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

“I’m Captain of the Dunan guard and the clan-chief’s right hand.”

  Caitrin heard the pride in Campbell’s voice, but also the edge. He wasn’t used to being questioned by a woman, to having to explain himself to one. Ross Campbell was charming when he wanted to be, and yet Caitrin wondered if he wished for a demure wife who’d have little to say for herself. She sensed his loyalty would always lie with Clan-chief MacKinnon.

  Such a man wouldn’t help her get Eoghan back.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Bonniest Lass on Skye

  “YE MUST BE tired, milady?” Gavin MacNichol asked with a smile. “Ye have only missed one dance so far.”

  Caitrin sighed, taking the chieftain’s hand as they moved forward with the other dancers in a line. “Aye,” she admitted. “My feet are aching.”

  “That’s the problem with having three suitors all vying for yer attention.”

  Caitrin cut him a swift look and saw that he wore a wry expression. “Da thought it would be a good idea,” she murmured. “To have all three of ye meet me over a short period … as ye might have guessed, he’s eager to see me wed again.”

  They left the line and circled their way, back to back, across the floor.

  “He certainly is,” MacNichol answered when they passed each other once more. “Although I remember ye telling me back in Duntulm that ye didn’t want another husband?”

  Caitrin met his eye. “I don’t,” she admitted. “But have ye tried refusing Malcolm MacLeod anything?”

  MacNichol huffed a laugh. “He’s informed us that we will hear of yer decision at noon tomorrow.”

  Caitrin tensed, irritation surging within her. She cut a glance across the hall at where her father sat, drinking horn in hand. Typical of him not to share that decision with her.

  “Ye didn’t know,” MacNichol observed.

  Caitrin shook her head. She moved away and twirled. When she returned to his side, Gavin MacNichol was frowning. “Ye have had a difficult time, lass. I’m sorry for that … I’d like to see ye happy.”

  Caitrin swallowed. His kindness unbalanced her. “It’s difficult for me to be,” she murmured. “When MacDonald has my son.”

  MacNichol’s blue eyes clouded. “I heard about that,” he admitted. “But I’d make sure ye saw him often … he’d grow up knowing ye were nearby.”

  Caitrin held his gaze, a lump rising in her throat. It was a kind offer, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted Eoghan by her side. And yet, she was beginning to realize that Gavin MacNichol was indeed the only one of her three suitors she could consider—the only one she’d feel even comfortable with.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Caitrin was about to speak when movement out of the corner of her eye drew her attention.

  Alasdair MacDonald approached. He wore a determined expression.

  Stopping before them, Alasdair met Gavin’s eye. “May I interrupt, MacNichol?”

  The two men’s gazes fused for a moment, and the MacNichol chieftain frowned. Caitrin thought, hoped, that he might refuse. But then he gave a swift, curt nod. Gavin glanced over at Caitrin. “Till the next dance, milady.”

  Caitrin swallowed, casting him a pleading look.

  MacNichol didn’t heed it. Instead, he walked away, leaving Alasdair and Caitrin facing each other in the center of the dance floor, men and women circling around them.

  Heat rose to Caitrin’s cheeks. “What are ye doing?” she demanded between gritted teeth.

  Alasdair flashed her a hard smile. “Dancing with the bonniest lass on Skye of course.” He took her hand then and pulled her after him so that they fell in line with the other dancers. The feel of his fingers clasped through hers was a brand against her skin. She’d held the hands of all three of her suitors, but none had affected her like this. Alasdair’s touch, the firmness of his grip as they halted, turned, and began to dance, made her pulse race like a bolting horse.

  Caitrin knew that everyone upon the dais, her father included, would be watching them. They’d be wondering why MacDonald had interrupted one of her suitors—why he was dancing with Caitrin at all.

  “What’s the point of this?” Caitrin growled.

  He gave a soft laugh. “I already told ye.”

  Alasdair let go of her hand then, his fingers trailing across her palm. Heat shivered up her arm, and Caitrin clenched her jaw. Picking up her skirts, she took mincing steps forward with the other women, bobbing with each stride.

  When she completed the steps and made her way back to her partner, Caitrin was fuming. Her feet and back ached, and her heart was sore. She didn’t have the patience for whatever game MacDonald was playing.

