The Kindling Heart Page 4

  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.

  Leaning against the wall, she clutched her queasy stomach, but the sound of approaching voices spurred her into action. She could think later. She didn’t want to be present when Domnall and Afraig arrived.

  Flying about the room, she grabbed the nearest loaf of bread, a wedge of dried cheese, and a bottle of ale for Aislin’s supper. As the outer door swung open, she bolted up the stairs and down the dark passage.

  Again, doubt assailed her. What had she done? How could she have chosen a stranger over her own mother? Was he really even her father? Again, she reminded herself she had no choice. Emotions churning, she knocked on Aislin’s door. At the muffled response, she stepped inside.

  The chamber was dark; she could barely see. Aislin lay on the bed, sideways, as if she’d fallen. A deep crimson stained the counterpane and the glass shards of a wine bottle littered the floor. It was not the first time she’d come upon Aislin drunk. With a sigh, Bree set the tray on the table and lit the candle.

  “Afraig…” Aislin whispered, weakly.

  Frowning, Bree glanced her way.

  It was not wine. It was blood. Blood stained the lower half of Aislin’s gown, dripping from the bed to form a pool on the floor.

  Bree screamed.

  Vaguely, she recalled running to Afraig and Domnall. Their faces had registered complete shock. She followed them back to Aislin’s chamber. The second time, however, she remained outside the door.

  Afraig cursed. Picking up the broken bottle on the floor, she sniffed its contents. “Ye fool! ‘Twas too late for juniper berries!” she hissed, turning to Domnall. “There’s naught I can do now.”

  Aislin moaned.

  “Bree, lass, help me fetch the priest,” Domnall said grimly. “’Twill nae be long before the end.”

  It was not, but she did survive the night.

  They kept a vigil at the foot of the bed, and the village priest gave her last rites, intoning prayers in a hushed voice. As the sun rose, Aislin breathed her last. Her white lips moved wordlessly as her hand fell lifeless from the bed.

  The vision of that grey hand stayed with Bree even as Afraig guided her to the kitchen table. Someone placed a steaming bowl of porridge next to her, but she had no appetite. She merely observed it growing cold.

  Domnall and Afraig had been arguing for several hours, speaking mostly Gaelic, but sprinkled with sufficient amounts of English that she understood Domnall wished to leave immediately. The MacDonald must know of Aislin’s demise. There was a new bride to be found for the man, Ruan. Apparently, he was so eager to wed he cared not who the woman might be. Finally, when the morning sun filtered through the open kitchen door, they seemed to have reached an agreement.

  “Aye.” Afraig nodded grudgingly. “I’ll trust yer heart, Domnall. But, if he isn’t as ye say, I’ll skewer yer rotten soul next we meet.”

  Domnall briskly rubbed his hands together with a triumphant snort as Afraig moved to wrap Bree in a warm embrace.

  “Ach, lass,” Afraig said with a sigh. She laid her cheek on top of Bree’s head, “’Tis time to leave.”

  Bree yawned, suddenly tired. “Yes,” she murmured. “I think I could sleep, just for a bit.”

  “Leave, lass,” the woman repeated. She cleared her throat gruffly. “‘Tis time to leave this place and go home to Skye.”

  Bree raised her head with a growing sense of apprehension.

  “Yer father thinks it best nae to tempt Wat’s sons into stirring a wee bit of trouble. I know ye’ll be weary, love, but ye’ll sleep well tonight.” A tear trickled down her withered cheek.

  Afraig could not be crying; she simply never did.

  “Ye’ll be safe, soon, far away from this accursed place,” the woman was saying.

  They were leaving. Domnall was really taking her away. Bree wanted to scream, to shout that she’d changed her mind, but her lips had strangely locked into place.

  “Aye,” Afraig said, smiling warmly, “but I’ll be seeing ye soon, love. I swear it. When Huntley is gone, I’ll come home. ‘Twill nae be long.” She draped a warm plaid over her shoulders and planted a firm kiss on her forehead before glaring at Domnall.

  “He’s a right honorable man,” her father replied, affronted, before leaving for the stables and closing the door with a bang.

