by Carmen Caine
“I’ll nae be touching her,” Ruan snorted, brows burrowing deeper. Despite himself, the thought of those remarkable green eyes framed by sooty lashes started a pleasant hum burning his blood. He grimaced, hoping he was merely drunk. Whatever the cause, he was certain of one thing. He must keep her at a safe distance, where he wouldn’t have to see her, to find what else there was besides those startling green eyes.
“Ach now, there’s no need to be afraid, lad. The only thing ye must remember ‘tis a strong man who shows gentleness to his wife.”
His uncle and Domnall’s continual sprinkling of fatherly advice suddenly grated on his nerves.
Mercifully, Isobel flung the door open and barreled into the room, but then asked, “Where’s yer lady, Ruan?”
“What do ye mean, woman?” Domnall stood abruptly.
“I left her for a wee bit, but now she’s gone,” Isobel replied, agitated. “I canna find her, and I’ve searched every nook and cranny.”
Domnall swore.
***
Caught in a wave of panic, Bree fled down the stairs once again, unable to believe she was now married to a complete stranger. How could this have happened? Her father had used her as a pawn in some ancient feud. She’d never thought to marry. In fact, she’d always dreamt of returning to Skye with Afraig. The two of them would live in their cottage, growing herbs.
She’d been so naïve.
A little voice in her mind asked why she was running, that surely living here was better than going back to England to suffer under Wat, but she shook her head. No, she’d seen the man. Ruan was huge. Men beat women. It was the way of the world. She’d never survive that man’s violence.
Slipping out of the castle had been easy.
Finished with their evening chores, the servants headed for a boat that took them to the village, which was scarce more than a stone’s throw away.
Bree had merely to join the line.
Several times, she experienced a wave of doubt, but the fear of marriage kept her moving forward.
The women didn’t ask questions; perhaps they were too tired or simply didn’t care. One by one, they shuffled into the boat, past an exceedingly drunk youth strumming an oar like a lute and singing loudly. He pinched each woman soundly as she boarded.
Bree grimaced, but submitted to the humiliation in silence.
Finally, with all seated, he dipped the oars in the water and rowed them the short distance to the village and as the bottom scraped loudly on the submerged rocks, the women disembarked.
“Ye’ll have us drowned soon, Iain,” they grumbled.
“Give a kiss, now, love,” Iain slurred with a crooked grin, not caring in the least that all were much older than he was.
“Ach!” they all snorted in disgust, filing past the tipsy lad.
Bree cautiously followed, trying her best to appear as if she’d done it a thousand times before. As she lifted her foot over the edge, Iain gave her bottom a healthy slap.
She yelped, lost her balance and nearly fell back into his arms.
He roared.
A smattering of laughter sounded from the women and for the first time several interested pairs of eyes inspected her with curiosity. With her heart pounding loudly in her ears, she drew her plaid over her head, and strode off with an air of purpose through the village.
Mercifully, no one followed.
In a matter of minutes, she left the last cottage behind and was alone.
She was free. Free!
A twinge of fear assailed her, but she straightened her shoulders and firmly reminded herself that at least she was free.
It was pitch black. Clouds blanketed the moon. The wind blew hard, chilling her to the bone. A blast of wind almost ripped the plaid from her head and it began to rain.
Ignoring the feeling of impending doom, she stumbled forward and tripped, landing face first in the mud. Staggering to her feet, she boldly pressed on, but within minutes sank into a mire with icy water up to her knees. The heather scratched her ankles. She bit back a sob and continued on.
In her wine-affected, panicked state, she hadn’t thought to bring food. She’d been gone only an hour, and already her skirt was soaked. Her nose ached and both feet were numb. How could she possibly survive? Doubt surfaced and she felt like a fool.
For a brief moment, she considered returning to Dunvegan, but the thought of the beating she would receive spurred her on. She would likely die in either case, but she would die her own way. With determination, she stumbled on.
As the night aged, matters worsened; each gust of wind seared her wet clothing as if it were a blast of fire. Her throat burned and her reddened fingers stung, responding slower each time she clawed the damp plaid closer.