  “Ye will anger my father,” she hissed. “None but my suitors should be dancing with me.”

  Alasdair smirked. “Ye aren’t wed yet, milady.”

  “They might object to yer insolence.”

  He laughed. “Which one? MacNichol has just bowed out, Campbell couldn’t care less who ye dance with, and MacKay has drunk so much he can barely stand.”

  “Swine.” Caitrin circled around him, doing slow turns as the music changed tempo. “All ye have done of late is torment me … I shall be glad to see the back of ye.”

  “Aye, I can see ye are eager to find yerself a husband now we are in Dunvegan. All yer talk of remaining a widow was empty, wasn’t it?”

  Caitrin sucked in a breath. “I don’t want to wed again.”

  He barked a laugh, moving around her as the music changed once again. “Liar. I’ve seen yer smiles, the looks ye give them. Which one will it be?”

  Incensed, Caitrin rounded on him. “Bastard! How dare ye?”

  Alasdair turned to face her. His mouth curved. His dark eyes blazed. “Don’t be coy, Caitrin. We all know ye are no longer the blushing maid. The truth is ye can’t wait to warm another man’s bed.”

  The crack of Caitrin’s hand colliding with Alasdair’s cheek echoed across the hall.

  The music stopped, and the dancers halted, swiveling to where Caitrin and Alasdair faced each other in the center of the floor.

  Breathing hard and not caring that every eye in the Great Hall was now riveted upon her, Caitrin glared up at Alasdair. “Ye have a forked tongue, MacDonald,” she snarled. “If it were up to me, I’d have it ripped out.”

  Alasdair took his seat once more upon the dais, aware that the atmosphere there had changed. The expressions around him weren’t friendly.

  MacLeod was glowering, and Caitrin’s three suitors stared him down. MacNichol’s usually affable face was hard, Campbell’s eyes had narrowed, and the furrows on MacKay’s brow looked deep enough to split open his forehead. Farther down the table, Rhona and Taran MacKinnon were glaring at him.

  Alasdair ignored them all, although it was harder to ignore his stinging cheek.

  Caitrin had struck him hard.

  Her act had brought the festivities to an abrupt halt. However, as Alasdair picked up his goblet of wine and raised it to his lips, the music restarted. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the dancing had resumed as if nothing had happened.

  Caitrin had returned to her seat next to him. She’d turned her back to him again, cradling a goblet of wine in her hands as she watched the dancing. Her shoulders were tense, her spine rigid.

  The dancing continued for a short while longer, before MacNichol rose to his feet and approached Caitrin. He favored her with a smile, ignoring Alasdair. “Shall we finish that dance?”

  Caitrin nodded, rising to her feet and following him onto the floor.

  Alasdair took another gulp of wine. A squeal of laughter reached him from the far end of the table. Boyd had just pulled a serving maid onto his lap, but the lass didn’t seem to mind the attention. Her giggle rang out across the dais once more while Boyd nuzzled her neck, his hands reaching up to grope her breasts.

  Alasdair shifted his gaze from his cousin, back to the dance floor, to where Caitrin and MacNichol circled each other.

  He wasn’t sure what had been going throug
h his mind when he’d left the dais and strode onto the floor to interrupt their dance earlier. All he knew was that he’d been sitting there watching her with each of her suitors, laughing and smiling as they’d spoken to her—and, finally, he’d been unable to bear it. The beast within—a seething jealous animal that had tormented him all day—had driven him to his feet and across the floor toward them.

  Alasdair looked away from the dancers and stared down at the dark wine in his goblet.

  Idiot.

  It was just as well he was leaving at first light tomorrow.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Before It’s Too Late

  FINALLY, ALASDAIR TOOK his leave of the Great Hall. The dancing had ended, and the only folk still present were men drinking or playing at knucklebones or dice. Caitrin had left with her sister as soon as the last dance finished.

  No one said anything as Alasdair rose to his feet.

  MacLeod was deep into a game of Ard-ri with Campbell, while MacNichol looked on. The clan-chief’s wife, Una, had retired with the other women. A few feet away from the game, MacKay had slumped face-first onto the table and was starting to snore loudly. Farther down the table, Taran MacKinnon was playing knucklebones with Darron—and Boyd was nowhere to be seen.