  Once again, Afraig kissed her, pulling her outside, and speaking all the while. “…and remember, love, Domnall is a fair and just man.”

  A large, shaggy brown horse stood in the courtyard, flicking its ears and stamping its foot impatiently. It was an ugly beast. Its hooves were massive; she’d never seen the like before.

  “He’ll see ye properly settled,” Afraid was still talking.

  She was going away, away from the only place she’d ever known.

  She heard Domnall’s crisp query, “Where are her thing?”

  “She doesn’t have any,” Afraig replied brusquely.

  Bree wanted to cry. She wanted to tell them she’d changed her mind, but Afraig crushed her close in a final farewell and then pushed her toward her father.

  It was happening too fast.

  With a light toss, Domnall threw her onto the back of the large, brown beast. She clutched the pommel with white fingers as Domnall vaulted into the saddle behind her and with a loud, harsh word drove the horse forward.

  Gritting her teeth, the only thing Bree could think of now was how much she hated horses.

  Chapter 03: Dunvegan

  “Skye!” Domnall announced, with pride evident in his voice.

  Bree stared in dismay at the brown expanse spreading before her.

  This cold, wind-swept, endless sea of mud was her father’s precious Highlands, her new home. In the far distance, trees dotted the hills, their trunks gnarled and twisted by the perpetually strong winds. Rocks randomly sprouted from the earth, and were covered by gorse, fern, and heather.

  This was nothing like the ancient growth covering the green rolling hills in England, with its tidy flocks of sheep. Here, sheep ran wild, perched like mountain goats on the sheer drops of the craggy mountains, with no sign of a shepherd in sight.

  “Aye,” Domnall murmured. “There is no place like Skye, lass. This land sings to ye.”

  Forcing a dutiful nod, Bree was thankful he mistook her consternation for awe. Everything in his wondrous isle seemed to be a shade of brown, even the water falling down the cracks in the mountains. It appeared unfriendly and bleak. However, it would be worth living anywhere if she could simply get off the back of the horse.

  The journey had been miserable, with one pest-filled Inn after another. Several times, they had slept huddled under plaids in the cold rain. To be finally warm and dry and to eat something hot that was not burned on the edges and raw in the middle seemed outlandishly decadent.

  Still, as wretched as the traveling conditions had been, learning more of her father had
been unexpectedly pleasant. He was a jovial man, understanding, patient, though far too free with women. Every evening had found him in the company of a widow or a brew mistress. More than once, their morning departure had been overly hasty due to an irate husband riding furiously behind them for a time.

  As she traveled for hours on end, with little to do but think, Bree fondly remembered Domnall’s beating of Wat. In spite of her best efforts otherwise, she was beginning to trust the man. A little, she firmly amended to herself, only a little. Men were, by nature, untrustworthy, hard-hearted beasts.

  “We’re home!” Domnall boomed again.

  They had reached the crest of the hill. Far below them, nestled close to the sandy shore of an inlet on a bed of rocks rose the mighty, well-weathered fortress of Dunscaithe.

  It was a wild place, rough. Here, there were trees, but fierce looking ones. Peat and heather clothed the forest floor. Across the water, she could see hills rising in the distance. More sheep dotted the moors and above them gulls wailed.

  A sudden gust of wind clawed her hair, whipping it wildly about her head. As Domnall prodded the mountain horse forward, she wondered, for the first time, exactly where he lived and what a daughter of his would do.

  As Dunscaithe loomed larger, she began to hope he didn’t actually live in the castle. The cold, brown highland moors were far better than living entombed in a sinister mountain of stone.

  At last, they were plodding under the wide-open gates and then lumbering to a halt in a jingle of bits and creaking leather. The courtyard was empty and Domnall made no move to dismount.

  Bree held still, waiting uneasily.

  Finally, a voice hailed, “Domnall!”

  A man approached. He was young but with hair already thinning on top. His hazel eyes were kind, even as his brows furrowed in a disapproving line. He was followed by several others, all bare-kneed and wearing plaids. It was strange to see so many men wearing the same form of dress and all as oblivious to the cold as her father seemed to be.