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

  A heavy silence filled the solar, broken only by the patter of rain against the shutters. The bad weather had settled in, turning the world grey and misty. The huge hearth to Alasdair’s left roared this morning, throwing out much needed heat. A great stag’s head mounted above the fire glared down at the chamber’s occupants.

  MacNichol broke the silence first. “I have no objection,” he said, his mouth quirking into a rueful smile. “Who am I to stand between two lovers?”

  Alasdair met his eye, and a look passed between the two men.

  Next to MacNichol, Campbell wore an inscrutable expression, although his gaze was hard. “I’ve nothing to say,” he said tersely, casting MacLeod an irritated look. “Other than ye have wasted my time.”

  MacLeod’s heavy brow furrowed. “I didn’t know MacDonald had an interest.” He cast Alasdair an accusing look then. “Why didn’t ye tell me ye wanted to wed my daughter?”

  “I was under the impression she didn’t want me,” Alasdair replied, holding his eye. “I was wrong.” He glanced over at Caitrin then. Her face was tense, her blue eyes wary. She’d been nervous about this meeting. He didn’t blame her, for their future rested on what was decided here.

  The pair of them stood shoulder to shoulder as they faced her father. Wordlessly, Alasdair reached out and took her hand, interlacing her fingers with his. Caitrin’s answering squeeze reassured him.

  “Campbell’s right,” MacKay growled. “Ye have wasted all our time. I didn’t travel here to be made a fool of.”

  Alasdair cut MacKay a sharp look. “No one’s made a fool out of ye, Fergus. Lady Caitrin was free to choose between us … and she has.”

  “Aye … but I wager the lass always knew she’d choose ye.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Caitrin replied. Her voice was soft, although with a steely edge just beneath. “I met with all of ye in good faith.”

  MacKay glared back at her. “Ye have made a mistake choosing him. I could have given ye Strathnaver … a vast tract of land, far superior than any on this barren rock.”

  His comment made MacLeod stiffen. Alasdair too tensed at MacKay’s insult, but held his tongue. He was too happy this morning to let anything ruin it. He understood MacKay’s bitterness. The man was disappointed—he was lashing out.

  “Let them be,” MacNichol cut in, his voice weary. “Lady Caitrin has made her choice, and we must accept it.”

  Fergus MacKay spat out a curse. “Ye may, but I don’t. The Devil take the lot of ye … this is the last time I have anything to do with the MacLeods of Skye.”

  With that, MacKay strode from the solar, slamming the door behind him with a force that made the chamber shudder.

  “Well … that’s an important relationship ye have just cost me daughter,” Malcolm MacLeod said sourly. “It’s just as well ye are wedding a MacDonald and strengthening the link between our clans … or I would be very displeased with ye right now.”

  “Ye do realize that MacKay was always going to be a poor loser?” MacNichol pointed out. “He was sure Lady Caitrin would select him.”

  Campbell snorted at this, raising a dark eyebrow as he cast the MacNichol chieftain a disbelieving look. “That oaf? He never stood a chance.”

  Alasdair smiled, while MacLeod’s glower eased. Campbell’s comment had succeeded in easing the tension in the solar. Alasdair gently squeezed Caitrin’s hand and glanced at her. He was glad to see that much of the tension had ebbed from her face. She looked up, meeting his eye, and smiled.

  MacLeod huffed out a breath before crossing to the sideboard, where he reached for a jug of wine and set out five goblets. “A toast is in order then,” he rumbled, pouring out the wine.

  He handed out the goblets, pausing once he’d passed Caitrin hers. He fixed his daughter in a level stare. “Is this truly yer wish, lass?”

  Caitrin nodded. She smiled once more, a soft expression that made her eyes darken. The sight made Alasdair’s breathing quicken. “Aye, Da. It is.”

  “Very well.” MacLeod held up his goblet. “Let us toast to yer handfasting.” He paused then, his gaze narrowing as it pinned them both to the spot. “There will be no time for second-thoughts, mind. If ye wish to wed, then there will be no delay. Ye shall be handfasted in Dunvegan chapel tomorrow at noon.”

  Rhona had gone very quiet.