  Alasdair’s mouth thinned. No prizes for guessing where his cousin was. At least he’d enjoyed his evening.

  Alasdair bid none of those upon the dais good-night, although Gavin MacNichol glanced up as he left the table.

  Ignoring him, Alasdair walked out of the hall and into the cool entrance-way beyond. Cressets burned on the pitted stone walls, throwing out long shadows. The air there felt light and fresh after the muggy, smoky interior of the hall.

  Taking the stairs up to the second level, Alasdair made his way along a narrow corridor toward his chamber. His limbs dragged, and his head hurt; he couldn’t wait to close the door on the world for a few hours. He’d nearly reached his chamber, when a voice at his back hailed him.

  “MacDonald.”

  Swiveling round, Alasdair’s hand immediately when to his side, where he usually carried his dirk. However, he hadn’t worn it tonight and so his hand clutched at nothing.

  Gavin MacNichol stood behind him. The chieftain’s brow furrowed. “Apologies … I didn’t mean to startle ye.”

  “Ye didn’t,” Alasdair replied tersely, cursing how edgy he’d become, another lingering effect of that bloody battle. MacNichol was the last man he wished to see right now. “What do ye want?”

  “A few moments of yer time.”

  Alasdair frowned. “Now?”

  “Aye.” MacNichol motioned to the doorway a few yards behind him. “Step into my chamber … we can talk there.”

  Alasdair hesitated. He wasn’t in the mood for a chat. However, Gavin MacNichol wore an unusually stubborn look on his face, and Alasdair sensed that the man wasn’t about to walk away.

  With a huff of irritation, Alasdair followed him into his chamber.

  Rectangular-shaped with a tiny shuttered window on the far wall, the bed-chamber was an almost exact replica of the one Alasdair was staying in. A large bed took up one corner and two high-backed chairs faced a small hearth, where a lump of peat burned. Outside, the rain pattered on the wooden shutters.

  MacNichol lowered himself into a chair and stretched out his long legs before him, crossing them at the ankle. “Take a seat.”

  Alasdair approached the fireside and stopped before it. “I’d prefer to stand. Say yer piece, and let’s be done with this.”

  Gavin MacNichol eyed him before giving a weary shake of his head. “I’m not blind, MacDonald.”

  Alasdair’s gaze narrowed, although he didn’t respond.

  “I should have seen it earlier,” MacNichol continued. “I don’t know why I didn’t. Ye are in love with Lady Caitrin.”

  Alasdair stiffened. To mask his discomfort, he scowled. “No, I’m not.”

  MacNichol gave a soft laugh. “Aye, ye are. I know the look. I’ve been there myself.”

  “Well, ye are mistaken,” Alasdair drawled, stepping back from the fire. “Is that all ye have to say?”

  “No.” MacNichol’s tone hardened. “Why are ye letting the lass go?”

  Alasdair folded his arms across his chest. “MacLeod wants Lady Caitrin to wed again. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “Then why the Devil didn’t ye take her for yerself? Ye could have saved us all a trip.”

  Alasdair drew in a deep breath, his anger rising. However, he deliberately left the question unanswered.

  MacNichol’s gaze narrowed. “Ye are stubborn and proud, MacDonald. Careful, or it’ll be yer downfall.”

  Alasdair went still. “What’s any of this to ye?” he growled. “Lady Caitrin is likely to choose ye … isn’t that what ye want?”

  MacNichol snorted. “I don’t want another man’s leavings. Caitrin will chose me because of what I offer, not for love. I’ve already wed once for duty. I’ll not do it again.”

  The frank admission made Alasdair pause. “I thought ye were happily wed?”

  Gavin MacNichol held his gaze for a long moment. “Eventually … aye. But Innis wasn’t my choice. I loved her younger sister, but that wasn’t who our families wanted me to wed.”

  “And where’s her sister now?”

  MacNichol’s gaze clouded. “She took the veil at Kilbride.”

  Silence fell in the chamber. Alasdair shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure how to respond, or what the man wanted from him exactly. He wished only to leave.

