The Kindling Heart Page 3

  Bree hadn’t thought of him in years. Why should she? He’d left her with her husky voice, elfin looks, and nothing else, not even his name. The only thing she knew was the vague story she had pieced together: of how he’d arrived one autumn, escorting the Lady Aislin from her latest scandal in Scotland to the respectable Thurston Hall. After two days, he’d returned whence he came, never to be seen again. And then nine months later, Jenet had given birth to a squalling baby girl. She was an unwanted infant, so much so that she’d lived nameless for almost a year before Afraig had taken to calling her Bree.

  “Ach, yer Domnall’s and no mistake.”

  Domnall? It was just another name. But, it was strange Afraig would bring up the matter on her own. Shrugging the short-lived curiosity away, Bree’s thoughts wandered to Wat and her plans to avoid him, but they were quickly diverted again.

  “I’ve always kent it be Domnall, lass.”

  It took several moments for the words to register. Startled by the genuine sincerity in her voice, Bree cast a furtive glance her way, holding still lest she broke the spell and Afraig ceased speaking entirely.

  “Aye, ’tis why I named ye Bree, after his sister…” Afraig sighed heavily, lost in the memories of the past. “’Twas a sad affair. She loved a MacLeod, and lost her life for it.” Her tone hardened at the mention of the name ‘MacLeod’.

  Intrigued, Bree waited.

  “Aye,” Afraig said, shaking her head wearily, “Domnall’s my cousin, a right fair man. He was nae thinking that night. He could never have wed Jenet as she wished. He was already wed with bairns of his own.”

  Bree felt a twinge of disappointment. The man was a scoundrel. She sighed.

  “’Tis no matter, lass, what’s done is done. That was nae what I wanted to speak of.” Afraig reached out and patted her wrist, adding, “I’ve a wee bit of news.”

  Not knowing why, Bree’s heart began to pound.

  “My kinfolk are coming for Aislin, after all this time, though, ‘twill be a nasty surprise for the lad…but ‘tis nae my affair,” Afraig checked herself. She affectionately ran a finger over Bree’s cheek and said, “Ye should go back with them, to Skye. Find yer father; he’s not one to shirk his duty.”

  Suddenly, the fact that her father was an unscrupulous rascal didn’t matter. A thrill crept through her, unbidden. A myriad of questions engulfed her all at once.

  “Domnall will treat ye a sight better than Wat!” Afraig heaved a sigh. “The MacDonald has sent for Aislin. He’s wed her off to a MacLeod, though. Even a beast of a MacLeod will be sore disappointed in Aislin for a bride. Now, with her expecting another bairn… I’m nae sure he’ll take her. I’m fair stumped on what I should do, but ‘tis too late. Cuilen sent the message nigh on four months ago and that drunkard just remembered to tell me! Autumn, he said, well, autumn is done!”

  Bree stared, trying to calm her rampaging thoughts. With so many things she wanted to ask, she could not decide where to start, but Aislin’s bellow from the passageway above startled them both.

  “Bree!” Aislin shouted. “More wine!”

  An empty wine bottle rattled down the steps, coming to a stop before Bree’s feet. She stooped to pick it up, still wanting to ask Afraig questions, but the woman had slipped into a trance, staring into the flames.

  As Aislin yelled again, Bree hurriedly grabbed a bottle of wine and ran up the passageway. Aislin was overbearing and dull of wit, but for the most part, kind-hearted. Her temper flared only when the wine was late.

  “I’ll be having some wine. Be quick, lass!” Aislin grinned, revealing more gaping holes than teeth, “I’m celebrating the wondrous news!”

  Aislin lay on her bed. It was a large bed, for she was an enormous woman. Though she was five months gone with child, it was difficult to tell, for her belly always resembled a woman on the brink of giving birth. She appeared far younger than her years, simply because the fat smoothed any wrinkles that attempted to form. With creamy white skin and luminous blue eyes framed by black hair, she must have been lovely in her youth, but now she much resembled a bloated, toothless seal.

  Bree handed her a goblet.

  Aislin sighed in pleasure and then wiggled her swollen toes and ordered, “Rub them, lass.”

  Bree stifled a sigh. She hated rubbing Aislin’s unwashed feet. Usually, she was able to think of an excuse quickly enough to avoid the entire situation, but she was still reeling from the news of her father.