It was becoming difficult to convince herself that her new course of action was worth it.
There was a break in the trees ahead. The sky was brighter there, announcing the impending arrival of the dawn. Her stomach growled. She’d have to worry about food, soon, but she was distracted by another fall. She felt more water seep into her shoes. This time, it seemed almost warm.
What would happen, if by some miracle she actually made it to Thurston Hall? Would Afraig bundle her up and send her back? Would she, heaven forbid, allow the marriage to Raph? Surely, Ruan was better than Raph?
Tears stung her lashes. Why did she have to wed at all? Not every woman wed, she’d seen plenty that hadn’t. Why couldn’t she be one of them?
Finally, she staggered into the small clearing and peered into the lifting gloom.
Her heart stopped.
A short distance away, Dunvegan gleamed with its village twinkling on the shore.
She caught her breath in despair.
If she continued, she would die on the moors, crows and other wild things would pick at her bones. For a time, she crouched miserably where she was, her mind reeling with the choices before her.
Dying was much harder than she imagined. Why had she run? Surely, being the wife of Ruan, whatever the man might choose to do, was better than freezing in the cold darkness of the moors. At the thought, she began to sob. She was a fool. Now, she’d willingly be the wife of anyone, maybe even Wat’s uncle, if the pain in her ears, neck, hands, and feet would simply go away.
Sobbing at her foolishness, she staggered to her feet.
She would return to Dunvegan and face whatever beating she was given.
At the moment, it didn’t really matter if she survived there or not. She was going to die, anyway, if she didn’t get out of the wind-torn hell of the moors.
The day passed with her mind in a fog. Her ears were ringing and it was difficult to feel her feet. Gulls wheeled and screamed in the bleak skies above her. She had lost track of how many times she had fallen, sliding down hills only to tumble in a heap at the bottom. Several times she heard hooves, but they were distant, leaving her to wonder if it was merely her imagination.
Finally, she acknowledged what had been a growing fear.
She was lost.
Chapter 06: Women!
The hounds were baying and Ruan kicked his horse into a gallop as Domnall followed. They, along with many others, had spent the night and most of the day searching for Bree. At first it had been difficult to remain seated on his horse, the wine and whiskey having taken their toll, but the bitterly cold wind had soon sharpened his wits.
Reining at the crest of the hill, he watched the hounds streak to the bottom. It would likely be another false alarm. Domnall paused by his side. The man’s face was grey with worry. Night was falling and if Bree was without shelter, they both knew she wouldn’t survive.
“We’ll find her,” Domnall repeated, determined.
Ruan drew his lips in a tight line. The man had said nothing else the entire night and day.
“Aye, well, ‘tis no wonder she ran,” Domnall abruptly accused. “Ye don’t cut a welcoming figure with all those black looks ye favor.”
Ruan scowled, temper rising in response. “Oh?
And, what cause do ye have, wedding her to a stranger without even telling the poor lass?” He knew Domnall was simply worried and tired. He knew it served no purpose, but it felt good to shout all the same.
“By the Saints, if ye hadn’t frightened her to near death, she wouldn’t have run!” Domnall shouted.
“’Twas her own father that betrayed her, nae me!” Ruan thundered. In his mind, he saw an image of the drunken, small lass standing in front of him, wild-eyed, lips shaking, as a torrent of curses flowed from her mouth. Most in the room hadn’t understood enough English to know what she’d said, but he had. He smiled a little. She was a rare one, standing up to her father and then boldly walking into the wilds of Skye to almost certain death. However, the thought that she’d much rather die than be wed to him was a sobering one.
He furrowed his brows into a scowl.
Domnall was still yelling, “—Yer twisted soul, and as her husband, lad, ye are sworn to protect the lass and ye’ve done pitifully poor so far!”
Ruan’s head snapped back of its own accord. He opened his mouth to retort when Ewan and several others arrived in a thunder of hooves and a spray of mud.
“The hounds have found something,” Ewan cut in, pointing.
At the bottom of the hill, the beasts clustered, pawing a mound huddled amidst the dead heather and brittle stalks of fern.
Without a word, they wheeled their horses as one and charged down the hill.
