Free The Kindling Heart by Carmen Caine Page A

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 softly, 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.”
    “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