The Kindling Heart (8 page)

She wanted to vomit.

The priest had stood in front of her, binding her to Ruan, and she’d merely noted his dirty nails and beady eyes. She hadn’t protested; she hadn’t even known. Her consent hadn’t been required. Domnall’s words on her behalf had been adequate for these Highlanders.

The enormity of her new situation struck her. She was wed to a stranger in a strange country, one in which she didn’t even understand the language. She could not move or think. She could do nothing, but stare dumbly as her lips drained of all color.

“Bring the lass some wine,” someone ordered. “She’s going to faint.”

“Or retch,” another added helpfully.

Someone plied a bottle of wine between her clammy lips. It seared a path down her throat even as a cold fury took hold deep within her heart. She’d been a fool. Her own father had used her as a tool, but why? To further his place in the clan?

Raising her chin, she stepped forward to clench the table with her hands, not caring what any might think. Lifting her head high, she locked gazes with her father and accused, “I trusted you.”

He had the grace to avert his eyes. “Ach, ye still can, lass. I’ve done ye right, Bree.”

Bree’s nostrils flared in disgust as Domnall held out his hands in a placating gesture. Just an hour ago, she’d have thrown herself in his arms and taken comfort there. But not anymore.

“Do not touch me!” she hissed, gulping back sudden tears. “I want nothing more of you.” It was a vow and one never more fervently felt.

Domnall’s shoulders sagged and he seemed to age in front of her, “I’m an auld man, Bree. I chose the best husband to care for ye… and ‘twas nae just me. Afraig had her say in the matter. She made me swear nae to tell ye, until ‘twas done.”

Afraig? The words cut her soul like a knife. Afraig had spent many hours with her, dreaming of their cottage by the sea! Afraig would never have betrayed her this way! Yet, even as her mouth opened in protest to denounce the lie, even as she cursed her father at the top of her trembling voice, in words she’d never used— indeed, words a woman would never dare say to a man— her heart told her it was true.

Afraig’s gestures, the half-finished sentences, even then, she’d known the woman was hiding something. Clutching her stomach, she thought she really would retch. Afraig had known. She’d sent her with Domnall to Scotland to marry Ruan. Still cursing, she raised her arm to ward off the blows that were sure to follow such a wicked outburst, but she still cursed.

To her surprise, someone chuckled.

Instinctively, she whirled, astonished to discover it was her newly made husband lounging against the table with folded arms. Amusement flickered in his burning eyes as scattered snorts of laughter circled the chamber.

“Ye’ve yerself a wee wild one, Ruan,” Cuilen commented dryly.

“Aye, ‘tis the spitfires that warm a man’s soul,” someone laughed.

“…And bed,” another voice added.

Ruan turned away, and Bree was startled to see Domnall beaming broadly as more wine poured. The men in the chamber viewed her with outright amusement and a deepening interest.

All save one.

The man seated at the head of the table was silent, frosty. His expression made the words shrivel on her lips.

Nervously, she ducked her head and stepped back.

The crowd of men shifted, parting enough so she could see the door. Without thinking, she bolted, pushing through the crowd only to trip over a booted foot and pitch headlong onto the rush-strewn floor.

Hands from all sides pulled her up, hands that threw her into a state of panic. Were they playing with her? Perhaps, lulling her into a false sense of security before the blows fell. Ruan was a tall and strong man; his blows might kill her. Wat almost had, many times, and he was a much smaller man.

Gripped by a growing hysteria, she began to screech. She clawed and kicked with every ounce of her strength, and then the hands let go.

The men melted back.

Leaping awkwardly to her feet, she headed once more for the door. However, this time, she collided with the same muscled stomach, and then an equally muscled pair of arms deftly lifted her upright by the shoulders and held her captive with uncommon ease.

Once again, Ruan’s smoldering eyes met hers.

Not stopping to think, she drew up her knee and struck him fully in the groin. He dropped her and doubled over. Dimly, she heard shrieks of hooting laughter. She stumbled back and tripped on the hem of her dress.