  “I don’t tell ye this for sympathy,” MacNichol continued, his tone sharpening, “but as a warning. Ye stand upon a crossroads. If ye don’t decide which road to take, fate will do it for ye … and ye will have to live with the consequences for the rest of yer life.”

  Alasdair snorted. “Ye forget that the lady in question hates me.”

  Gavin MacNichol raised a dark-blond eyebrow. “Does she?”

  “Aye, ye saw for yerself tonight.”

  MacNichol gave a dry laugh. “I might not be blind, but ye are. The moment ye took her hand tonight, Caitrin’s cheeks flushed. We all saw the way she looked at ye.”

  “In loathing?”

  The chieftain shook his head, his mouth curving. “Love and hate are close cousins, lad. Talk to her … before it’s too late.”

  Caitrin was sitting by the fire, staring at the dying embers, when someone knocked on the door to her bed-chamber.

  She frowned. It was late. After returning from the Great Hall, she’d thought that she’d fall into bed exhausted. However, she’d been unable to relax.

  The day’s events had left her drained yet restless. Fury still churned in her belly at what Alasdair had done, how he’d treated her. She’d hoped he’d leave the hall after she slapped him—but he hadn’t. Instead, she’d been forced to ignore him for the rest of the evening, all the time painfully aware of his presence.

  She hated how responsive she was to him, how the touch of his skin against hers had set her blood aflame. She hated him, and yet her body betrayed her.

  Caitrin’s throat constricted then. Tomorrow Alasdair MacDonald would be the least of her concerns—for then she’d have to choose a husband.

  Thud. Thud.

  Again, someone knocked. Rising to her feet, Caitrin padded barefoot across to the door. Dressed in her night-rail and robe, she wasn’t in a state to welcome visitors. However, she guessed it would be Liosa or Rhona coming to check on her. She wished they wouldn’t fuss.

  Caitrin opened the door and froze.

  Alasdair MacDonald stood there. Hair tousled, he wore a slightly wild expression.

  Time paused for a moment as their gazes locked, and then Caitrin reacted. She stepped back and moved to slam the door in his face.

  Alasdair shifted forward, jamming his body against the door and preventing her from closing it on him.

  “Get out,” Caitrin growled. Rage slammed into her, and she shook from the force of it. She cou
ldn’t believe the man had the nerve to try and barge his way into her bower. “I’ll count to three, and if ye aren’t gone by then, I’ll scream this keep down.”

  “Caitrin,” he rasped, his dark-eyes searing hers. “I need to speak to ye. Just let me say my piece, and I’ll go … I give ye my word.”

  “What? Here in my bed-chamber? Have ye lost yer wits?”

  “Aye.” The pain in that one word made her pause. “And that’s why I implore ye to hear me out. Please, Caitrin.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Make Ye Mine

  A LONG MOMENT passed. Caitrin stared into Alasdair’s eyes, witnessing naked desperation. What was wrong with the man?

  “Make it quick then,” she growled, “and then go.”

  He nodded.

  Slowly, she released the door and stepped aside, allowing him to enter her bed-chamber. His presence dominated the small space, and Caitrin immediately regretted letting him in.

  Alasdair moved over to the fireplace before turning to face her. His eyes were haunted pools in the fire’s soft glow. “I’ve been cruel to ye,” he said finally. “And I’m sorry for it.”

  Caitrin pulled her night-rail close and frowned. “Ye came here to apologize?”

  Alasdair’s features tightened. “I know this won’t be easy put right.”

  She drew herself up, her temper simmering. “Ye are right … it won’t. Ye have taken my son from me. I’ll never forgive ye for that.”

  His throat bobbed. “Ye are angry with me.”

  “I don’t need ye to state the obvious, MacDonald.” Fury pulsed through Caitrin. “And if that’s all ye have come to say, ye can get out now.”

  His face went taut. He stared down at her, his eyes suddenly bright. “I shouldn’t have separated ye from Eoghan.”

  “So ye realize that now, do ye?”

  A shadow moved in his eyes. “No, I knew before … I just didn’t care.”

  Caitrin’s temper flared hot. “Because I wouldn’t kiss ye?”