The Kindling Heart Page 5

  The man scrutinized her intently, plucking her from the saddle and swinging her down with an easy arm. Apprehensively, she shrank back, but his attention was on Domnall as his deep voice echoed throughout the courtyard. He spoke in Gaelic.

  Domnall lifted his hand and made some kind of announcement.

  The men gasped, waving their hands in agitation.

  Bree strained to decipher the harsh, yet pleasantly lilting slur of words, but with little success. She frowned at herself. If only she’d paid more attention to Afraig and her father on the journey when they had spoken in Gaelic, maybe she’d now understand why they were agitated. She caught the rare word, but was entirely unsure of what a ‘sheep’s arse’, ‘cheese’, and ‘boat’ had in relation to each other. It seemed an odd combination to upset so many men.

  Domnall’s voice rose and the courtyard went silent.

  All eyes turned upon her and the balding man gaped in astonishment.

  Domnall dismounted, speaking all the while. This time, even Bree recognized the Gaelic word ‘daughter’. Nervously, she stepped into the welcoming circle of her father’s arm.

  The strange man’s face lit. He pulled absently on his chin and finally murmured in English, “I…agree…’tis muckle better this way.” He exchanged a long level look with his men and then Domnall.

  Bree held her breath with a growing sense of unease. She wished she had the courage to ask what they were speaking about, but she didn’t.

  At last, the man balding man nodded and said in English, “Aye, ‘tis a braw plan, Domnall. I give it my blessing. ‘Tis a better plan, to be sure. One I’m nae ashamed to support. Aye, I did disagree with Tormod over Aislin, many a long hour, but he insisted. There was naught I could do.”

  A sigh of relief circled the gathering and Domnall chuckled, squeezing her shoulder, “Bree, lass. This is Cuilen, the McDonald of Dunscaithe. Ye’ll be owing him yer loyalty.”

  Bree blinked and it took several moments to understand that this stranger, dressed plainly in the same homespun plaid as the others, was the lord of a castle. Quickly, she dipped into a curtsey as Cuilen’s bright blue eyes bore into hers. She cleared her throat nervously, unable to shake the notion that something was not quite right about this.

  “Ach, ’tis right welcome ye be, lass, ye can rest on the ship…as best as yer able,” he grunted. He turned to bark impatiently at his men, “Be off! We leave in the hour. There’s a storm brewing that I’ll nae wait for.”

  Domnall nodded in agreement.

  With an impatient flick of his hand, Cuilen strode away with a sense of purpose. Bree had no time to wonder as her father placed his hand on her neck, guiding her forward.

  “Ye’ve just time to change, lass,” he boomed. Pointing to a large woman standing close by, he explained, “Anne here, will help ye. I’ve duties elsewhere.”

  Bree opened her mouth, but he left before she could frame a question. She wondered sourly if his duties elsewhere included yet another plump widow. Closing her mouth, she shifted her attention to Anna who smelled faintly of sour milk, but at least her aged face crinkled in a friendly way.

  Anna spoke only Gaelic, as apparently did most of Dunscaithe’s inhabitants. Therefore Bree spent the next hour nodding at words she did not understand, and repeating the few words she did know over and over again, to show at least that she was trying to understand. Finally, after much prodding and chattering, Anna left her alone with a basin of tepid water.

  Peeling off her mud-caked dress, Bree washed herself as quickly as she could. She was anxious to be clothed before anyone returned. Her bruises had faded to a faint yellow, but she was reluctant that anyone should see them.

  Grimacing, she shrugged into the rough-spun, yellow dress that was provided to her and snatched the comb to attack her hair. Her thoughts wandered and finally settled on her mother, and the way she had bargained with Raph. Remembering her mother’s cutting words brought on an unexpected surge of anger that burned deep within her soul.

  “Are ye well, lass?”

  With a start, she whirled.

  Domnall stood behind her, brows drawn in a curious line. His gaze dropped. “Ach, I’ll tend that. How did ye do such a thing?”

