The Rogue's Bride (The Brides 0f Skye Book 3) Read online

  “Is something amiss, Lady Caitrin?” Sorcha asked gently.

  Caitrin shook her head. “I’m just tired,” she replied. “After so much worry over Eoghan.” She cast a glance left at where the lad sat upon a rug, playing with blocks of wood. He was building a tower, which he then knocked over with a squeal of laughter. Caitrin’s expression softened as she watched him. The sight of her son was like a balm, soothing her anxiety.

  As long as she had Eoghan, life was manageable.

  “I’m so relieved he’s better,” Caitrin murmured.

  “Aye, milady. We’ve all been worried about him.”

  Caitrin glanced up, smiling. Sorcha’s words soothed her. “I’m sorry I’ve been snappish this morning.”

  The hand-maid held her gaze. “Ye are more than just tired, milady,” she observed. “Ye have been jumping at shadows since dawn.”

  Caitrin sighed, considering whether to confide in Sorcha about what had happened between her and Alasdair the evening before. She sometimes felt so alone, and at moments like this missed her sisters terribly. Rhona and Adaira had always been there for her, but they couldn’t listen to her now.

  “I—” she began, but a knock on the door to the solar prevented her from continuing.

  “Come in,” she called, irritation rising. No doubt one of the servants wanted her help with something, only this morning she didn’t have the patience it. She just wanted to be left in peace for a while.

  The door opened and a tall, dark-haired figure stepped inside.

  Caitrin went cold, dread curling in the pit of her belly. Alasdair was the last person she wanted to see this morning. She’d deliberately broken her fast in here, avoiding the chaos of the Great Hall—and hiding from this man.

  Sorcha hurriedly put aside her sewing and rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts. “Milord,” she greeted him with a curtsy.

  “Morning, Sorcha.” Alasdair favored the hand-maid with a smooth smile. “Could ye give Lady Caitrin and me a few moments alone, please?”

  “Of course.” Sorcha stepped away from the fireside, scooped up Eoghan, and left the chamber.

  Silence followed her departure.

  Caitrin had thought that Alasdair’s smile might fade once Sorcha was no longer present, yet it did not. He sauntered over to the hearth and took the seat that the hand-maid had just vacated, crossing one ankle at the knee with loose-limbed grace. Then he leaned back and viewed Caitrin with a shuttered gaze.

  “Good morning, Caitrin.”

  Swallowing, in an attempt to ease the tightness in her throat, Caitrin met his eye. “Milord.”

  “I hope ye are no longer upset?” he drawled. “I assure ye I won’t touch ye again.”

  Caitrin stared back at Alasdair. She couldn’t believe the change in him. Last night he’d been vulnerable before her. The naked want on his face, the hunger in his eyes had haunted her later as she’d lain in bed, trying in vain to fall asleep. Yet now, he was utterly composed and wore a lazy half-smile as if she amused him.

  He was treating her like he had upon his arrival at Duntulm months ago—and she knew why.

  He was trying to cover up the fact she’d offended him, wounded his pride.

  Caitrin’s breathing quickened as panic curled up within her. She’d pushed him away to preserve her status here, to protect herself and Eoghan—and yet angering him wouldn’t help them either.

  Afterward, when she’d been safely back in her bed-chamber, Caitrin had felt wretched over how violently she’d pushed him away. He hadn’t hurt her—in fact, the brief kiss had consumed her—yet she’d shrunk from him. She didn’t blame him for taking offense. She felt the need to explain.

  “Alasdair,” she said hoarsely. “About last night … I must—”

  “Please, Caitrin,” he cut her off with a lazy wave of the hand. “We don’t need to ever mention it again. Ye made yer feelings clear, and I’ll respect them … I’m not here to talk about that.” He reached under the neckline of the leather vest he wore and withdrew a rolled parchment. “This came from yer father two days ago. I was waiting till Eoghan was better before giving it to ye.”

  Caitrin took the letter from him and unfurled it. Then she silently read the missive, going cold as she did so.

  Finally, her father had run out of patience.