  “I’ll be wed soon,” Aislin said as she smiled, her chin disappearing into several rolls. “Ruan! He’s a sight younger than me, but handsome, I’ve been told…”

  Aislin wiggled her toes again as Bree’s fingers closed around them. A waft of air carried the rank odor to her nostrils, and Bree gagged.

  The woman didn’t notice. Her puffy lids closed as she mumbled about the tall, handsome MacLeod who would provide wondrous pleasures in bed and finally enable her to live as a proper lady in Dunvegan. As Aislin’s mutterings lapsed into gurgling snores, Bree scurried out of the chamber before she could wake to summon her back.

  Her hands reeked. It took more than one scrubbing to cleanse her fingers of the stench, but she finally succeeded and returned to the kitchens to find Afraig pacing before the fire, highly agitated.

  She glanced up as Bree entered. “Ye must leave, love,” the woman announced firmly, “and leave now. We canna wait for yer father. Ye’ll have to run. I’ll think of something!”

  Bree blinked in surprise.

  “Jenet was just here!” Afraig twisted her hands, obviously rattled. “She and that beastly Wat are… wedding ye off, lass. They want ye home tonight, love, to meet yer… husband. I told her you were in the fields. Ye canna stay. Ye’ll have to run…”

  Bree stared. It was some time before she could breathe. Wed? Surely, Afraig was mistaken. The woman’s lips were still moving, but she could not hear the words.

  Her dreams of a peaceful cottage on the sea were crashing around her.

  Surely, Afraig was wrong.

  Grabbing her cloak, Bree threw it over her shoulders and sped out of Thurston Hall.

  Afraig had to be wrong. Her mother wouldn’t do such a thing!

  Within minutes, she stood outside the squalid hut she called home. It was an eye-sore, the worst in the village. Wat spent his days in a drunken stupor. He relied on his sons to care for it and work the fields; only, they followed their father’s fine example instead, drinking and wenching from dawn until dusk.

  No, her mother needed her. If nothing else for the simple fact that there would be no one to do the chores if she were gone. She’d never marry her off.

  At length, she gathered her courage and crept close to peer through the wide cracks in the door. She could barely make out the thin, hunched form of a scowling man standing before her mother and Wat. It was Raph, Wat’s uncle. He was a despicable creature who pinched her at every opportunity. He was filthy, old, and his breath stank.

  “…And she’s young,” Wat belched. “She’ll bear children. That should be worth at least two.”

  Raph tapped his fingers impatiently. “Where is she?”

  “Soon. She’ll be here soon,” her mother twittered nervously. Filling his cup with watered ale, she continued, “A right hard-working girl, she is. She’ll make a fine wife.”

  Bree stifled a gasp. Surely, she’d misheard. Surely, they could not be talking about her. Her mother would never willingly hand her to the man who had trained Wat in every depraved act he knew.

  “You’ve not taught her obedience, Wat.”

  “Then, I’ve no doubt you will!” Wat cackled, scratching the exposed flesh of his belly.

  “Two sheep is overly much.”

  “Three!” Her mother disagreed harshly. “We agreed to three sheep. Bree is worth perchance four.”

  There was no denying the words. Shocked tears burned Bree’s lashes. They were selling her to that disgustingly, dirty old man for three sheep.

  “Three!” Wat insist
ed, “You’re old. I’ll not have Bree returning with brats to feed. Did you bring the sheep?”

  Apparently, he hadn’t, for her mother spat, “Not until you bring the sheep!”

  “I wanted her tonight!” Raph snarled. “I’ve need of a woman.”

  “Someone else will have to satisfy that need,” came her mother’s curt reply.

  Bree’s heart leapt in hope, but then, she heard the devastating words.

  “Not until I get my sheep. You can have her when I have my sheep.”

  Bree gulped.

  She’d believed her entire life that somewhere deep inside, her mother truly cared for her and loved her immensely. However, there was no denying those cold, cruel words. Fleeing to the shadows of the nearby trees, she sank to the ground, feeling ill.

  The door opened and Raph emerged, more than half-drunk and slurring his words. “I’ll bring the sheep in the morning then!”

  He staggered down the darkening lane leaving the village, and it was only when the barking dogs tracking his progress fell silent that Bree allowed herself a deep breath.

  For the moment, she’d delayed disaster. Afraig was right. She had to run. She could not return home. They might call him back. Not knowing what else to do, she sped to the castle kitchens, gulping her tears as she ran.

