” He looked as though he wanted to say more, but then he cleared his throat. “I suppose ‘tis time I tend to the wash.” He smiled and once again her eyes were drawn to the dimple she never knew he had. His eyes held an infectious gleam, which filled her with a strange delight, but as a smile spread across her face, his faltered.

“What is wrong?” she asked.

He looked away for several moments, and when he met her gaze once more, his smile returned but it held a sadness that before was absent.

“I’ve not seen your smile for a very long time,” he said quietly.

“Is that all?” she laughed. “If you’d stop being such an arse, you might see one more often.”

“I shall think on that while I am away,” he said.

“See that you do,” she said, her smile widening. Then she felt a tug on her belt. Looking down, she found Nellore straining to give her a plump thistle.

“Nellore, ‘tis lovely,” Brenna said. “Did you pick this for me?” She scooped her daughter into her arms, giving her kisses and tickles to show her gratitude.

Brenna gave the flower to Duncan to hold as she carried Nellore inside. “She is a good lass,” he said with a smile, but then his countenance changed.

“What is it?” Brenna asked. “Why do you scowl?”

He shook his head as his smile returned. ‘Nay, ‘tis nothing.” But he continued to stare at the thistle. “’Tis just…strange.”

“What is so strange about a daughter picking her mother a flower?” Brenna said.

“Where did it come from?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You have no thistle.”

Brenna went to the door and scanned the length of the river, the forest edge, and the tall grasses on the far side of her fields and realized Duncan was right. She gave him a quizzical look, but then he shrugged and said, “No matter. There is plenty of thistle beyond the hill; perhaps the wind or a bird carried it down.”

She shut the door and turned back inside. “Well, wherever it came from, it shall decorate the table today. Come, Nellore. Let us prepare the midday meal.”

Motioning to her bandages, Duncan said, “No fish,” and he smiled again. This time her breath caught in her throat as she stood transfixed by his deep set black eyes and a teasing smile. She had to admit Duncan—at least kind, playful Duncan—was something to behold.

Chapter 10

Supper seemed to last forever. As predicted, Rona barely took the time to draw breath while she informed the table of the latest gossip from the village.

“Did you hear Kenneth’s wife,
Muriel,
confessed to seeing the Witch of Dervaig this morning near the wood?”

“Did she?” Brenna said, breaking a bannock cake in half and dipping it in the thick stew she made with Duncan’s assistance. She turned, feeling his gaze. A wide smile spread across his face, and she could not help but smile back. It was a comfortable silence between them as they both labored to ignore Rona.

“Aye.
Muriel
was breathless with terror when she arrived at my hut. She told my mum ours was the nearest croft, and she would die before she continued on alone to the village.”

“What did she look like?” Brenna asked, her curiosity piqued. Ever since arriving on Mull, she had heard stories of the Witch of Dervaig, a hag with a twisted back whose gruesome façade was concealed beneath a tattered and filth-covered cloak. Supposedly, she had haunted Mull for centuries.

“
Muriel
said she was as gruesome as she remembered as a child when the Witch was a common sight on the moors.”

“But no one has seen her for thirty years,” Brenna said.

“To be sure—that is, until today.
Muriel
said she saw the grimy cloak as clear as day and beneath was a shuffling, limping body. Her face she could not glimpse, although she gave thanks to Mary and all the saints above for saving her from such a sight.”

Brenna turned to Duncan. “Have you ever seen the Witch?”

Duncan shook his head. “I have no memory of the days when she roamed freely, but my mother swore to me as a lad she was real.”

“Then you believe she is more than legend.”

“I do believe the Witch of Dervaig once inhabited this island. Her house stands near the western cliffs. Her door is carved with pagan runes.”

“Ewan did once show me her hut from afar,” Brenna said.

Duncan reached for another bannock cake. “Long has her hearth been cold, and Kenneth’s wife is a silly woman. I am more inclined to believe her eyes played tricks on her, than in an actual sighting of the Witch of Dervaig.”

As Brenna tucked in Nellore and Rona, all thoughts of the Witch were forgotten. Brenna lay down, happy to rest her tired feet, but her mind had no interest in sleep. She stared up at the ceiling, her thoughts circling around her earlier outburst with Duncan. The absence of a man in her life opened her eyes to her own impotence. She likened a woman’s existence to a seed drifting on a wind fashioned by men. Still, in truth, she had always known this. She just never considered fighting it, but the restlessness that suddenly held her in its grip dared her to want more, to expect more. Whatever it was within her that sought satisfaction was pushing past her usual sensibility, fueling the fire of her emotions. Today, she gave voice to the seething inside of her, and Duncan had listened. He vowed not to move her to the village.

She smiled as she closed her eyes and pulled her blanket beneath her chin. She may be a seed, but she spoke for herself from her heart, and she earned her roots. She was still at the mercy of men—Duncan and Ronan—but she would grow. And despite how hard the wind blew, her roots were strong. She might bend and yield, but she would never move—this land was hers.