  “I imagine ye knew this day would come,” he observed. The dry tone to his voice made Caitrin glance up, her gaze spearing his. He was still smiling, and it was starting to make her angry. “Ye had better start packing yer bags.”

  Caitrin drew herself up, her fingers clenching around the letter. “What if I wish to remain here?”

  He arched a dark eyebrow. “Yer father wishes otherwise.”

  “And ye?”

  The easy smile faltered then and his gaze hooded. “I think it’s best if ye leave Duntulm.”

  There it was, the anger that simmered just beneath the surface, hidden by an urbane smile and a devil-may-care veneer.

  Caitrin quelled the urge to cry, blinking furiously. She loved living at Duntulm. She hated the thought of returning to Dunvegan, of being paraded in front of suitors—of being put back inside a cage.

  “When?” she finally managed, the question coming out in a croak.

  “Tomorrow. We’ll set off just after dawn.” Alasdair paused here, his gaze boring into her. “But Eoghan will be remaining here.”

  Caitrin jerked as if he’d just struck her. Then she lurched to her feet, her embroidery falling to the floor. “No!”

  Alasdair slowly pushed himself up off the chair, as if he had all the time in the world, and rose to his full height. He towered over her, but Caitrin lifted her chin, fists clenching at her sides. “Ye will not take my son!”

  His mouth quirked. “Eoghan is my heir.”

  “So ye keep saying. But he’s not yer property. He’s half MacLeod, and he’s not staying here.”

  “Aye … he is. Eoghan is weaned now. He doesn’t need ye anymore. I will teach him everything he needs to know—so that one day he can take over from me … he will want for nothing.”

  “I’m his mother,” Caitrin countered, “and I’ll go nowhere without him.”

  Alasdair snorted. “Ye will … even if I have to throw ye over the back of yer horse and tie ye down.”

  Caitrin stared up at him, trembling now. “This is monstrous,” she rasped, heart pounding. “What kind of man would separate a mother from her bairn?”

  “One who wishes to ensure the MacDonald bloodline endures.”

  “That’s all ye care about, isn’t it?” Caitrin snarled. “Having an heir. Ye are a cold-blooded, heartless rogue, Alasdair MacDonald!”

  Alasdair stepped closer to her, his gaze never leaving hers. The smile had faded, and a nerve flickered in his cheek, revealing that her words had managed to wound him. “Aye, I am,” he murmured. “But very soon I will be the least of yer concerns.”

  “I can’t believe it, milady,” Sorcha whispered, aghast. “The chieftain wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  Caitrin straightened up from where she’d been laying out her clothes on the bed ready for packing. The look of abject horror on her hand-maid’s face, the disbelief in her eyes, made Caitrin’s anger bubble to the surface once more. “Well, ye should believe it,” she snapped. “For it’s true.”

  Sorcha’s dark-blue eyes now glittered with tears. “But why?”

  “Because he’s been looking for a way to hurt me … and he’s found it.”

  “But ye seemed to get on well of late.” The lass knuckled away a tear that now trickled down her cheek. “I thought ye might—”

  “Well ye thought wrong,” Caitrin cut her off. “Now stop looking at me with cow eyes and help me pack my things.”

  Sorcha heaved in a deep, shuddering breath and nodded. A large wicker chest sat on the floor at the foot of the bed ready to be filled with Caitrin’s belongings.

  Caitrin got to work, rolling, folding, and packing with ruthless efficiency. Her movements were
jerky as anger roiled within her. She’d been harsh with Sorcha, and didn’t mean to be—but when the lass had tried to tell her that Alasdair MacDonald wasn’t capable of such cruelty, something within her had snapped.

  I should never have let my guard down with him.

  It was too late now for such regrets, too late to change things. She’d almost begged him earlier—only pride had prevented her—but she knew that wouldn’t help her. He’d only despise her all the more.

  “I’m sorry, milady.” Sorcha’s broken whisper pulled her out of her seething thoughts. Caitrin glanced up from her packing to see that her hand-maid now stood, head buried in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking. “I can’t bear the thought of ye going away,” she gasped, “of ye leaving Eoghan behind.”

