Sound of the Heart Read Online Free PDF Page B

Grant said. His breath rushed through a gaping hole that should have contained teeth, its heat brushing Dougal’s face. Dougal, repulsed, took a half step back.
    “Ye’ll no’ bother these boys for their supper,” he said.
    “An’ ye’ll no’ tell us what to do,” Keith said, his voice low.
    “No, maybe not. But I’ll tell ye what
not
to do,” Dougal replied calmly, and waited.
    There were no weapons aboard the ship. Those had been confiscated by the soldiers weeks before. But none of the men were strangers to fighting with the weapons given to them at birth. Dougal was ready. He had, after all, put himself in the middle. So when Grant twisted to the right, clenching a fist meant for Dougal’s face, Dougal was there first with a short, direct shot to the man’s gut. Grant groaned and bent reflexively, but straightened again, red-faced. Again Dougal was ready. When Grant’s eyes were almost level with his own, he slammed his fist against the toothless jaw, snapping it to the side, knocking the man flat on his back.
    Dougal was weary, weak, and hungry, like everyone else. He was sick of this putrid hold and her stinking cargo of Highlanders. No one on board was fit for fighting, but Dougal relished the sting as his knuckles split. The sharp pain was like a blast of mountain air, something he longed for with all of his soul. He spun sideways in time to slam into Keith, using his left this time: Dougal’s stronger hand. A left to his gut, a right to his jaw, and the man’s eyes rolled up in his head. He landed with a thud, his head bouncing against Grant’s slack belly.
    Dougal’s blood sang until he felt dizzy. Oh, he had always loved a fight. Even in fun. It was something about the gut-clenching intensity, the primal urgency. He and Andrew had bloodied each other’s noses constantly as boys, goading each other on until one or the other collapsed. Their mother had clicked her tongue in mock horror at her filthy sons and their father had nodded approval. His boys were well respected, as they should be. Even Ciaran, though he did his best to stay out of the limelight. Duncan’s sons were nephews of the MacDonnell clan chief. They stood up for themselves and did their father proud.
    As Dougal had grown older, he’d stepped into brawls, taking on the biggest men he could find, tossing smaller ones aside as if he were a bull surrounded by calves. It was as if the power of the fight fed his blood. He’d never pick a fight himself, but he wouldn’t step away from one either. When he was old enough to sample larger quantities of drink, he found the fights came more often, but he lost some of the concentration he required. That bothered him. So he never allowed drinking to get out of hand after that.
    War had been a good release for him. The Highlanders had fought in their time-honoured way, screeching as they ran from their hiding places among the trees, shooting pistols, then tossing them aside when they ran out of shot. They unsheathed their swords and sliced through the enemy, but when they were too close for blades, Dougal’s fists had flown, quick, sharp, and hard as hammers.
    Now he stood in the bowels of this rotting ship, panting, watching the two men slowly regain consciousness. It disappointed him that a short bout like this had worn him out. He stretched his neck from side to side, extending muscles that longed for more.
    “We were fine.”
    The voice came from behind him, full of tremulous bravado. Young and cocky. Dougal turned toward the boys, who had peeled themselves away from the wall and now swayed on their feet, staring at him. They were smeared with weeks of grime, but even so, Dougal could see the light-haired fellow had a dark red bruise blooming on one cheek.
    “Oh, aye. I kent ye were fine,” he assured them and cocked his head toward the fallen men. “’Twas only I didna like the look o’ that one. Didna want him comin’ after
my
supper another time.”
    The boys nodded, seeming