The Rogue's Bride (The Brides 0f Skye Book 3) Page 18

  Alasdair held her gaze, before a smile curved his lips. “I’m a strong swimmer, Caitrin. I’d never have gone out there otherwise.”

  Caitrin punched his arm. “I didn’t know that, did I?”

  His gaze clouded. “Did I worry ye?”

  “Aye.” She was close to tears now. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

  Wordlessly, Alasdair pulled her into his arms. It didn’t matter that he was soaking wet; after the morning’s travel so was she. The drum-beat of his heart against her ear calmed her.

  After a moment she pulled back, pressing into his side, as Alasdair looped a protective arm around her shoulders. He then turned his attention to his men. “Get the villagers up to the keep. We’ll house them there until the water recedes.”

  “Aye, milord,” Darron replied with a nod. He then moved away, marshaling his men to do the chieftain’s bidding.

  Together, Alasdair and Caitrin turned to face the swollen Cleatburn.

  “It’s stopped raining,” Caitrin noted, raising her gaze to the sky. “For the first time in days.”

  “Just as well,” Alasdair murmured. “Or there would soon be nothing left of the village.”

  Caitrin’s gaze swept across the churning water, to where the bridge had once stood.

  “All that work ye did on the bridge over the winter,” she said with a sigh, “and the river has destroyed it.”

  Alasdair huffed a laugh, his grip around her shoulders tightening. “Bridges can be rebuilt, love,” he murmured. “But some things are irreplaceable.”

  Sorcha hurried out into the bailey, Eoghan balanced on her hip. She was pleased to see the rain had finally stopped although the sky was still the color of lead.

  Picking her way around the large puddles, Sorcha approached the bedraggled crowd that had just entered the muddy courtyard. Caitrin was among them, her blonde hair curling in wet tendrils around her face. She walked, hand in hand, with Alasdair MacDonald, leading their horses behind them. A lanky grey wolf hound trotted along at the chieftain’s heels.

  Sorcha halted, gaze widening. The chieftain and Lady Caitrin holding hands—this was a sight she’d never thought to see.

  When she spied her hand-maid, Caitrin cried out, leaving Alasdair’s side.

  “Ye are back!” Sorcha greeted her. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Aye.” Caitrin threw her arms around Sorcha and Eoghan, and hugged them both tight. Drawing back, she smiled, her eyes gleaming. “What a sight ye both are. Let me have a look at my wee laddie.”

  Sorcha handed Eoghan to her. Caitrin spun the lad round, laughing as he squealed in delight. Sorcha saw then that her mistress’s cheeks were wet with tears. Eoghan wrapped his soft arms around his mother’s neck as she hugged him once more. Caitrin buried her face in his soft dark hair and inhaled deeply.

  “How I’ve missed ye, Eoghan,” she said softly, her voice choked with emotion. “Yer smell, the chirping laugh ye make when ye are happy … how ye say my name.”

  “Ma,” Eoghan gurgled happily, not understanding what his mother had just said.

  “I know sweetheart,” she whispered, and Sorcha started to weep at the love she saw shining in her mistress’s eyes. “I’m home.”

  Caitrin carried Eoghan away, heading back toward the steps leading into the keep, while Sorcha attempted to compose herself. She didn’t want the chieftain’s men gawking at her or making fun. The others were approaching now, and she suddenly felt self-conscious for weeping.

  Captain MacNichol was heading her way.

  “Welcome home, MacNichol.” Sorcha scrubbed at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand and favored him with a watery smile.

  “Good day, Sorcha.” He stopped before her, and although he was rain-soaked and mud-splattered, she realized with a jolt just how handsome he was. His leather braies and léine were plastered against his hard, muscular body, and his wet blond hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck. “We return with happy news, as ye can see.”

  Her gaze searched his face. “What happened?”

  He stepped close, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “I’m not really sure,” he murmured. “One moment we’re watching Clan-chief MacLeod parade suitors before his daughter, the next we’re standing in Dunvegan chapel watching MacDonald and Lady Caitrin wed.”

  Sorcha’s eyes widened. “They’re married?”

  “Aye, the day before last.”

  Sorcha gasped. “But I thought they hated each other?”

  Darron’s mouth lifted at the corners. “Clearly, they didn’t.”

  Sorcha was about to reply, when a loud voice boomed across the bailey. “Good day, bonny Sorcha.”

  She glanced right to see Boyd MacDonald striding toward her. Like Darron, he was wet and dirty from his journey. However, he wore his usual irrepressible smile.

  “Greetings, Boyd,” she replied warmly. “It’s good to see ye back too.”

  Boyd grinned. “How about a kiss then … to show me how pleased ye are to see me?” He stepped close, and Sorcha immediately shrank back.

  “What’s this?” Boyd’s grin turned mischievous, and he reached for her.

  Sorcha ducked out of reach, stepping back into a muddy puddle in her haste to avoid his grasping hands. She didn’t enjoy being grabbed at like she was a spring lamb he was trying to catch.

  “Coy, are we?” Boyd’s grin turned into a leer.

  “Leave the lass be, MacDonald,” Darron rumbled, a warning note to his voice. “Clearly, she doesn’t want to kiss ye.”

  Boyd snorted, drawing back. His gaze narrowed as it settled upon Sorcha. “That’s not very friendly, lass.”

  Sorcha swallowed and took another step back, not caring that she now stood ankle deep in cold water. Her pulse raced. She’d been happy to see both Darron and Boyd—but the latter’s behavior had put her on edge. Boyd had never taken such liberties before.

