by Carmen Caine
“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 t
hat. 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.
Speculatively, Bree eyed the door once again.
Chapter 05: The Moors
Ruan scowled at his scratched hands, Bree’s shrieks of terror still ringing in his ears. Wincing, he reached for the bottle of wine, saying, “Ye should have told her.”
“She’ll make a fine wife,” Domnall repeated, for the fourth time, as if by merely saying it, it would be so.
Ruan eyed him. He’d come to know Domnall well, since his son Dougall’s premature death. He knew the man was trying to project a confidence he didn’t feel, but why he would wed his daughter to him, of all men, mystified him. He thought of her flashing green eyes staring over hands clutching her bleeding nose. She was so small, far too young, and terrified.
The bench sagged beneath the weight of a newcomer, and he glanced up to see Ewan’s wide grin.
Ruan groaned and turned to his right only to see the amused face of his uncle beaming over him.
“And why the gloom and despair?” Robert asked, eyes twinkling with mirth. “If yer wife be younger and prettier than ye were expecting and a MacBethad as well, what is the harm? Tormod and Cuilen agree the tie still stands! The affair has worked out nicely, to be certain!”
“She’s too young,” Ruan growled, sweeping the cup aside to drink directly from the bottle, downing Tormod’s precious wine like water. Too young, and from what he could recall, far too enticing.
“She’s of age,” Domnall disagreed. “And ‘tis done. There’s naught to change.”
“There is still one… minor custom” Ewan said, lowering his eyes suggestively. “The wedding ni—”.
Ruan whirled. The young man averted his eyes to stare at the ceiling as if there were something there of great interest. But Ruan knew that Ewan understood him only too well. Ewan knew the exact source of his consternation. He knew that Ruan was done with women, finished with the lot. He hadn’t dealt with them in over a few, blissfully peaceful years. An old hag of a wife was fine; she’d fit into his plan. He had no desire to deal with a young and tempting one, one that could wake up feelings that he was better off without.
No, his behavior of the past, the overabundance of wine and women, had overly complicated his life and jaded his soul, turning him into something hard and bitter. He’d no desire to craft himself into another version of his father, known as The Black MacLeod. Everyone had suffered under that man’s cruel hand, his mother most of all.
“Aye, the wedding night,” Domnall boomed.
That and the great clearing of throats roused Ruan from his thoughts. The teasing annoyed him. This was hardly a matter for jest. How could they expect he would consummate the marriage to the terrified lass, who smelled oddly of lavender? She’d ridden weeks on horseback through the wilds of Scotland and suffered a sea voyage in a storm. She was bedraggled, mud-stained, and bone weary. How could she possibly smell of lavender? Annoyed at the turn of his thoughts, he grimaced.
“Aye!” Domnall beamed with pride. “’Tis uncommon luck ye have. Bree is a rare one — hardy, strong and bonny — as befits a daughter of mine!”
Ruan snorted, slamming his fist on the table. The cups rattled. Glaring, he raised his voice. “Ye canna think well of her, to wed her to a MacLeod.”
Slowly, Domnall rose, placing both hands far apart on the table. “I pride myself, second most, in my judgment of men,” he said s
oftly, his voice calm, but edged with steel, “and foremost in my ability to exact revenge, in those rare cases where my judgment proves false.”
Ruan’s gaze didn’t falter from his.
“Ye may be larger than me, Ruan lad, but prove me wrong, and ye’ll taste another side of Domnall few live to speak of.”
The tension in the room was almost visible, before Domnall’s mouth eased into a smile. “Though ye be a MacLeod, ye’ve no taste for violence on women, lad. That I ken well enough, or else I’d nae give ye my last living bairn. I care for the lass, but whether she believes that or no is a different matter.”
Ruan clenched his jaw. Aye, Domnall’s daughter deserved a far more fitting husband. Why was the man blind? He had nothing to offer a wife. He had no land, no coin, and at present, few prospects in finding either.
Angrily sweeping the wine aside, he reached for the whiskey. Aye, whiskey had been a sin of his past as well, and one he’d long since given it up. He frowned to find himself taking to it once again.
There were several snorts of growing amusement, followed by Domnall’s outright laughter.
“A bit nervous, are ye?” Ewan chuckled. “Over bedding your bride?”
Ruan jerked, gripping the bottle tightly.
“Ye’ll do fine,” Domnall said and gave a mock shudder. “Aislin was an eyesore and dimmer of wit. She truly was bigger than a horse.”
“One should nae speak ill of the dead,” Robert chided softly.
“Aye,” Domnall agreed. He shrugged unapologetically. He gestured to the empty bottle in excuse, “Wine loosens the tongue overly much.”
Ruan wiped his brow with his forearm. He didn’t intend to bed anyone. He’d suffered far too many ill consequences for the rashness of his youth. He helped himself to more whiskey, knowing in his heart that if a decent woman were to hear of his past and inability to provide for her, she’d run away as fast as she could. He’d be the first to understand. His life was mercifully simple now, peaceful and pleasant, and free of scheming women. He intended to keep it that way.
Robert laid a hand on his arm, cautioning “Careful, lad. Best nae be drunk on the wedding night. Women have a long memory for things of that nature.”