Highland Thunder (Isle of Mull Series) (6 page)

The black sky burst with endless stars that surrounded him in a blanket of darkness and light—as conflicted as his soul. He wished for a moment that he could float high up to the heavens like a ship bound for nothing but sweet relief from his thoughts, somewhere far away from lavender scented skin and strawberry hair.

Chapter 5

The morning sun crested over the hill, painting the sweeping slope in golden light like streams of new honey. May brought fullness to the trees along the forest edge, and the river surged with summer’s speed and abundance. Brenna smiled as she looked with gratitude upon the splendor of her land.

Two months had passed since Ewan’s life was stolen from her on the streets of a city she would never see, yet he lived on in the trees surrounding the home they had built together and in the river that had sung them to sleep at night. She had been very fond of her husband, and it pleased her to see the lushness of the land he loved so well. But her smile faltered as she circled around her hut and stared at her unplowed fields. By now the fields should be turned, planted, and ready to sprout with new life.

“’Tis too much work for one woman,” Duncan said behind her.

She cursed under her breath. She could not abide another hope-wrenching conversation with Duncan. He was trying to force her surrender to a life in the village by breaking her spirit, but she would be damned before she gave him that satisfaction.

“You could pay some cottars to work the land, but then ‘tis unlikely you would have enough for your rent, especially this late into the season,” he said.

“Time and again, I have told you to stay away from me. I tire of this argument,” she said, not turning to face him.

He continued, pretending not to hear her protest. “You could ask the clan to take on the burden without cost to you but that would be dishonorable.”

She whirled around and stormed over to where he stood. “My husband saved your life, and then you ask me to give up mine. You are the one lacking in honor.”

“Your husband bid me protect and provide for you, which I am better able to do in the village. I’ve spoken to Ronan. He will take over these lands, have them worked properly and maintained, and he agreed to hold them as Nellore’s dowry. ‘Tis a very generous offer. Accept and you will honor your husband.”

“Get off my land,” she said through gritted teeth. She swelled with rage as she fought the urge to slap his face.

“As you command,” he said. Then he turned on his heel and headed off toward the forest.

***

Sweat gushed from Brenna’s brow as she leaned into the unwieldy hand plow. Lacking the strength to maneuver the ox driven plow, the hand tool was her only recourse. This new struggle was not one of brawn but rather of endurance against fatigue and pain.

But perseverance was never something Brenna lacked.

She paused to adjust the strips of linen that circled her palms, shielding raw skin and swollen blisters, which throbbed beneath the pressure of the plow. Her arms, numb from the strain, protested the new motion, prickling with dull sensation, but even this was a relief from the sharp pangs that stabbed from shoulder to wrist just an hour before.

Her day began with fiery determination. She awoke before first light. After a couple of bannock cakes and a cool sip from the stream, she approached her untended fields. Spring had slipped past. If she wanted to celebrate at Lughnasa, the plant could not be delayed.

She stopped and stared up at the blue sky as she fought to catch her breath. Her body ached but she welcomed the pain. The labor, fatigue, and searing palms would be worth an abundant harvest come autumn. Like the green grass in the stream, she was determined to cling to her home with her very blood if need be. She glanced at the red fluid saturating her bandages.

For Nellore.

She examined her progress with surprise, and before she knew what she was doing, her feet kicked up in a joyful but agonizing jig. Once on solid ground, she blushed and surveyed her surroundings to make sure no one observed her outburst. Such an emotional display was certainly unlike her, but then again, she had never singlehandedly plowed a field. The only witness joined in with laughter and giggles and a jig attempt that landed her on her backside. Brenna rushed to her daughter, ignoring the protest from her legs and scooped Nellore into her arms, twirling the wee lass through the air.

“Do you see what mama did?” She said pointing to the overturned earth spread out before them, ready for seed.

“Two fields remain.” Pulling Nellore close, she kissed her plump cheeks. “But no more for today.”

She turned to head inside.

“Brenna, wait,” Duncan called out.

Halfway down the hill, Duncan approached with long determined strides. She put Nellore down and urged her inside, reminding her of the bread she kept on a low table just Nellore’s size for when she was hungry.

Then she whirled around. She did not know what he wanted, but his furrowed brow spoke of his displeasure.

“For pity’s sake,” she said.

As he drew near, she felt a spark inside her blossom into fire, fueling her temper. She fought to remain calm, but when he stood before her, his scowl pushed her temper beyond her control. She threw her shoulders back, wincing from the tightness, which seemed to worsen by the minute, but she was determined to ignore the pain. What she was through ignoring, however, was Duncan’s disregard. She was ready for battle.

When Ewan was alive she kept her silence for his sake, but he was gone. No longer would she feign indifference. She was blameless, and Duncan needed to be called to task. More than that, a storm brewed within her, and a part of her liked it. Whatever planted the scowl on his face merely served to fuel her mettle.

She stood tall and with an expression meant to convey a simple message: Duncan MacKinnon, I would tread carefully if I were you.

“Who plowed your field?” Duncan said.

“What? No good evening. How are you, Brenna? Or perhaps an apology for your consistent rudeness.”

“Answer the question, Brenna,” he growled.

“My land is not your affair.” She crossed her arms over her chest, which drew his eyes to her hands.

He walked closer, his eyes fixed on her bandages. He did not speak. He did not demand to see her hands. He just stared.

Long moments past, and she grew uncomfortable beneath his quiet gaze. Then slowly he reached out his hand, but just as he was about to touch her, he stepped back, raking his hand through his hair and muttering a curse under his breath.

Did the idea of touching her repulse him that much?

Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath and turned back to face her. She stared at the hand reaching out to touch her once again. It was almost imperceptible, but she was certain his hand shook. His fingers grazed the top of her bandages and then folded around her hand, drawing her arm toward him.