  Grief bubbled up within Caitrin. She hated to see Sorcha so upset; she could deal with her own suffering, yet she hated to see it in others.

  Wordlessly, she pulled Sorcha into her arms. However, this only made the girl start to sob. Tears stung Caitrin’s eyelids then, scalding her cheeks. She’d told herself she wouldn’t weep until she was alone, but it was impossible not to, not with Sorcha inconsolable. They clung together for a few moments, before Sorcha drew back, her face distraught.

  “Surely yer father will oppose this?” she choked out. “He won’t let MacDonald keep ye from yer son.”

  Caitrin loosed a heavy sigh and shook her head, wiping at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. “My father is a calculating man … political alliances have always meant more to him than the happiness of his daughters. Why do ye think he’s so keen to see me wed again?”

  “But surely he wouldn’t want ye separated from yer bairn?”

  Caitrin favored Sorcha with a sad, watery smile. “No … but if it keeps his neighbor appeased, I doubt he’ll oppose it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Out for Vengeance

  A COOL WIND fanned Caitrin’s face.

  Her throat was raw from weeping, her eyes swollen. She was barely aware of those who escorted her: Alasdair up front and Darron behind, with a handful of the Duntulm Guard bringing up the rear.

  All she could think about was Eoghan, and how it had ripped out her heart to leave him.

  Sorcha had been heartbroken that morning. She’d helped her mistress finish packing, all the while weeping. Now that Eoghan was weaned, Sorcha would bring the lad up within the walls of Duntulm. Caitrin trusted Sorcha and knew Eoghan was in good hands. Yet that didn’t make her feel any better. She was the lad’s mother. She needed to be with him.

  Tears flowed silently down Caitrin’s cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she looked upon the high basalt curtain wall of the fortress. Sorcha would be watching from her solar window, Eoghan in her arms.

  Pain gripped Caitrin’s ribs in a vise, and she turned away from Duntulm.

  Instead, her gaze settled upon the man who rode ahead of her, leading the way out of Duntulm village. Alasdair sat tall and proud in the saddle, his long dark hair tied back. He appeared completely unmoved by what he was doing to her.

  She’d grown to hate her husband during their marriage, and to fear him. But the loathing she now felt for his younger brother made those emotions seem gentle.

  If she had a dirk, she’d throw it at him, and enjoy seeing the blade sink between his shoulder blades.

  Since their confrontation in her solar, she hadn’t seen him—not until this morning when she’d been escorted downstairs to the bailey, where her saddled horse awaited.

  Even then, he’d barely acknowledged her. Impatience bristled off his body while she mounted and servants loaded her belongings onto a cart that would accompany them south.

  He was out for vengeance; she’d seen it in his eyes the day before.

  She didn’t think anyone could be so cruel. It shocked her to the core—but at the same time a defiance rose within her.

  He won’t win. Caitrin clenched her jaw, pushing against the despair that threatened to smother her. I’ll get my son back. I’ll fight this ….

  Night settled over the world, and the last of the rosy sunset faded from the western sky.

  Caitrin sat upon a boulder, staring sightlessly at the hearth the men had just lit. It wasn’t a cold evening, yet the fire provided a focal point for the small camp. They’d erected a tent a few yards back, where Caitrin would rest tonight. The men, Alasdair included, would sleep around the fire and take turns at keeping watch.

  “Here’s yer supper, milady.” Darron hunkered down before Caitrin and handed her a wooden platter with bread, cheese, and salted pork upon it. Caitrin took it without a word. “There’s a skin of ale as well,” he added, placing the leather bladder at her feet.

  Caitrin nodded. She wouldn’t touch the food; her stomach was clenched in a tight knot. She was too angry to eat.

  Darron went to rise to his feet but hesitated. She saw the sympathy in his eyes. “I wish things were different, milady,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so that none of the others heard him. “Ye shouldn’t be separated from yer son.”

  Caitrin swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. She’d spent the day in brooding silence, rage seething inside her. Anger made her feel better as it forced down the grief and despair of losing Eoghan. But with just a few kind words Captain MacNichol threatened her composure. Her vision now blurred. “Thank ye, Darron,” she said softly. “Ye have been a good friend to me over the last few years … I’ll not forget it.”

