Highland Thunder (Isle of Mull Series) Page 7

  “’Tis no matter,” Duncan said as he started toward the door, but Ronan called after him.

  “Before you leave, we’ve business to discuss, but I shall aim for brevity given your wish to flee.”

  “Sit, Duncan,” Jamie said, offering Duncan a full mug of ale. “Brenna will be fine. Ewan used to join us for a cup from time to time.”

  Duncan shrugged and did not take the offered drink. “I plan to leave just the same.”

  “Good lad,” Ronan praised as he claimed the full mug from Jamie’s hand. “Now listen well. You, Jaime, and Cormac will join me in two days’ time. We sail for Islay. I’ve gained an audience with Alexander MacDonald, the Lord of Islay whose territory extends to the mainland. He will know better than anyone news of the English invasion. We must know if the struggle continues and if it will come to our shore. We shall be gone a fortnight or more. Go now, Duncan, and do what you must to ensure Brenna and Nellore are cared for in your absence.”

  Duncan nodded his agreement and then turned from the keep. Despite his sore muscles, he ran to the stables. Night descended on Mull, and he was anxious to return to Brenna.

  “Duncan, what a pleasure to find you here.” Duncan froze. Then he slowly turned from the horse he was about to mount to find his chieftain’s lady passing a brush over her mare’s back. Bridget dropped the brush in a pail and closed the gate, bidding her horse goodnight.

  “I have to ask you a very pressing question,” she said as she drew alongside him.

  Her silver eyes bore through him, penetrating his very soul. Intuitive did not go far enough to describe her capacity for knowing. He cleared his throat nervously. “Aye, my lady,” he said, shifting his eyes to his feet to avoid her piercing gaze.

  Lowering her voice, she said, “How long have you been in love with Brenna?”

  His mind reeled as he stumbled back. “What did you…how did you?” he blustered. Then he gathered his wits and shook his head in denial, but she quirked her brow and folded her arms across her chest.

  “How long?” she insisted.

  “I don’t know if I would go as far as love. I mean…What I mean to say…”

  “Duncan,” Bridget snapped. “Do not lie to me.” Her silver eyes laid open his heart as easily as filleting the morning’s catch.

  He squared his shoulders back and exhaled slowly. “Since the very beginning,” he said. “I’ve loved her from the very moment I first set eyes on her.”

  There it was—the secret hidden in his heart for seven years now exposed. All at once, he felt relieved and terrified, wishing he could swallow his confession and bury it beneath the surface.

  “What do you intend to do about it?” Bridget asked.

  “Do about it?” he snapped but recovered his temper, remembering to whom he spoke. “She is Ewan’s wife. There is naught to be done.”

  Her lips curved, just a whisper of a smile as she moved to stand before him. Taking his hand, she placed a kiss on his knuckle and reached up to smooth his hair from his face just as his own mother used to do before she died.

  “I see your suffering. Berwick haunts you. ‘Tis there in your eyes. ‘Tis a horror that shall remain with you all your days. I would give you better tidings, but it would only be a lie.”

  He nodded, inviting her comfort.

  “But, my lad, Ewan is dead.”

  He scowled, backing away from her touch. “Ewan died in my arms. I know better than anyone that Ewan is dead,” he snapped, no longer caring that he spoke to the chieftain’s wife.

  She went on as though she had not heard him. “I am going to say it again not to be cruel, but to be sure you hear me. Duncan, Ewan is dead.”

  “Aye, I heard you, the first time in fact,” he said.

  “You ken that means Brenna is free to love whom she chooses.”

  “For pity’s sake, Bridget. I know she is free, but I am not. I am bound to guilt. ‘Tis eating me alive,” he growled. “I should have died. I was the one who turned from our escape to save the lass. I was the fool who stormed the house. The axe was aimed at my heart.” He released a curse and turned on his heels. His grip on his emotions hung slack, making him volatile. Unless, he wanted to incur the anger of his chieftain, he needed to calm down. No good could come from yelling at the clan’s lady.

  When his teeth unclenched, he turned back and faced her. “Forgive me, Bridget.”