His gentle touch and nervous bearing doused Brenna’s fury, leaving confusion in its wake. Her feet shifted as she searched for something to say to break the silence, but then he stepped closer, cradling her hand and began to unwind the bandages. Despite his soft administrations, the fabric, having dried to the open wounds, pulled her skin. She winced, and he whispered an apology, encouraging her to be still.

The final unraveling revealed at least a dozen ruptured sores across her palm and lining her fingers. The red exposed flesh burned. The harm done was greater than she had realized.

“The other hand is the same?” he said. She lifted her eyes and drew a sharp breath, startled to meet his gaze. He never looked at her. He always faced away, but there he was, staring into her eyes, his face tense with worry. She sooner would expect the ground to open and swallow her whole than to feel his tender touch, but that was not all.

She felt rather than saw something other than concern in his gaze—something restrained, choked back from the surface. His breathing was shallow, and despite his soft handling of her injuries, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexed with tension.

“Aye,” she said, realizing she had yet to answer his question. “The other hand is the same.”

He nodded, wrapping an arm around her waist. He led her inside to a seat at her table. “Do not remove the other bandage. Wait for me here.”

Dumbfounded, Brenna watched Duncan’s tall figure duck beneath her door frame and disappear.

She expelled a long breath. Her heart pounded. She stared down at the sores on her hand. Some oozed with puss, others with blood. Her injuries surely were the cause for her unrest. Confusion is certain to accompany pain, and the pain, she had to admit, was not insignificant. Still, what of the knot in her stomach?

She exhaled again, shaking her head. Accustomed to his indifference and even his contempt, she did not know what to make of the softer side of Duncan. She kept jumping at the slightest noise, thinking he returned, but who would walk through the door? Indifferent Duncan, contemptuous Duncan, or this new confusing Duncan? She decided then and there she did not enjoy surprises. Her breathing became shallow as she thought of his strong hands and the strange emotion she witnessed in his black eyes.

Sweet Jesus, what was wrong with her? Flustered, confused, and not unaffected, it was clear that Duncan MacKinnon just unraveled a great deal more than her bandage.

***

What was she thinking taking up the plow? He clenched his fists as the answer readily presented itself. He had given her no other choice. Either she surrender to his demands or make the impossible happen. Hell, he practically dared her to do it. Any other woman would have been terrified living in complete isolation and would shun such back-breaking work, but not Brenna. Everything he had said or done to convince her to move to the village only served to strengthen her resolve to stay.

In another day, he would have seen to the plow himself. Jamie and Cormac agreed to help turn the land in the morning. He was just hoping she would surrender before then. He was wrong to underestimate her. He could see that now. His poor judgment was to blame for the current condition of her hands, and he could only imagine how the rest of her body felt. He doubted she would be able to rise from her pallet in the morning. He promised to protect her and provide for her, but his own stubborn insistence blinded him to her real need. She was no maid whose mind was easily steered in the direction another chose. She was a woman—a capable, smart, stubborn woman with her own mind and a vision for her life.

His thoughts returned to the puss-letting sores on her hands. She flinched when he removed the wrapping, but that was her only acknowledgment of pain—a testament to her strength. Brenna did not need a protector or provider. With an astonishing demonstration of perseverance, she hand-plowed her own field. Regardless of his aid or the aid of anyone else, she would eat. She would survive. Hell, she would thrive. And this is why he loved her.

Still, despite her courage and resilience, her hands must throb with pain. In this, at least, he could provide relief.

Riding hard toward the coast, he arrived at a small inlet not far from Brenna’s land where salt and fresh water merged. Crouching by the shore, he emptied the ale from his flask and shoved it into the inlet. Bubbles rushed to the surface. He stared into the gleaming shallows. The smooth stones caught the sun’s brightness, reflecting points of light that danced in the water like spirits. She was like those lights—ever moving, doing, thinking, and hoping. She radiated a power as deep and strong as the waves rolling toward shore, but she wore it like a fine cloak or a light breeze. He, who had watched her, studied her for seven years, should know better than most that she would never surrender, nor would she throw her head back and scream. She just did what needed to be done despite any personal cost.

He knew from the moment he met her that she was a quiet force to be reckoned with. Ever composed, her strength could be likened to the very earth they built their homes upon—unyielding, unshakable, and capable of pushing beyond the bleakest of winters to deliver summer’s abundance. He smiled thinking of her recent uncharacteristic losses of temper, doubtless his fault. He truly was a scoundrel, undeserving of her.

When he returned to her hut and ducked his head under the door, her head whipped around, and she eyed him cautiously. He froze. God’s mercy, but she was lovely. Some of her silken hair had escaped its bindings, framing golden skin. Wide, blue eyes, as dark as the sea, met his own and he lost himself.

He did not know how long he stood there staring at her like a fool, but at length, she cleared her throat. His purpose returned. He rushed forward, intent on relieving her pain. He emptied his flask into a wide, shallow bowl. He searched her cupboards for fresh linen strips not trusting himself to speak lest a confession of his true regard were to slip from his lips. Then he found a salve he recognized as one of Bridget’s, grateful once again for the lady’s healing talents. With hands full, he turned back to Brenna and took a deep breath; he could not do this without touching her. With a silent prayer that he did not humiliate himself or shame her, he sat down beside her and slowly reached for her hand.

***

Hesitant fingers grazed Brenna’s arm, traveling down her skin over the top of her hand, causing her to shiver. With a hold like a whisper, he turned her hand over, exposing her injured palm. He leaned close. Then he dipped his head low, his lips hovering above her skin. She stiffened with surprise as he blew a gentle stream of air over her wounds, bringing instant relief wherever his breath fell.