  She and Caitrin were sitting in the women’s solar. Rhona was working upon her tapestry, while Caitrin wound wool onto a spindle. It was late afternoon, and usually at this hour they would have taken a walk together in the gardens. However, rain still fell outdoors, so they were forced to remain inside the cool, damp stone walls of Dunvegan Castle.

  When the silence finally got too much, Caitrin put down her spindle, fixing her sister with a level stare. “Out with it.”

  Rhona glanced up from her weaving. “What?”

  “Ye have something to say to me. I am waiting.”

  Rhona huffed, favoring her with a rueful look. “Words fail me, sister … I’m struck dumb.”

  “That’s a rarity,” Caitrin replied with a snort. “I should annoy ye more often.”

  “Cheeky wench,” Rhona growled. Their gazes met, and her features tightened. “Of late, ye keep yer own counsel. Sometimes I think I hardly know ye.”

  Caitrin inclined her head. “Because I didn’t say anything about Alasdair?”

  “Aye. Ye had plenty of opportunity to tell me how ye truly felt about him … but ye didn’t. Don’t ye trust me?”

  Caitrin loosed a sigh. She heard the hurt in her sister’s voice and was sorry for it. “It’s hard to speak of something ye haven’t even admitted to yerself,” she said after a pause.

  Rhona’s gaze narrowed. “Ye didn’t know how ye felt?”

  Caitrin shook her head, dropping her gaze. “When I knew Alasdair before, we were friends. I didn’t see him in any other way. But when he returned to Duntulm, something changed between us. We both fought it initially. Alasdair still resented me, and I was determined to continue as chatelaine … after Baltair I promised myself I’d let no man rule my life again.”

  “But what Alasdair did to ye.” Rhona was scowling now. “It was unforgiveable.”

  A wry smile tugged at Caitrin’s mouth. Her sister could be dogmatic at times. She was like their father: there were certain lines that could never be crossed, and once they were, there was no going back.

  “I thought so too,” Caitrin admitted softly. “There have been times over the past few days, if ye had given me a dirk, I’d have happily stabbed him through the heart with it.”

  Rhona’s grey eyes grew wide. “And ye are going to wed this man?”

  Caitrin sighed. “Aye … I can’t describe it, Rhona. I started the day hating him … but after he came to my chamber and told me how he felt … and explained himself … my feelings changed.”

  “So ye aren’t doing this just to get Eoghan back?”

  Caitrin shook her head. “Alasdair agreed to return Eoghan to me, whether or not I decided to wed him.” She paused here, meeting her sister’s gaze. “I’m doing this because I want to.”

  Rhona exhaled sharply. “I just hope ye are seeing things clearly.”

  “Surely ye understand, Rhona?” Caitrin replied with a shake of her head. “On yer wedding night with Taran, ye were set to hate him forever … and yet by the next morning yer feelings toward him had completely changed.”

  Rhona’s brow furrowed. “That was different.”

  “How? He entered those games without telling ye, knowing that ye would feel betrayed. Ye were then forced to wed a man ye didn’t want.” Caitrin paused here. “Yet one night alone together made all the difference.”

  Rhona actually blushed then, dropping her gaze. When she looked up, there was understanding in her eyes. “It did,” she said softly.

  Silence stretched between the sisters then, as each retreated into their own thoughts. Finally, Caitrin picked up her spindle once more and resumed winding wool. “Forgiving Alasdair was much harder th
an hating him,” she admitted softly. “But I realized I would know no peace until I did.”

  Alasdair pulled up the hood of his cloak and exited the keep, making his way down the slippery steps to the bailey below. The rain fell in heavy sheets, sweeping across the courtyard in waves. It didn’t seem to have let up since it had begun the previous day.

  Crossing the cobbled bailey, Alasdair made his way toward the stables. However, instead of taking the left door in to where the horses were kept, he ducked through a low doorway into the lean-to where MacLeod housed his hounds.

  The smell of wet dog assaulted his nostrils as he entered. The lean-to was open on two sides, letting in light and a little rain. The dogs didn’t seem to mind though. Most of them were asleep, curled up together at the back of the space, although they stirred when Alasdair appeared.

  Tails wagging, many lurched to their feet. The first to reach the edge of the enclosure was a young, leggy wolf-hound with a wiry grey coat.

  Dùnglas jumped up against the wooden boarding lining the enclosure, whining with delight at the sight of Alasdair.