  She leaned in close and whispered, her silver eyes glowing in the night. “Guilt seeps from your body like a poisonous fog.” She paused, staring into his eyes. A chill ran down his spine. He felt as bare and vulnerable as a newborn babe. Then again she spoke. “But your guilt is old. ‘Tis not fresh, born of Ewan’s sacrifice. Ewan was a warrior. Warriors die. You’ve carried your guilt for so long, it has become a part of you.”

  He pulled away from her, looking out over the moors. “Why must you always know another’s heart as though it were your own?” he whispered.

  She circled around him, drawing his gaze, her silver eyes now warm with sympathy.

  “I know how it feels to love what is forbidden, but life is as changing as a shoreline. Regardless of the tragedy from which her freedom is born, her heart is no longer barred to you.” She smiled and began to walk away, but then she turned back around and stuck a finger in his face. Despite her diminutive stature, he admitted she was as formidable as a queen.

  “While you sort this all out for yourself, stop being such a bloody arse to Brenna. She deserves better from you.” With that, the lady departed, her last words echoing in his mind.

  He was a bloody arse.

  Nay, that didn’t seem to go far enough.

  He was cruel and heartless, and she no doubt deserved better.

  The woman with whom he had in secret directed every tender thought for years had, in her greatest sorrow, been forced to suffer by his hand. When he should have consoled, he ridiculed.

  Faced with a plain view of his guilt, he knew Bridget was right. Ewan’s sacrifice was the action of a warrior. Had their roles been reversed in that moment before Ewan’s death, Duncan would have done the same. Still, it was Ewan who died, leaving Brenna free to love another. God in heaven, forgive him, but a part of him—the part that coveted Brenna for so many years—was happy she was free, which could only mean one thing: a small part of him was happy Ewan was dead.

  He shook his head, angry at his thoughts. Without doubt, Duncan knew if he could give life back to Ewan he would do so without hesitation. His hands gripped his head in frustration. Once again, Bridget was right. He was a conflicted soul.

  But Brenna…

  Brenna was innocent of all wrong-doing, and yet she suffered because of his inner turmoil, but no longer, he vowed. If his heart broke with longing every time he saw her grace, her strength, her determination, and conviction of self, then so be it. From now on he would carry the burden of his feelings like a true warrior. Without design for her heart or, God help him, her body, he would care for her and Nellore as promised. He would be the friend she needed—the man she deserved.

  He raked his hand through his hair once more before mounting his horse. Christ, he had much to atone for.

  Chapter 8

  Brenna glanced up from her seat by the door and observed Duncan’s approach. She sighed. After a day of Rona’s company, she craved solitude. When Nellore drifted off to sleep, she had moved a chair outside to welcome the peace of nightfall.

  Brenna was certain Rona’s mother carried out an assault from beyond the hill, using her loquacious daughter as her weapon. The endless stream of sentences spewing from Rona’s lips with the speed of a charging horse all began with the phrase ‘and mum said that.’ Apparently, her mother, Margaret MacKinnon, disapproved of Brenna’s recent decisions and spoke her criticism freely with anyone willing to listen. The oft celebrated disparagements, from what Brenna was able to discern, could be reduced to one broad character flaw—foolishness. Brenna was foolish to have taken up the plow herself and foolish for not moving to t
he village and foolish for hiding her one true beauty beneath a tattered scarf. The end result of her imprudence surely would be the missed opportunity to marry again, leaving her and Nellore destitute and pitied.

  Brenna had been to funerals that were cheerier than a morning spent with Rona—or rather Rona’s mother, and now, the tides washed up an even greater threat to her good mood: the man who refused to conceal his indifference for her even in public. She remembered her embarrassment when he dismissed her that morning in front of Bridget and Anna, but at least they were able to see his discourteous display for themselves. She doubted they would carry on defending his goodness and humor—a small consolation.

  Well, she certainly was not going to wait for his insults. She stood up and turned inside, shutting the door, suddenly wishing she hadn’t sent Rona off directly after supper. As much as she disliked Rona’s company, she was not ready to be alone with Duncan.