  “Afraig!” she sobbed, pushing open the kitchen door. “They are trying to sell me to Raph for three sheep!”

  She collided with a firm, barrel chest.

  “Hold there!” a deep, booming voice rang.

  Startled, Bree pulled back, catching only a glimpse of a bald head before instinctively swinging into action.

  Raph had found her.

  Emotions flared to life, igniting her very soul as fingers of steel gripped her arm. She screamed a high, piercing shriek. Clawing and kicking, she launched an attack that, judging by the startled grunts of pain, succeeded in striking at least a few of her intended targets.

  All at once, the fingers released their grip, and she whirled to escape only to find Afraig blocking her way.

  “Let me pass!” she gasped.

  Oddly, Afraig grinned, shaking her head, “Stay, lass! Ye will be safe now! Can ye believe the luck of this? ‘Tis a miracle he arrived the same day as Cuilen’s message!”

  “Same day?” the voice was snorting. “That was sent nigh on four months past!”

  Too panicked to listen more, Bree forged ahead, attempting to shove Afraig aside, but the woman was stronger than she appeared. After a brief struggle, she was once again caught in a vice grip, this time Afraig’s.

  It was too much and Bree sank to the floor with a low sob. “Let me go. I beg you! I’ll not marry him! I can’t! You know I can’t! Not Raph!”

  “There now, lass.” the kindly male voice mumbled from somewhere above. “Surely, there’s nae to fear from a husband, now, is there?”

  The voice was deep and kind, and the accent strangely familiar. The words shifted into a smooth lilt; odd words ones she almost recognized.

  Afraig replied in the same manner and then Bree understood.

  Gaelic. The man was speaking Gaelic. Hope instantly replaced despair. Afraig’s kin had arrived, not Raph! Wiping her nose on her sleeve, she sprang to her feet, turning eagerly to the stranger.

  Like Raph, he was almost bald and what little hair remained was gray, but there the resemblance ended. The man was of medium height and clad in a travel-stained plaid. His face was weathered and lined, but he was not particularly old. He stood stiffly, hunched to one side, observing her with bright green eyes that reflected sympathy mixed with a dash of amusement.

  “Are ye done bleating like a sheep?” he asked with a pleasant burr before turning to Afraig. “Yer making no sense, woman.”

  “Aye, and ye should be listening, Domnall,” Afraig chuckled. Brushing him aside to hold both hands out to Bree, she continued, “’Tis a warm welcome ye’ve given yer father, love, and no mistake! Ye nearly unmanned him!”

  Bree froze. Her vision narrowed, blocking everything except the stunned man standing next to her. Time stood still as they stared at each other in mutual shock, and it seemed an eternity before she could breathe and sound once again returned.

  Dimly, she heard Afraig chuckling.

  Domnall lips parted as his brows climbed into his hairline. “Ye be … daft, woman!” he finally managed in a hoarse whisper.

  “She has MacBethad eyes and hair,” Afraig snorted. Placing a hand under Bree’s chin to tilt it upwards, she added, “Can ye even doubt it?”

  “She … she canna be … mine,” he murmured, but with words couched in uncertainty.

  “Open yer eyes, man!” Afraig chuckled, “How can ye deny her?”

  Bree held still, shocked.

  After a time, he whispered, “Jenet?”

  “Aye,” Afraig said with a nod.

  Bree winced, not wanting to think of her mother.

  “I…” Domnall began, licking his lips several times before falling silent.

  “I know ‘tis a wee bit surprising,” Afraig beamed, drawing them both closer to the hearth, “but while ye adjust to the truth ye’ve got a fine, wee lassie, I’ll finish my words. Aislin’s carrying another bairn, so, ye canna take her. That MacLeod will nae want her—bless his soul—even though he be a MacLeod. Why, he—”

  “Silence, woman!” Domnall growled. “I’ll nae speak of Aislin now!”

  Clearly agitated, he clasped his hands behind his mud-caked plaid and began to pace, directing a dark frown in Afraig’s direction as she slipped into Gaelic once more.

  Bree’s heart sank.

  Afraig was wrong. This man wanted nothing to do with her. He was obviously less than pleased to discover he had a daughter. Tears slipped down her cheeks unheeded. It was some time before she noticed the silence and the fact they were both watching her curiously.

  “There, lass,” Afraig consoled, pressing her roughly against her bony bosom. “There’s not to fear, I promise ye, love.”

  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 tran
sformed 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.”