The Kindling Heart (6 page)

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.

“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.

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.