Ruan reached her first.
She was unresponsive, huddled in a small quivering heap. Her skin was cold to the touch. He propped her against his knee, and her lashes fluttered.
“Does she yet live?” Domnall croaked, his voice fraught with worry. He had remained on his horse, clutching the pommel.
Ewan tossed him a flask of whiskey and Ruan pressed it against her swollen lips.
After a moment, she coughed.
Domnall burst into a loud mixture of blessings and curses, accompanied by sharp reprimands directed towards both Ruan and his wayward daughter.
She groaned.
“Best get her back to Dunvegan, and quickly,” Ewan murmured, concerned.
“Aye,” Ruan agreed, peering down at the puffy nose and cracked lips framed by a white face. He’d been far too drunk the previous night to remember more than a pair of flashing green eyes and brown curls. Now, those eyes remained closed and the curls caked with mud. He felt a wave of guilt. Domnall was right; he’d frightened the poor lass out of her wits. It was no small wonder she’d bolted.
He slipped his arm under her knees, preparing to lift her to his horse. At his touch, Bree’s eyes flew open. With surprising strength, she lashed out and he lost his balance, dropping her with a curse. She managed to run a few steps before sinking to the ground once more.
Domnall’s voice rang, filled with pride, but with an undercurrent of worry. “Aye, she’s a MacBethad, she is, a strong lass. Come! Ewan, leave the man to his wife. I’ve need of a fire and ale… let’s leave the man to his wife.”
Wife. Ruan cringed. The word was an uncomfortable one, even to think of. To his horror, Ewan mounted his horse.
“Aye,” the blond lad agreed. “And I’ve words that must be said to the hound-master, never have I seen such poorly trained beasts!”
Ruan opened his mouth to protest, but in a creak of leather and jingling bits, Domnall, Ewan and the others moved up the hill, leaving him alone with Bree. He cleared his throat nervously, unexpectedly at a loss for words.
Minutes passed. She remained where she had fallen, with head buried and half-sunken in the mud.
Beginning to wonder if she still lived, he tentatively prodded her shoulder with a finger. With a gasp, she groveled deeper in the mud, throwing her arms to cover the back of her head.
Ruan blinked, recognizing the gesture for what it was. Countless times, he’d seen his mother cower before his father in the same manner. How could the lass even conceive he’d beat a woman, much less one in her precarious condition? Insulted, he barked, “On your feet! I’ve need of a fire and ale myself!”
Belatedly, he regretted the harsh tone and words. He should not have been surprised that she’d promptly burst into tears and shrink back from him even more, but he was.
Overwhelmed, he exploded into a string of curses entirely directed at the disappearing backs of Domnall and his kin. Why had they abandoned him with this terrified female? He’d probably slay her from sheer fright. Scowling, he reached down to lift her up, but she shrieked and tried to crawl away, flopping helplessly like a fish in the throes of death.
Unnerved, Ruan took a step back.
She was on the verge of hysteria. If the truth be told, he was himself. He shouted, several times, calling for Domnall, or anyone else, for that matter. He was either deliberately ignored, or they had moved too far away to hear his pleas.
Biting back another growl, he came to a decision. It was obvious that words were useless at this point. The sun was falling fast. She could just as easily weep in Dunvegan. He didn’t have to stand in the cold, bitter wind when he could be warm and dry.
Yanking her unceremoniously to her feet, he tossed her lightly over his shoulder. Trying his best to ignore the panic-stricken sobs, he strode to his horse. He had to get her back to Dunvegan and out of the wet clothing before she became ill or died from pure fright.
Gritting his teeth, he heaved her into the saddle.
Women!
Time had undoubtedly proven that he’d never understood them, and this one promised to be the worst of the lot. In less than two days, she’d already caused more than her fair share of trouble.
She began to shake, teeth chattering, as he mounted behind her. Valiantly, she resisted his attempts to wrap her in his plaid. Secretly, he admired her strength of will. After a few moments, she fell weakly against his chest, sniveling and shaking like a leaf and allowed him to cover her warmly.