  “Easy lad.” Alasdair smiled as he tried to fend off the dog’s clumsy feet and wet tongue. He leaned down and examined the injury to the wolf hound’s shoulder, pleased to see the stitched cut had started to scab over now.

  Gently, he pushed Dùnglas back into the enclosure. However, the hound tried to get back up again. Its tail was wagging so hard now that its whole body moved from the force of it.

  “Looks like ye have found yerself a new friend.”

  Alasdair glanced over his shoulder to see Taran MacKinnon standing behind him. Wearing a rain-splattered leather cape, his short hair slicked back against his scalp, the warrior was an intimidating presence.

  Alasdair huffed a laugh. “Aye … yer wife thinks the dog is the only friend I’ll make here at Dunvegan.”

  MacKinnon’s mouth curved. “Ye would be right there. Rhona would like to see ye gelded.”

  He moved closer, his gaze shifting to where Dùnglas had climbed up onto his hind legs again so that he could get to Alasdair. “Are ye looking for a new hound?”

  Alasdair shook his head. “I’ve already got plenty of them back in Duntulm.”

  “One more won’t make a difference,” MacKinnon replied with a shrug. “Dùnglas is a funny one … since Adaira left, he’s never bonded with anyone else, and he keeps apart from the other dogs. I think he’d be happier elsewhere.”

  Alasdair absently stroked the hound’s head. “I suppose I could take the dog back with me … if ye don’t want him?”

  MacKinnon nodded, as if the matter was settled, before he crossed his arms and turned to face Alasdair. “I hear there’s to be a wedding here tomorrow.”

  Alasdair’s mouth quirked. “Aye … I’m sure ye are invited.”

  “I don’t care if I am or not,” MacKinnon replied with a snort. His gaze narrowed then. “I take it the lady is willing?”

  Alasdair raised an eyebrow. “Of course … I’d not force Caitrin to wed me.”

  “Good to hear,” MacKinnon grunted.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Vows

  “YE ARE BLOOD of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone.” Alasdair MacDonald’s voice echoed through the silent chapel. “I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One. I give ye my Spirit, 'til our Life shall be Done.”

  Caitrin held his gaze as he spoke. Her skin prickled at the words; they were the same ones she’d heard Lachlann Fraser say to her sister in Duntulm kirk barely ten months earlier.

  Adaira had wept as Lachlann made his vows—but Caitrin was dry-eyed. She’d never wept easily in front of others. She was too private, too proud. A small group had gathered behind them in Dunvegan’s chapel: her father and Una, her brother, Iain, Rhona and Taran, and Alasdair’s men.

  Caitrin had been aware of their gazes upon her as the ceremony had started, but as Alasdair finished his vows, and she began hers, she forgot they had an audience.

  She couldn’t tear her gaze away from Alasdair’s; the intensity in his peat-brown eyes made the rest of the world fade. The sincerity in his voice made her throat tighten.

  “Ye are now man and wife,” the priest announced when Caitrin had completed her vows. He was smiling as he unwrapped the length of plaid that bound their hands. The priest met Alasdair’s eye briefly. “Ye may kiss yer bride now.”

  Caitrin’s breath stilled when Alasdair stepped close, gently cupped her chin, and raised her face to his. He then gave her a soft, slow, lingering kiss that made the small party watching the ceremony cheer.

  Alasdair pulled away, favoring Caitrin with a sensual smile that made her pulse quicken.

  “Come, wife,” he murmured. “Take my arm.”

  Alasdair held out his elbow to her, and she took it. Together they walked down the aisle and out of the chapel.

  The wail of a highland pipe echoed through the Great Hall of Dunvegan, accompanying the handfasting feast. The noise inside the hall was so great that Caitrin could barely hear herself think. In truth, she preferred the lilting music of a harp to the screech of the highland pipe, yet with the feasters making such a noise, the gentler sound of the harp would have been drowned out anyway.

  Before her lay a great spread of pies, cheeses, fruit, and oatcakes dripping in butter and honey. The large pies were filled with left-over meat, vegetables, and boiled eggs, and topped with a thick suet and oaten crust. The cooks, Fiona and her daughter Greer, had done well at such short notice, especially since they’d had to prepare another feast just two days earlier.

