The Kindling Heart (5 page)

Bree clung, weeping, as Afraig stroked her hair with a gentle, soft touch. After a time, she noticed a third hand awkwardly patting her shoulder, and she jerked back in surprise, unprepared to find her father standing close by.

“What’s the name, lass?” he asked in a voice unbearably loud, but radiating a soft kindness.

Bree’s throat constricted and she found it difficult to respond.

He waited for a time and then dropped his voice to ask again, “What are ye called, lass?”

He wasn’t angry, merely inquisitive. She stared, unable to grasp the concept that this stranger, this Highlander, was truly her father!

Frowning, Domnall leaned close and slowly enunciated each word. “Surely, lass, ye have a name?”

Bree opened her dry lips and after several attempts managed to squeak, “Bree!”

Sucking in his breath, he drew back sharply as if he’d been slapped. “Why?” he exclaimed, raising a querulous brow to Afraig. He appeared less than pleased.

“Takes after her, don’t ye think?”

There was a short pause before the gruff response: “Aye, though ‘tis ill fortune to name her for the dead.”

“Nonsense!” Afraig pursed her lips, but there was a cloud of worry on her brow.

Then, the awkward moment was shattered as Aislin swept into the kitchen, the rolls under her chin jiggling with each step. She expanded her arms in a broad, welcoming gesture, bellowing, “Domnall!”

Surveying her wide girth in overt disgust, Domnall snorted, “Ye really are stouter than a highland cow, woman.”

Aislin tossed her head, retorting, “Aye, an ye look old.”

“A fair disgrace ye are. How can I take ye to Ruan, five months gone with another man’s bairn? What have ye done?” Sizing her up and down, he stroked his chin and added, “And woman, how can ye even have bairns at yer great age?”

Aislin’s flabby features hardened as the words she began to exchange with Domnall—a mixture of English and Gaelic—quickly transformed into a loud shouting match. It ended abruptly with Aislin turning on her heel, chins quivering angrily as she stormed from the kitchen.

“Sweet Mary, woman!” Domnall barked after her, “Ye could have lived in Dunvegan!”

She returned to hover in the door and hiss, “Oh, but Domnall, I will. I’ll be a lady in Dunvegan, and I’ll be ready in two days’ time!”

Domnall snorted contemptuously.

Aislin smiled, coldly.

“Don’t be doing anything foolish.” Afraig warned. “Tis too late for actions ye’ll regret.”

“Two days,” Aislin promised sweetly, holding up two fingers and lumbering away.

Heaving a long sigh, Domnall sank on a low stool, burying his head in his hands. “Ye’ll be coming with us now, won’t ye, Afraig?” he asked wearily.

Afraig moved away, busying herself with the bowls on the table. Her face etched in pain.

Bree knew the expression well.

As long as Lord Huntley lived, Afraig would be at his side.

Domnall studied her from under bushy brows, saying bluntly, “I doubt he remembers those long, hot nights.”

It was a cruel thing to say. Bree glared at her father with disapproval, but quickly averted her gaze when she discovered he was looking directly at her now.

“He may not, but I do,” Afraig murmured. “Ye’d nae leave Ellin, Domnall, would ye now?”

At that, Domnall sighed, running a hand over his head. Then, he grunted, “Ellin’s been dead, nigh on ten years.”

Afraig straightened and her face grew pale.

Clearing his throat, Domnall continued in a low voice filled with gloom, “Several months ago… Fearghus sent Dougall’s head on a pike.”

Afraig’s eyes popped in shock.

Bree bowed her head in polite respect. She hadn’t heard of either Ellin or a Dougall before, but Domnall’s obvious pain revealed they were close kin.

As if reading her mind, Domnall nodded his chin at her and offered the explanation, “Ellin was my wife. Dougall…well, yer brother, my eldest, was struck down in the prime of life. And Catriona…” His voice grew husky with tears. “Aye, my wee Catriona, yer sister. The poor lass died giving birth to a bairn this year past. They both only lived a day.”

Afraig’s shoulders drooped. “Ye’ve naught but ill tidings.”

“I’ve no one left.”