  Peeking out the window, she watched him enter the yard. Her heart started hammering in her chest as he drew closer, but then he turned away from the house and headed toward the fields. Moonlight touched his shoulders and black hair with its eerie glow, enshrouding him in the mysterious shades of nightfall. He looked like a fey creature as he squatted low, close to the earth and scooped a handful of soil. His profile was to her, but his long, dark curls hid his face. She imagined his downcast eyes and a serious set to his mouth as he considered the finished work. Slowly, the earth seeped through his fingers, causing her chest to tighten.

  Those damn hands again.

  Angry with herself, she moved away from the window, discovering the leftover fish she had forgot to chop and add to the pottage after supper. She lit a candle and set it on her cooking table. The bandages hindered her progress, but it no longer hurt to perform simple tasks.

  Just as her pulse slowed, and her thoughts moved on to matters besides Duncan’s close proximity, a light rapping at the door caused her shoulders to seize.

  Frozen, she held her breath hoping he would walk away, but when another, louder knock sounded, she knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

  She took a few calming breaths as she reminded herself that she was in her home on her land. He could only unnerve or upset her if she let him. With her spirit bolstered, she walked to the door and threw it open.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  Duncan inhaled sharply at the sight of her. Her hair was pulled back and hidden beneath her scarf, but the folds did not reach her waist and her red curls brushed her hips, teasing his senses with just a taste of strawberries. As always, he longed to thread his fingers through the soft waves. He imagined her hair draped across his chest as she sat astride his waist. Like a sultry, red bower, her curls would envelope his body as she lowered her lips to his. He shook his head as he felt his body respond to his lustful thoughts. He needed to remain focused.

  Her deep blue eyes narrowed on him, her rigid body surging with fury she did not bother to hide. “Duncan, what is it that you want?”

  “Aye, Brenna,” he stammered as he searched his mind for something to say not akin to the removal of her clothing.

  “Aye. The plant is complete. ‘Tis late in the season, but the yield should provide enough for you and Nellore and meet your rent without hardship.” He clenched his fists against the urge to grab her hips and pull her body flush to his. She was so close, and all he wanted to do was feel her against him.

  “Fine,” she said. “You’ve said your piece. Judging by your countenance, my company pains you as much as ever. Do not linger on my account.” She turned back inside and slammed the door.

  Duncan looked at his clenched fists and felt the deep furrow of his brow. Even his mouth was locked in a grim line. He must look like a monster, a giant, furious monster. ‘Tis no wonder she mistook his frustration for anger; although she was right, it did pain him to be near her, just not in the way she imagined. If only she knew his true regard and how much he suffered for it.

  Unclenching his fists, he relaxed his shoulders and exhaled slowly. He could do this.

  With a quick rap on the door, he pushed it open and ducked inside. “Do you mind if I come in?” he asked.

  “I cannot see the point in asking after you’ve already entered.” She said, not bothering to turn from her work.

  He could not think of what to say next. After standing for some minutes like a simpleton, he sat down, trying to maintain a casual seat, but his body refused to cooperate. His shoulders fixed like a rigid yoke, making him stiff and awkward. Thankfully, she continued to snub him. At least his self-conscious and tongue-tied condition went unnoticed.

  “God’s bones,” he swore as he stood up too abruptly and knocked over his chair.

  She whirled around. “Allow me to venture a guess—something vexes you, Duncan? Your anger appears to be a permanent affliction. Perhaps, you should consult Bridget about the matter.” With an upward tilt to her chin, she resumed her chopping. His eyes followed her bandaged hands and noted for the first time how the wrappings impeded her work.

  Slowly, he drew up behind her and offered his hand. “May I?” he said softly.

  Brenna froze. She could feel the heat from his body behind her. His outstretched palm looked severe and calloused, and she wondered how something so large and rough-looking could be capable of the gentleness she remembered when dressing her wounds.

  She cleared her throat, searching for the words to reject his help, but her mouth suddenly felt dry, and her tongue refused to cooperate.

  He closed his hand over hers, and she jumped as her heart caught in her throat.

  “I only want to help you, lass,” he said. His warm breath bathed her neck, causing her to shiver.