  Looking down, she saw a jagged scratch across the palm of her hand. The comb had snapped in two. There was only a little blood and it hardly hurt. Flustered, she jerked her hand away.

  Domnall studied her briefly. Taking the strip of cloth meant for her hair, he grasped her hand and quickly tied the cloth around the small wound. When he’d finished, he planted a kiss on her forehead. “Trust me, lass. I’ll see ye taken care of. I swear it. Now, we’d best go. Cuilen’s waiting for ye.”

  Frowning, Bree followed him to the courtyard. A ripple of alarm coursed through her upon seeing the horse still saddled. To her dismay, Domnall promptly tossed her onto the back of the beast and hoisted himself behind her once again.

  “We’ve nae far to ride, lass,” he said, reading her mind. “The boat’s nae far.”

  “Where are we going on a boat?” Bree asked, a little timidly.

  He ignored her question and called out a hearty farewell to several gray-haired women as their horse galloped through the gate they had entered a mere hour ago. In moments, they rounded a large jutting rock to join a small party of men seated on horses even shaggier than their own.

  Cuilen waited at the head, sitting upon the largest beast. He raised his arm and they wheeled their mounts, cantering down to the beach.

  A short distance away, Bree could see a ship bobbling in the restless sea. Dark clouds were gathering on the horizon. She eyed the dipping mast, uneasily.

  “Ye’ve naught to fret over.”

  Startled, she was surprised to find Cuilen had pulled up alongside them.

  “Dunvegan’s nae far,” he grunted. Shifting to Gaelic, he spoke to her father.

  Bree strained to decipher the words, but was interrupted when Domnall lifted her from the horse and tossed her into a small dingy. In moments, they had rowed her out to the ship, helping her board with gentle hands and escorting her to the back. She huddled on the wooden seat under several warm plaids provided by sympathetic and smiling men. Too tired to care anymore, she buried her head in her arms.

  Suddenly, an ear-splitting screech strongly resembling a strangled goat shrieked through the air, and she sprang to her feet in alarm.

  The men laughed, the most amused being her father. “Aye, lass, ‘tis only the piper! He keeps the men rowing.”

  Several of the men brandished their oars, grinning.

  Embarrassed, she eyed the man with the pipes dubiously. She’d never seen such an odd instrument before. Cautiously, she settled back into the plaids.

  The journey was torturous.

  The piper never stopped playing, striking one melancholy air after another. The sound grated. The ship heaved and rolled, and she soon discovered she much preferred the boney back of a horse. She spent most of her time seized with giddiness and retching over the side. Hours later, her father sat quietly down beside her, an odd expression upon his face.

  “Here, lass,” he murmured, offering a silver flask.

  The pungent smell made her want to retch again.

  She hurriedly pushed it away.

  “’Twill nae be much longer, and then we’ll be home,” he reassured, slipping a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  Sadness and pain in his eyes caught her attention, pulling at her heart. Pain was something she could understand. An unexpected wave of emotion arose, and for the first time she truly felt this man was her father. Exhausted, she leaned into his embrace and took comfort. Here was a man she could finally trust.

  As the day wore on, storm clouds descended and unleashed a torrent of rain that forced them to weigh anchor in a small inlet. They took refuge in a nearby cave. It was cold and damp and Bree slept fitfully. She was relieved when dawn finally arrived, but the wind was still too wild to sail. It was not until late in the afternoon that the
ir journey resumed. By then, she was exhausted, shivering under the plaids and dozing fitfully.

  Sometime later, she woke abruptly and sat up in alarm. The banging of the oars mingled with calls from men on the boat. Voices answered them from the darkness around them, and then the twinkling light of torches reflected on the calm surface of the water.

  “Aye, lass,” her father said as he loomed up before her. “We’ve arrived.”

  As the tall, forbidding walls of a castle rose in the gloom, Bree felt a wave of apprehension. “Arrived?” she repeated, throat dry.

  “Dunvegan,” Cuilen answered, appearing suddenly. He pointed to the dim outline of a castle perched on a small island of rock, separated from the shore by a narrow ravine.

