Free The Kindling Heart by Carmen Caine

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