  Darron’s mouth curved into a rare smile although his gaze remained solemn. “If there’s anything I can do, milady … just ask.”

  Caitrin blinked rapidly and heaved in a deep breath. She needed to save her tears till later, for when she was alone. “Just keep an eye out for Eoghan, will ye?” She favored him with a brittle smile.

  “Of course,” he promised. “Ye have my word.”

  Darron moved away, returning to the fireside, where one of the men had started singing a bawdy drinking song about a lonely traveler, lusty wenches, and a tavern in the midst of winter. Boyd was grinning at the singer, raising his cup of ale at the end of each lewd verse.

  Alasdair sat amongst his men, eating his salted pork and bread. He raised his gaze and smiled when the warrior finished his song and the others cheered. Boyd slapped the singer hard on the back and demanded another.

  Not once did Alasdair look her way.

  Caitrin set the tray aside and reached for the skin of ale instead. She took a large gulp of the sweet, warm liquid. She wasn’t the least bit hungry, but the ale would blunt the world’s sharp edges, for a short while at least.

  The last of the light faded and night cloaked the campsite. There was no moon so Caitrin found herself watching the stars instead. They were particularly bright tonight. The sight steadied her, as did the knowledge she’d soon see her sister Rhona.

  They would reach Dunvegan tomorrow morning, and she would be in a familiar place at least. Once she’d been delivered, Alasdair would leave, and she would be spared having to look upon him.

  Caitrin took another deep pull of ale. The drink relaxed her, although her fury continued to simmer. He’d had his vengeance on her—how she wished she could revenge herself upon him.

  Around the fire, the singing eventually ceased. The men spoke now in low voices punctuated by the odd burst of laughter. After a while, the world around their campsite grew quiet. They’d made camp at the edge of woodland, and the wind that had buffeted them on the journey south had died.

  Weary, Caitrin rose to her feet and, without a word to any of the men, retired to her tent. Inside she found a small brazier burning and a thick fur spread out upon the ground, where she would sleep.

  Stretching out, Caitrin rolled onto her back and listened to the rumble of the men’s voices beyond.

  Eoghan.

  Caitrin wrapped her arms around her torso, squeezing her eyes shut as a wave of loss crashed into her.

  Her son would be wondering where sh
e was, why she never came into his bed-chamber to tuck him in and sing him a lullaby.

  I’ll find my way back to ye, my darling.

  Tears leaked from her eyes, trickling down her cheeks, where they soaked into her hair. Despair pressed down upon her like a great boulder upon her chest, but she wouldn’t give into it.

  She wouldn’t give up. She owed it to Eoghan to be strong.

  I promise.

  Alasdair leaned forward and poked the glowing embers with a stick, ignoring Darron. He’d deliberately sat apart from the others, while Boyd took the first shift of the night watch.

  But the captain had sought him out.

  Darron lowered himself onto the edge of the large flat stone where Alasdair sat. Neither man spoke, yet Alasdair could feel the weight of the captain’s stare.

  Moments passed, and eventually Alasdair turned to him with a scowl. “For God’s sake, MacNichol … out with it.”

  Darron’s mouth thinned. “Taking Lady Caitrin’s bairn from her seems … harsh.”

  Alasdair snorted, although his ire rose at Darron impertinence. “It is harsh—but necessary. Eoghan is the last of my family’s bloodline. He must stay at Duntulm.”

  Darron fell silent, his attention shifting to the glowing embers of the fire pit before them. “Lady Caitrin did a fine job as chatelaine,” he said finally. “I don’t understand why ye would send her away.”

  Alasdair frowned. “Ye know why … her father wants her to remarry.”

  Darron glanced his way. “But ye could wed her?”

  Alasdair threw back his head and laughed. “I’d be the last man in Scotland that Lady Caitrin would deign to wed.”

  “Why?” Darron looked confused now, and Alasdair wished the man would cease his incessant questioning. “Ye seem well suited.”

  “Appearances deceive, MacNichol,” Alasdair replied, his tone making it clear that the conversation was over.