  Stiffly, Bree scrambled to her feet, but Cuilen pushed her down.

  “The sea-gate is the only way in, lass,” he said roughly. “Sit. We’ll be there soon enough.”

  Daunted by Cuilen’s cold demeanor, she sat back down as they began the slow approach to the sea-gate. She frowned. Her father had never mentioned he lived in Dunvegan Castle. Several smaller boats appeared out of the mist and joined theirs.

  Bree squinted, peering ahead as more torches dotted the castle walls.

  It looked like a gloomy place, chilling, with an inhospitable air. The boat hugged the castle wall, and it finally paused by a gate that opened directly into the water. Hands reached out, pulling her up and pushing her through a long, narrow stair cut deep in the rocks leading to the castle.

  “Come, lass,” Her father’s voice boomed comfortingly. He grasped her elbow and pressed her forward.

  Cuilen swept past them, joining several burly men as Domnall led her through a smaller door near the kitchens. The smell of roasting mutton made her hungry. Weariness descended upon her all at once, and she staggered after her father up the narrowly winding stairs. Dimly, she wondered if she’d ever get to sleep again.

  They entered the great hall.

  Tables lined the length of the room with the laird’s table at the head. The MacLeod coat of arms hung above the fireplace, reflecting the dying light of the torches on the walls. Close by, stood a heavy iron chest with a lock. Her father pointed to it and told her that within the chest she’d find the famed Fairy Flag of Dunvegan, a treasure of the castle, but being so tired, she found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying. The tables around her bore the cold, greasy remnants of the evening meal. A few men still lounged about, but most lay already stretched out, snoring amidst the rushes scattered on the floor.

  “Drink this, lass.”

  Someone thrust a cup into her hands. Wearily, she lifted her head to thank her benefactor, but they were already gone.

  Domnall pressed her down onto a bench, murmuring, “Wait here.” And he was gone.

  Gratefully, Bree sipped the warm and spicy contents of the cup. She’d never tasted anything quite like it. With each swallow, a comforting heat grew in her throat and then her stomach. She drained the last drop with regret, but a passing stranger kindly filled it once more. She was nearly finished with what she thought was her third cup when Domnall startled her from the pleasant stupor.

  “Come, lass.”

  She winced. His voice was abominably loud, much louder than usual.

  With a hint of impatience, he repeated, “Come!”

  Glowering, Bree struggled to her feet. It took several attempts before she succeeded, and she protested when Domnall wrenched the cup from her hands.

  Her father chuckled, sniffing the contents. “I see. Mayhap, ‘tis best this way.”

  Clasping her arm, he half-carried her forward. “This way, lass, ‘tis nae far. They are waiting.”

  Wondering foggily who they might be, Bree allowed him to support her down a narrow passageway and into a small chamber.

  Men filled the room, clustering around a large wooden table. She searched the sea of strange faces, the features blurring eerily in the shadows cast by the dancing fire. They were dressed remarkably alike in mustard colored shirts and brown plaids of various shades.

  “Nae what you were expecting, eh, Ruan?” Domnall laughed.

  Bree blinked. Ruan. The name was familiar, though she could not remember why. Far more pressing was the concern she might retch. Her stomach rolled, and for the first time she suspected just what she’d been drinking. She tripped, but her father caught her elbow, drawing her to the table as the occupants around it began a heated exchange.

  “No!” a man’s deep voice chafed from close by. “Aye, I agreed to Aislin, nae this one! Find another man!”

  “Ruan, lad, dinna be so ungrateful!” someone laughed.

  “Gratefulness has naught to do with it, Robert!” the man’s baritone continued. “Find another man! I’ll nae do this, nae with Domnall’s daughter! No!”

  At that, Bree tried to focus her blurred vision on the speaker, but was distracted as a large man seated at the table began to pound his fist angrily.

  “Silence!” the strange man said, raising his voice.

  He was the only one seated in the room.