  Then his other arm reached around her. She was surrounded, bound to his heat. His body grazed hers. He was so close—too close. Her heart pounded. He turned her hand over and held it while his other hand loosened her grip on the knife. Releasing it, the metal clunked forgotten on the table. She closed her eyes as his touch lingered on her skin. He leaned closer so that she could feel the full length of him. She fought the pull of his body, but the beat of his heart, which penetrated her tunic, demanded she end her struggle and lean back into his arms. His pulse beckoned her, melting her will.

  “Enough,” she snapped, breathless. Straining her neck to meet his gaze, she inhaled sharply at the hunger she glimpsed in his eyes before she turned away again.

  “Brenna,” he said. His voice and breath sounded strangled, his body rigid with restraint.

  But then his head dropped to her neck, and she felt his rough stubble graze her tender skin. She trembled as his low growl filled her ears. His nearness. His smell. The strength of his hard muscled body against hers. All of him surrounded her, consuming her like a crashing wave.

  His hands gripped hard on her hips, and he spun her around to face him. The intensity of his gaze was inescapable as he turned with her in his arms and walked her backward until the tops her thighs yielded to the table in the center of the room. He pressed against her, arching her back. Soft gasps escaped her lips. Desire shrouded her mind like a slow, languid fog. Through the haze, she saw his black eyes, filled with dark heat, burning a fiery path down the length of her body.

  His hand reached out, slowly teasing the scarf from her head. As her waves fell unbound upon the table’s surface, she felt at once laid bare to him, exposed, but also released, free from the rigidity of her own making.

  “Brenna,” he whispered again.

  Her head whirled. She couldn’t breathe. She was lost in the magic of his gaze and the wild churning in the depths of her body that demanded she yield.

  He cupped her face in his hands. Through half-closed lids, his eyes gleamed heavy with want, orbs like black suns sinking below the horizon, tempting her to follow.

  His hand slid down her throat as his thumb grazed her racing pulse. She moaned softly as his lips pressed into the hollow of her neck. His harsh stubble scraped her skin once more, and the grip of
his hands on her body tightened.

  She felt like she was drowning, dragged beneath molten waves. She grabbed his shoulders to catch herself. His taut skin sizzled beneath her fingertips, peeking out from beneath her bandages. Her eyes followed the tips of her fingers down his sculpted arms. He shivered beneath her whisper-soft caress. His skin was hard but smooth like a stone polished by waves. Her eyes feasted on the breadth of his chest and the chiseled lines of his stomach, which shifted and flexed with every breath, every movement. Thick veins strained against the skin of his arms, winding from beneath his shoulders over rough muscle down to the hands possessively gripping her waist.

  His warm breath cradled her face as he pressed soft kisses to her forehead, her cheek, and then the sensual lines of his lips grazed hers, the barest touch. She felt the tension rush from his body as he kept himself aloft, holding back, just out of reach. She shook beneath him as she cried out, “Cease this game of yours, Duncan. I can bear no more.”

  He released her, stumbling back. His breath came in great heaves. His knuckles whitened as he clenched his hands in tight fists.

  “Forgive me, Brenna,” he gasped. Then without another word, he turned and stormed from her hut.

  Icy currents washed over her as the heat of his body drained away. What new torture was this? From the beginning, he made his feelings known. Did he delight at discovering a new way to mistreat her? Had indifference grown to hatred, giving way to malice?

  She swore, hating herself at that moment. Remembering how she reacted to his closeness made her want to punish her traitorous body. Still, what of the hunger she witnessed in his eyes? Would he feign desire to further confuse and punish her? Her mind was spinning as lust and confusion collided.

  But he loathed her—of this she was certain.

  Anger and embarrassment brought tears to her eyes. By all rights she should despise his touch, but she did not. In fact, she wanted him with shocking force. Never had she experienced such abandon.

  When Ewan made love to her, he had been tender, his touch always gentle as though he worried she might break. Such was not the case with Duncan. His hands, his eyes, his breath were hard and demanding. He stirred within her a wildness, surges of feeling churned from deep within like furious wind lifting her above the clouds. He made her the tempest she always craved, but she could not ken why. Why did he torment her? And why, after all the trouble he caused her, did she find him nigh impossible to resist?