In the oppressive silence that followed, Bree gazed into the flames. She was astonished a man would mourn the loss of a wife and children. If her mother died, Wat would hardly notice, of that she was certain.

“Aye, ‘tis glad I am to have a daughter, and such a fine, wee, bonny lass.”

It took Bree several moments to realize Domnall was speaking of her. She caught her breath, meeting his green, twinkling eyes.

“Are ye sure she’s nae a wee touched, woman?” Domnall drawled lightly. “Can she speak?”

Afraig chuckled, moving to rest her hand on Domnall’s shoulder as they both smiled at her.

“She’s a sweet one, Domnall,” she said. “Ye’ll treat her well?”

“Aye,” the man said, nodding. “She’s the last of my flesh and blood. ‘Twill be right pleasant to have her home, though I’m nae too pleased with the name!” He raised a brow at Afraig. “What were ye thinking, woman, to let her be named that?”

“’Tis a fine name!” Afraig snorted and then added, “And ye ken well enough why I did so. The clan should never have disowned Bree. Her only crime was love, even if she wasted it on a MacLeod.” Her tone soured at the name.

“Aye,” Domnall murmured, “I suppose. ‘Tis time they remember her, especially now with the alliance.”

A shiver rippled through Bree’s spine.

This stranger, this man, had accepted her as his.

She was truly leaving.

Glancing about the kitchen, she began to feel a strange sense of panic. Raph could not have her now. She should be relieved, dancing for joy, but a cold, clammy feeling gripped her heart.

“Aye, ‘tis a bit daunting for ye, I would think,” Domnall grunted.

Bree glanced up in amazement that he had read her thoughts.

“Ye wear yer heart in yer eyes, lass. ’Tis plain to see what is on yer mind,” he said, chuckling, and touched her shoulder in a light gesture of affection.

As his fingers touched one of her bruises, Bree sucked her breath in pain.

Her father squinted in suspicion, “What’s this?”

“Wat!” Afraig spat.

Again, they spoke hurriedly in Gaelic. Gaelic! Already, she regretted that she had not learned it. Yes, she knew a few words, but not enough if it would soon be all she heard. The kitchen walls seemed to be moving, closing about her. She scarcely noticed the strong, stubby fingers grasping her wrist. Someone lifted her hair from the back of her neck, exposing the cuts of Wat’s belt. Then, Afraig paraded the bruises, old and new, to the man who called himself her father, still speaking in the strange, foreign tongue. Could she ever learn the cadence of the unintelligible syllables?

Her thoughts were broken as the man began to change. As Afraig spoke, a chilling expression descended upon him like a mask, hard and stony. She hesitated. This man was not one to be crossed. Every line in his body hardened, and as it did, it announced that he was indeed more fearsome than Wat. For when he struck, it would be to kill.

“I’ll be seeing this Wat,” Domnall said.

The words shook Bree from her stupor.

“Aye!” Afraig’s lips split into a wide grin. “When might I introduce ye?”

“Now!”

Bree watched as Domnall stalked from the kitchen with Afraig close on his heels. Neither one looked back in her direction. As their footsteps faded, she hurried to follow and observe the strange Highlander from a safe distance. Domnall was not a particularly tall man nor apparently a wealthy one. His plaid was well worn and his mustard-colored shirt was stained with mud, but he commanded an undeniable presence. There was a frightening, cold violence about him now as he strode through the village, finally pausing in front of Wat’s cottage. Dusk was falling fast and it was difficult to see, but he apparently had seen well enough.

As Bree timidly joined them, Domnall turned to her, astonished.

“This is where ye live, lass?” he asked, tilting his head at the dismal structure. “I’ve seen pigs in less squalor!”

Bree ducked her head in shame.

“Tis no fault of yer own, lass!” Domnall grunted, “If I had known, I—”

The door creaked open.

Jenet stepped out and squinted at the Highlander. Her mouth fell open.

“Jenet,” Domnall said at last, licking his dry lips, “why … why didn’t ye send word? Why didn’t ye tell me!?”

With a shrill, contemptuous laugh, she replied, “Why would you want a girl?”