Filled with pity, he kicked his horse forward. Domnall and the others had all but disappeared in the gathering darkness. He glared, wishing they had waited, but Dunvegan was not far. At the top of the next hill, he paused to force more whiskey between her chattering teeth.
She tried to fight him off, and he grinned. Her strength of will was remarkable. Vainly, he sought words of comfort, but unable to think of any, plied more whiskey between her lips instead. She sputtered and pushed it away gasping for breath, whimpering. Belatedly, he realized he’d almost drowned her. He shoved the flask in his belt, frustrated. Why had Domnall abandoned him with his precious daughter and why had Ewan, of all people, left as well? He’d done so much for the lad. It was a poor way to repay him.
The wind tore over the moors, chilling his bones and sending Bree into another bout of uncontrollable shivering. With a muffled exclamation, he kicked the horse into a gallop. Keeping his gaze focused, he concentrated only on reaching Dunvegan while trying his best to ignore the hysteria of the woman now named ‘wife’. To his immense relief, she quickly fell into a whiskey-induced stupor, and he accomplished the remainder of the short journey in silence.
The evening meal was long over, but most were still drinking by the time he strode into Dunvegan’s hall with Bree thrown over his shoulder like a sack of meal.
Slowly, Tormod stood, eyeing the mud-caked form. “If ye don’t beat her for running, I will,” he grated.
Ruan’s upper lip twitched in the prolonged silence that followed. He was exhausted, cold, and unnerved, possessing little tolerance. He hadn’t missed Tormod’s eyes raking Bree the night before, a leering, openly lustful gaze. No one had. Almost snarling, he replied, “No one… no one touches my wife, and ye least of all!”
The vein on Tormod’s temple began to throb.
“Ach, now,” Domnall said, clearing his throat. He rose from the table, adding, “The lass dinna ken she was to be wed. She’ll nae be causing ye trouble. She’ll settle in.”
“Aye,” Cuilen agreed, though his face expressed doubt.
“Best get her to bed, Rua
n lad, afore she catches a chill,” Domnall ordered, moving to join him.
“Aye… bed,” a loud whisper sounded from behind.
Ruffled, Ruan swiveled to search for the offender, but met only serious expressions, albeit with twinkling eyes. Swearing even louder, he stalked through the hall roaring for Isobel as he carried Bree. He stormed up the stairs to his newly assigned chamber. Under his vicious kick, the door crashed open, banging loudly against the wall. In several great strides, he closed the distance to the bed and dropped Bree unceremoniously upon it.
She was appallingly white, her nose swollen and purple. She squinted in confusion, at first, but upon recognizing him, burst into a flurry of flailing limbs. He easily captured her wrists, but gently this time, washed with guilt for the way he’d just tossed her on the bed. He’d behaved heartlessly. Sheepishly, he gave her shoulder an awkward pat.
Abject terror crossed her face.
Ruan opened his mouth, intending to assure her he meant no harm when a scuffle from behind made him whirl. Domnall hovered in the doorway. A shadow of a smile played on the old man’s lips as Ewan peered over his shoulder. What they found so amusing Ruan could not imagine. Masking his discomfiture, he growled, “Well? What are ye staring at?”
“No need to bellow like an ox!” A hint of humor tinged Domnall’s voice as he stepped into the chamber.
Further words were left unsaid as Isobel bustled in, wagging her head back and forth. She placed a plump hand on Bree’s forehead, clucking, “There, lass, caused yerself a fair bit of trouble, haven’t ye now? Ye’ll be feverish. ’Tis hardly surprising.”
“She’s a strong one. She’s a MacBethad, and…” Domnall began.
Annoyed at his repetitious rambling, Ruan gave an exasperated snort and fetched his flask of whiskey. When he was ill, it was always of immense help, if not by giving him strength, then by allowing him to pass the time in a pleasant haze until his body recovered. Ignoring Isobel’s protests, he forced more of the liquid down Bree’s throat.
She sputtered and revived enough to reward him with a pair of flashing green eyes. The intensity of here emotions was captivating. Fascinated, he brought the flask to her lips once more, simply to see if she’d do it again. She sent him a look of pure venom and tore the whiskey from his grasp to fling it with all her strength.