  The aroma filling the hall was divine, and unlike at the last feast, Caitrin actually had an appetite for the fare before her. It was hard to believe only two days had passed since she’d sat here, her stomach in knots, dreading having to choose a suitor.

  None of the three men were at the feast. MacKay had left in a rage shortly after he’d stormed from MacLeod’s solar. MacNichol and Campbell had both left at dawn the morning after.

  “Wine, Caitrin?” Alasdair leaned forward, raising his voice to be heard over the din. He held up a ewer of spiced bramble wine.

  Caitrin nodded, smiling. “Thank ye.”

  They sat together at the center of the table upon the dais. Alasdair’s elbow brushed against hers as he bent forward to refill her goblet. Before them sat a platter of two different pies; it was tradition for husband and wife to dine off the same platter at their wedding feast.

  Caitrin was reminded then of her handfasting feast to Baltair. They too had been wed in the chapel at Dunvegan, as her father had wished, and the feasting had gone on late into the night. She’d been happy that day, glowing with hope and pride at her handsome husband. Yet that glow had only lasted a short while. Later, when Baltair took her maidenhead, her happiness shattered. Even then, knowing it was her first time, he’d been brutal.

  “Ye seem pensive, Caitrin,” Alasdair observed. The din in the hall was such that he had to lean close to speak to her. The scent of leather and clean male skin enveloped her, and she breathed it in. “Is something amiss?”

  Caitrin shook her head, pushing aside her memories of the past. Baltair was dead; she would keep him that way. He had no place at this table.

  “Just reflecting a little,” she replied, taking a sip of wine, “and getting used to the idea of being a wife again.”

  Alasdair’s gaze fused with hers then, and just like during the wedding ceremony, their surroundings disappeared—even the wail of the highland pipe and her father’s booming voice.

  “Baltair was a fool,” Alasdair said, his expression turning fierce. “He didn’t know how lucky he was.”

  Alasdair reached out, entwining his fingers with hers. His touch made Caitrin’s breathing quicken. She felt as if she’d only just had a taste of him the night before last. It wasn’t enough. They had not lain together since and already it seemed like an eternity. She ached for him. Caitrin watched Alasdair’s pupils dilate and knew that he’d been affected by the touch th
e same way.

  “I have my faults, Caitrin,” he continued, before his mouth twisted into a self-recriminating smile. “More than I’d like to admit … but I’ll never ignore ye … never frighten ye. I’d do anything in my power to make ye happy.”

  Caitrin held his gaze, a lump rising in her throat. Something deep inside her breast—something that had been tightly knotted ever since she’d wedded Baltair—unraveled.

  “Ye already have,” she whispered.

  Caitrin collapsed upon the bed with Alasdair. There, they lay spooned together, panting and sweat-slicked, his arms fast around her. A soft sigh escaped Caitrin. Her body felt weak and boneless, her senses completely scattered. She enjoyed the sensation, and the abandon that had caused it.

  They’d been hungry for each other.

  The handfasting feast had seemed to go on for an age, after which there had been dancing. Eventually, they’d been able to take their leave, although not without fanfare.

  Much to the delight of onlookers, Alasdair had scooped Caitrin into his arms and carried her from the Great Hall. Face flaming from the men’s bawdy comments and laughter, Caitrin had huddled against Alasdair’s chest.

  However, once they’d reached the chamber where they would spend their first night as man and wife, her embarrassment faded.

  They’d come together like beasts, tearing off each other’s clothes, before Alasdair pushed her down on all fours on the bed and took her.

  “I liked that,” she murmured when her breathing had slowed.

  “Me too,” he replied sleepily, placing a kiss on her shoulder.

  “The effect ye have on me, Alasdair … ye only have to touch my hand and my whole body answers.”

  He kissed her shoulder once more, trailing his lips up to her earlobe. Caitrin’s eyelids fluttered with pleasure as his tongue explored the shell of her ear. “It’s the same for me,” he whispered back.

  Alasdair’s arms tightened around her. Caitrin felt his body relax against hers, his leg slung over her hips protectively. She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of his body curled against hers. Alasdair’s breathing grew slow and even, and she realized that he’d fallen asleep. A heavy languor pressed down upon her too.