Bree swallowed. Surely, her mother didn’t mean it. Then, the soft, rumbling voice of her father astonished her even more.

“She’s nae just any girl, woman! She is my daughter. I would always want my daughter!” Domnall was clearly outraged.

Her mother laughed harshly, “Well. You can’t have her now. She’s to be wed.”

Domnall exploded, delivering obviously uncomplimentary words in Gaelic before noticing Jenet’s confusion. Switching languages, he shouted, “Ye’ll nae be selling my daughter to a lecherous man for a few sheep!”

The joy lifting Bree’s heart plummeted at her mother’s cold reply.

“Are you certain she is yours?”

“I’ve only to look at her to see she’s mine!” Domnall snorted, brushing the possibility aside. “Dare ye deny it, woman?”

With a pounding heart, Bree searched her mother’s face. Surely, it was true! She wanted it to be true. She wanted to believe this man was kind, that he was going to rescue her, and that she truly was his daughter. It seemed an eternity and then her mother’s lips parted.

“You may have got her on me, but you’ve no claim on her now. She belongs to her husband!”

At that moment, Wat chose to appear. He stumbled through the door with a particularly loud belch. His sneering mouth snapped shut as he spied the irate Highlander at his threshold.

Domnall’s nostrils flared in disgust, “And ye’ll be Wat?”

Wat nodded, suspiciously.

“I’ll be having a word with ye,” Domnall grunted, striding past her mother and into the cottage.

Wat followed, scratching his belly.

As Jenet moved to join them, the door shut firmly in her face. She stood there, confused, and then whirled on Bree, “What have you done?”

“Jenet,” Afraig warned, stepping forward and blocking her path. “Leave the lass be!”

“And you!” Jenet’s anger shifted. “You’ve meddled from the beginning!”

Afraig stood calmly with folded arms, “Let him take her. Bree is his daughter.”

“A fact I can never forget!” Jenet snarled, hands clenching into fists. “Domnall and his sweet words that night, before he left…Abandoning
me
for his precious highlands!”

“He was drunk. He—” Afraig began.

A loud crash from within the cottage silenced them both and one muffled cry quickly followed another. Then Domnall’s voice could be heard, “Aye, how does it feel, ye lily-livered, fen-sucking, pox-marked witless son of a maggot?!”

Strangely, Bree’s heart began to lighten. Never had any dared to speak to Wat so.

“Aye! And if ye as much as look at my daughter, I’ll behead ye and yer foul breed, ye worm-ridden bag of filth!”

It was thrilling to hear someone curse Wat. Bree’s lips twitched upwards. She wanted to stay forever and simply listen.

The rickety door rattled. One shutter popped open.

Finally, Domnall stepped into the fading sunlight, brushing his sleeves, and adjusting his plaid.

No one else moved.

“Say farewell to yer mother, lass,” he gave Bree an encouraging smile. “We’ll be heading home to Skye, then.”

Jenet reeled, crying pitifully, “Can you leave me?”

Bree stared, stricken, as her mother held out pleading hands. Her mother loved her. She wanted her to stay. She could not abandon her, especially now, with Wat sure to be angry. She took a tottering step forward.

“Think, lass. I’m offering ye freedom,” Domnall growled in a harsh reminder. “I’ll nae be selling ye to a lusting drunkard for a few sheep!”

Bree flinched.

A loud moan drew their attention to Wat leaning against the door, his face bloodied, and his lips gasping for air. As Jenet rushed to his side, he mumbled incoherently and lifted a shaking hand towards Domnall.

“Aye!” Domnall shrugged unapologetically. “No man touches my daughter and walks away unscathed! No man!”

A strange warmth crept into Bree’s heart.

“Come with me, lass. No man will raise a hand to ye. I swear on my life’s blood and honor as a Highlander.”

“Bree!” Jenet wailed plaintively.

It was only then Bree realized she was walking away. She was leaving. She choked a whispered farewell under her breath.

Picking up her skirt, she ran.

In a near state of panic, she burst into the castle kitchen. What had she done? Did she have a choice? It was too late now. It would be folly to stay. As soon as he recovered, Wat would kill her.