Ruan lunged. His eyes widening in alarm as he grabbed her wrist to yank her roughly into his arms.

She screamed again and half choked on a sob.

“I’m trying to save ye, lass!” His deep voice arose sharply above hers. “Surely, ye don’t
want
to be roasted?”

As if on cue, the logs in the fireplace behind her collapsed with a loud crash and sent a shower of sparks into the room. However, the fact she’d nearly fallen into the roaring flames seemed of little consequence compared to the dark stranger now scowling down at her.

It was simply too much.

Deep, horrible sobs caught hold of her as she pounded his broad chest with her fists.

Muttering a curse, he let her go. He fell back several paces, and she again headed for the door.

This time, she ran straight into the arms of a grey-haired woman.

“Afraig!” she gasped in hysterical relief.

Lurching forward, she threw her arms about the woman, only to realize belatedly it was not Afraig after all. The woman hugged her all the same. As Ruan exploded into a heated torrent of Gaelic, the woman slipped her arm about her waist.

“I’m Isobel, lass,” she said, drawing her through the door. “Ye seem dead on yer feet, love. Let’s leave the men to shout on their own.”

Isobel led her away as the room broke into a riot of voices. Ruan’s and Domnall’s rose above the rest.

The woman led Bree up the narrow, steep stairs of a tower and into a small, sparsely furnished chamber. It contained a bed, a large wooden chest, and nothing else. A warm fire crackled on the hearth and the floor was strewn with fresh rushes.

“Ach, lass, they’ve nae done ye right,” Isobel muttered, clucking a little.

Several youths appeared, lugging a large wooden tub. With much effort, they squeezed it between the bed and fireplace and disappeared, only to return a short time later with buckets of hot water.

“Aye,” Isobel said as she smiled, bobbing her head. “A nice warm bath will do ye good.”

The woman’s kindness was her undoing, and Bree burst into a fresh bout of tears.

“Ye’ll be safe now, lass,” Isobel crooned and enveloped her into a warm, bosomy embrace. “Ye’ve naught to fret over. There are none better than my Ruan.”

The tears dried instantly and suspicion set in. This woman was Ruan’s ally, not hers. How could she possibly think she was safe? Bree clenched her teeth. She’d just wed a stranger and the fact she hadn’t known, that her father had spoken her vows, apparently didn’t matter to these inhabitants of Dunvegan.

Isobel patted her hair and then stepped back, surveying Bree’s dress with a critical eye, “Ach, that will nae do. I’ll be finding ye something decent. I’ll send a bite, but ye’d best bathe whilst the water is hot.”

With a sympathetic smile, she shooed the gaping lads out and then followed them to close the door behind her with a firm click.

For several long minutes, Bree remained standing beside the tub, sniveling, before the realization struck her that she was alone. She made her decision in an instant. She’d leave. Anything would be better than remaining where her fate was certain.

Darting to the door, she peered cautiously up and down the narrow twisting stairs and craned her head each direction for any hint of sound. Upon hearing nothing, she gripped the rope that spanned the length of the tower with cold fingers and crept down.

Her mind worked at a feverish pace. Water surrounded the castle, but she remembered that land hadn’t been far off. In the flickering torchlight upon their arrival she’d seen the dim shapes of trees and the black shadows of hills. Perhaps she could steal a boat and chance the moors. She could find her way back to England, to Afraig.

She clenched her fists a little at the thought of Afraig’s betrayal. Afraig had always known her dream had been to live in a cottage by the sea
without
the danger of a husband. She had led her to believe it was possible.

She took a deep breath. Going back to England was a preposterous scheme, and the voice whispering in the back of her mind coolly informed her it was a ridiculous one at that. She had already traveled across the wilds of Scotland. It had been an excruciating journey. Alone and on foot, with winter approaching, it would be nigh on impossible to return to England. Brushing the voice aside, she convinced herself anything was preferable to remaining in Dunvegan, as the wife of that disturbing stranger called Ruan. He was a huge man. She would never survive a beating.