  As his blue, watery eyes swept over her, Bree felt her flesh crawl. This was a cold man, a disturbing one. Instinctively, she drew back, but her father pressed her forward and the voices abruptly fell silent.

  The man pinned her with a long, silent look, and then nodding once, growled, “Ye’ll do as I order ye, Ruan.”

  “Tormod, this isnae—”

  “Silence, Ruan!” the man retorted. “Ye’ll agree to this, or ‘twill nae be to yer liking what I’ll have done to Merry!”

  Bree swallowed nervously.

  “Aye,” the deep baritone finally muttered.

  There was a collective sigh of relief as another man appeared by her side.

  The newcomer was dirty. As he began to speak, his beady eyes flitted nervously in every direction but hers. He smelled of fish and wine, and whatever he was saying, it had apparently caught the interest of them all. Bree once again regretted the fact she hadn’t put more effort into learning Gaelic from Afraig. She sighed audibly, and then promptly blushed, ashamed of her odd lack of control.

  The fish-smelling man shot her an irritable glare as he withdrew a wooden cross from the folds of his sleeve and pressed it to his lips.

  He was a priest.

  Curiously, she wondered what the priest intoned that kept all enthralled, but as his voice droned on, she once again was unable to resist her impulse to yawn and she did, loudly.

  Someone chuckled.

  Embarrassed, and no longer able to focus, she closed her eyes and swayed lightly on her feet. Strong, steady fingers closed over her shoulders, and she smiled. Her father was always there when she needed support. He was proving a kind and thoughtful man, a man worthy of trust. He was nothing like Wat.

  The rich deep voice which had protested before spoke, its tone rank with irritation. It sounded unusually close. Her father chimed in, speaking her name. One of the hands left her shoulder. Something cool circled one of her fingers. She frowned, bewildered, and lifted her lashes.

  A ring circled her finger.

  It was far too big.

  Turning toward her father for an explanation, she was startled to find him standing across the table instead of behind her. His face filled with what could only be guilt. For several, long minutes, she frowned in confusion, wondering at the firm hands holding her upright before understanding they belonged to someone entirely new. With a gasp, she whirled, to find herself staring at the midriff of the tallest man she’d ever seen.

  Dark, smoky eyes caught and held hers for only the briefest of moments, but long enough that she could see resentment roiling within them. She’d only the briefest impression of firm lips, a strong jaw, and dark hair carelessly tied by a strip of leather before the man dropped his hands and moved away amidst scattered, half-hearted applause.

  Disconcerted, Bree inspected the ring again, and then faced her father.

  Domnall was grinning at Cuilen, holding a cu
p for someone to fill. “Tis done, then,” he said in English with a smile.

  Everywhere, cups magically appeared as the wine poured and the chamber buzzed with chatter, this time in English.

  “Aye, there’s many a jealous maid in Skye this night.”

  Muffled snorts greeted this comment.

  “The wedding night will nae be so trying now, eh, Ruan?” someone chortled. “Bree’s a comely lass.”

  At this, Bree’s heart began to race, each frantic beat clearing the wine-induced haze.

  “Aye,” another laughed. “I wish I’d offered to wed Aislin!”

  She held her breath.

  “Ach, if ye’d offered to wed that cow, ye would have got one …certainly nae a comely lass. Only Ruan has such braw fortune!”

  Bree willed her pounding heart to still. As comments erupted from all sides, she finally knew the truth. Domnall had brought her here to take Aislin’s place. He had wed her to this Ruan. It was not even a proper wedding on the steps of a church, but it didn’t matter to anyone here. He hadn’t cared for her at all. He’d merely needed a replacement. Slowly, she raised her head.

  Domnall was studying her closely. “There is naught to fear, lass,” he assured softly.

  From far away, Bree heard her own voice say, “What have you done?”

  Chapter 04: A Proper Husband

  “Ruan is an honorable man,” Domnall cleared his throat. “I’ve told ye that. And he’ll make a braw husband that will protect ye well!”

  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.”