***

Her eyes snapped open. Something disturbed her sleep. She held her breath, waiting, listening, but everything was still. The only intrusions upon the silent night were the rhythmic lullabies of Nellore and Rona’s breathing and the rush of the river. She lay awake for some time, but then her eyes drooped, lulled by the soothing sounds. She shrugged off her concern and began to drift back to sleep. Then a muted voice intruded upon the inertia of her thoughts as she sat up, certain now of a disturbance.

She pulled a cloak over her shift and eased open the door. Perhaps, she heard Duncan preparing to leave. With this in mind, she tiptoed across the grass to the barn, pressing her ear against the door, but all was still. He might have already left, but if such was the case he would have barred the door.
Knowing only one way to be sure, she heaved the large door open and peeked inside. The darkness was impenetrable. Silently, she tread over the hay strewn earth. The goats and sheep were corralled in separate pens, but the chickens slept where they chose, including the narrow pass that would bring her to the ladder. As she extended her arms in front of her to catch the rungs in the darkness, a board in the loft creaked and low groan came from above. She froze.

Sweet Jesus, he still slumbered.

She turned on her heel, desperate not to defend her furtive visit.

“Nay,” he cried.

She turned around. “Duncan, I can explain my presence,” she said as modesty bade she pull her cloak tighter around her shoulders despite the darkness. “I heard a noise…”

“Nay,” he said again, louder this time. And then again and again, louder and louder. She realized then that it was Duncan who pulled her from her slumber. A nightmare tormented his sleep.

The animals around her stirred. Preferring not to have the barn erupt with the bleating of goats sure to wake her indiscreet guest, Brenna shushed the agitated beasts and searched for the ladder. The last thing she needed was for Rona to find her scantily clad in the barn with Duncan.

Her hand brushed the ladder. Wasting no time at all, she scurried to the top. There was little room between the loft and roof, nor was it a deep space. He was close. The air felt warmer, heated by his large frame. She reached out a tentative hand in the darkness and grazed smooth, hot skin. She snatched her hand away as her breath stuck in her throat. Fitful breathing revealed where he laid his head. She wanted to comfort him, but she was afraid of herself, of him, of his touch and what it did to her.

The gathering heat inside her body quickened her pulse as she finally dared to touch his face. She ran hesitant fingertips along his cheek and jawline.

“Duncan,” she whispered.

Before she knew what was happening, he seized her hand, twisting it behind her. Then he pulled her over his chest away from the loft edge and rolled on top of her, crushing her wrist into the wood floor. She cried out when the sharp tip of a knife pressed her throat.

“Brenna?” He said as he slid off of her, pulling her into his arms. A tender touch soothed her throat where the blade had been.

“Christ almighty, Brenna, forgive me.” She wrapped her arms around his neck as she fought to push the terror from her heart. Her arm throbbed from his violent grip.

“Blast the darkness,” he cursed. “I cannot see you. Are you hurt?”

She nodded then realized the futility of her response. “Aye,” she whispered. “My wrist.”

He reached for her arm, pulling it away from his neck. Strong fingers rubbed its length, easing away the pain with firm strokes.

“Forgive me. I did not know ‘twas you. Do you not ken the danger of surprising a warrior in the dark when he sleeps?”

She swallowed as the fear dissipated and awareness of a new danger was born.

“I do now,” she whispered.

Her cheek rested on his hard, bare chest. The length of her body burned against his. He surrounded her. His warm breath coaxing her to melt into him as it drifted over her like a teasing breeze. He continued to massage her arm while his other hand coursed along her waist and over her hips, which pressed against his hard thigh.

“Brenna,” he whispered hoarsely, “why are you here?”

Her throat constricted. The pounding of her heart echoed in her ears. She licked her lips, searching her clouded mind for the answer to his question. He brushed her cloak aside. His hands branded her skin through the thin fabric—a threadbare defense against the heat of his touch. He caressed away her last conscious thought. Only awareness of him remained. His smell. His heat. His hand winding through her hair.

He shifted, slowly pulling her beneath him. She could not see his face, but she felt his breath heavy and warm on her lips, his mouth hovering, wanting. A hunger gathered like a web of heat between her legs as she pressed herself against him, trembling. His suspended lips moved closer, grazing hers. Then he pulled away with a groan.

“Nay, Duncan,” she whispered as she grabbed his arm. “Don’t go. I…I want…”

She did not know what she wanted. Fire once again burst inside her, consuming and destructive. It strained and pushed for release. It was undeniably part of her will, but she did not trust it—she did not trust herself. Her hands flew to her face as confusion and shame began to taint and overwhelm her feelings.

“Nay, Brenna,” he crooned in her ear. His hand tugged at her fingers, pulling her hands from her face. “Do not hide from me, even in the dark.” His lips grazed her cheek. “Never hide from me.” He wrapped his arms around her, holding her, filling her with warmth. Resting her head against the crook of his neck, she lost herself to his smell and the feel of his strong arms.