She was on the bottom step when she heard the actual voices. There was no time to react, and she didn’t see the door swing open. She only heard the shattering thud as she collided with the wood.

Pain exploded in her nose, and she fell, ears ringing.

“My lady, what are ye doing here?” an apologetic voice asked, floating in the gloom above her.

Strong arms pulled her to her feet and swept under her knees, lifting her easily as if she were a child.

Fingers gently prodded her nose.

“Tis broken,” a deep voice observed, dispassionately.

It was Ruan’s.

Then, her father snorted, “By the saints, she’s bleeding like a stuck pig!”

A torch appeared and she could dimly see the young man carrying her back up the stairs. His hair was blond, his eyes brilliantly blue. When he noticed her scrutiny, he gave her a wide smile.

“I’m Ewan!” he introduced himself with a cheeky grin. “And I’m right pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady.”

Domnall’s loud voice sounded from nearby. “Aye, lass. Ewan’s a trustworthy lad.”

Bree swallowed a gasp of pain as Ewan set her down gently on the bed, in the very same chamber she’d just escaped.

Isobel appeared, gingerly probing her nose and agreeing that it had, indeed, been broken. Faces swam into view. The young Ewan’s, her father’s, Isobel’s once again, and lastly, she saw the forbidding figure observing them all with a brooding scowl, as he leaned against the door.

It was the man, Ruan.

His dark eyes burned through her soul, and she quickly looked away, wishing he’d disappear.

“Ruan’s a gentle lad, Bree,” Domnall patted her knee. “Ye’ll see soon enough.”

Bree’s grimace of doubt abruptly turned into a howl of pain. Lifting her lashes through the haze of the tears, she saw once more the towering form of her new husband still framing the door. He looked less than pleased. He stood with arms folded angrily and brows furrowed. He was huge. One blow would smite her dead. Her heart fluttered.

“She’s a bairn!” Ruan announced, glowering at Domnall. “She’s too young, scarce older than Merry! What have ye done?”

Domnall placed an arm about his newly made son’s shoulders, “She’s of a proper age to wed, lad,” he assured. His voice dropped as he slipped softly into Gaelic.

Burying her head in her hands, Bree willed them all to be gone. When silence finally greeted her, she cautiously lifted her head to find her wish granted.

Once again, she was alone.

Immediately, thoughts of escape possessed her once again. She threw back the coverlet, but her feet had scarcely touched the floor when Isobel entered, bringing a steaming bowl and a cup.

“Let me see the nose now, lass,” the woman ordered. Her voice held a mixture of concern and amusement, “Ye’ve got the castle buzzing, ye have. Ruan’s got his hands full, doesn’t he, no?”

Firm fingers pressed her nose, and Bree choked.

Isobel pursed her lips, “’Tis nae a bad break, but ye’ll have a nasty bruise. We’ve naught to do but hope it’ll heal straight, that, and a bowl of milk for the fairies.” She stood, smoothing her dress. She stared for several minutes before asking, “Why were ye running down there, lass?”

Bree frowned, searching for a fitting reply.

Isobel chided softly, “Ye’d best nae try it again, ‘tis dangerous. The men are drunk now. They would nae think twice of taking their pleasure, be ye Ruan’s wife or no. Lassies canna roam safely here after dark. Tormod has seen to that.”

Alarmed, Bree recalled the cold man seated in the chamber and the way his eyes had swept over her. So his name was Tormod.

“Ruan will be hard-pressed keeping ye safe as ‘tis. Ye’d best help him a wee bit.”

At that, Bree drew back, temper rising. As far as she was concerned, Ruan was the same as the rest. In spite of Isobel’s faith to the contrary, he probably was a scoundrel like the rest.

“Ach, well…” the woman murmured, sending her a measured look. “My Ruan’s nae like the others, lass, ye’ll see.” She thrust the warm bowl of porridge in her hands and added, “Best eat. Effric’s needing me now, so I must be gone.”

She left, closing the door with a soft thump.