  “I’d better get back inside,” she murmured, picking up her skirts so that they didn’t drag in the muddy water. “Lady Caitrin will need my help.”

  With that she turned and hurried away.

  It was loud inside the Great Hall of Duntulm. The roar of voices echoed through the space like storm-driven waves pounding a rocky shore. Extra tables had been carried in, for all those villagers who’d been temporarily rendered homeless by the flood. Servants carried out tureens of thick salted pork and cabbage stew, served with large loaves of coarse bread.

  Caitrin took a sip of wine and let out a long sigh, glancing across at her husband. Alasdair sat upon his carven chieftain’s chair, goblet of warmed wine in hand, surveying the sea of hungry village folk beneath him. The air was heavy with the smells of food, wet wool, and peat smoke. It wasn’t a pleasant odor, but no one seemed to mind. They were all just happy to be somewhere warm and dry, and to fill their bellies.

  The rain had stopped now at least, and with any luck the Cleatburn would quickly recede. Then work could start on repairing the damage the flood had caused.

  When the last of the food and drink had been served, Alasdair rose to his feet.

  “People of Duntulm.” His voice echoed through the Great Hall, quietening the din. “Today might not seem like a cause for celebration, but I have news to share with ye.” Alasdair glanced down at Caitrin then, his eyes shining. He then shifted his attention back to the sea of faces beneath the dais. “Three years ago ye welcomed Lady Caitrin to these lands. Ye have seen her strength, her justness, and her capability. I inform ye now that this woman, whom I know ye all love and respect, is now my wife. She will rule Duntulm at my side.”

  Shock rippled across the hall. Nervousness tightened Caitrin’s belly as she looked on. Alasdair’s words had filled her with joy, yet what if the people here didn’t love her as much as he believed?

  An instant later she realized her fear was unfounded.

  A roar went up, as men and women rose to their feet and raised their cups in the air.

  “To th
e chieftain and his lady!” Alban MacLean shouted, his leathery face creased with joy.

  Raucous cheering followed, shaking the hall to its foundations. Smiling, Alasdair reached down, pulling Caitrin to her feet so that she stood next to him. Then, he placed an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close.

  Caitrin’s vision misted. She’d never expected such a response. Meeting Alasdair’s eye she grinned. “Ye are well liked here,” she said, raising her voice so he could hear her over the din.

  His smile widened. “Aye … and so are ye.”

  The cheering settled and the feasting began. Caitrin and Alasdair took their seats once more. Helping herself to some stew, Caitrin felt warmth seep through her. The atmosphere in the hall was more joyous than Yuletide. A simple meal sat before them, but it didn’t matter. It was moments like these that made life worth living.

  The stew was delicious and the bread fresh and nutty. Wine flowed, and laughter echoed high into the rafters.

  Eventually, her belly full, Caitrin leaned back in her chair. She wrapped her fingers around the goblet of wine she held. Like Alasdair she’d changed into dry clothes upon arriving home, but there had been no time to relax in their quarters together. They’d both come straight back downstairs as there had been much to organize before supper.

  “I feel as if the damp has drilled into my bones,” Caitrin said with a sigh.

  “Aye,” Alasdair replied, massaging a stiff muscle in his shoulder. “I’m looking forward to a hot bath later.”

  Caitrin shot him a smile. “I’ll ask Sorcha to have one brought up to yer bed-chamber.”

  “Our bed-chamber,” he corrected Caitrin, before leaning in and kissing her. “I was hoping ye would join me.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  All We Need Is Time

  THE SIGHT OF the huge iron bathtub, filled with steaming water, made Caitrin release a sigh of pleasure. She sniffed then, catching the scent of rose and lavender. Sorcha had added oils to the water.

  The tub sat in the midst of Alasdair’s bed-chamber—or what was now their marital bed-chamber. It was the same one she’d shared with Baltair, and Caitrin had been worried that setting foot inside the chamber again would raise unpleasant memories. Yet, this eve, it didn’t.

  Finally, it seemed as if Baltair’s ghost had stopped haunting her steps. For the first time since his death, Caitrin’s body didn’t tense when she thought of him.

  It was cozy and warm inside the chamber. The shutters to the single window had been closed tightly, and a fire burned in the hearth. A few feet from where Caitrin stood, she watched her husband disrobe.

  Alasdair undressed with the unconscious self-confidence that only men seemed to possess. Most women were prone to cower, to try and cover their breasts with their hands, but a man merely tossed his clothing aside and stood there in his naked glory, without a care.

  Caitrin was glad of it, for her gaze feasted upon Alasdair, taking in the long, hard planes of his body and the way the firelight danced across his skin.

  Throwing aside his braies, Alasdair turned to her. “Are ye going to join me in the tub?”

  Caitrin’s mouth quirked. “Are ye sure there’s room in there for the both of us?”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “Aye.”

  Without shifting her gaze from his, Caitrin started to unlace the front of her kirtle. It had been a long, tiring day. They’d just retired to their bed-chamber. Once supper had ended, Caitrin had tucked Eoghan into bed, and Alasdair had made sure all the villagers whose homes had been flooded had bedded down in the Great Hall. However, as Caitrin undressed, the day’s fatigue lifted from her.

  She’d been looking forward to this moment, to finally being alone with Alasdair.

  The rest of the evening belonged to them.

  Alasdair stepped into the iron tub and lowered himself into the hot, fragrant water. “I’ll smell like a lass after this,” he complained, wrinkling his nose.

  Caitrin laughed. “Apologies … Sorcha is used to preparing a bath for me. I’ll tell her to be less generous with her scented oils in future.”

  Naked, her slender limbs and gentle curves glowing in the gilded light of the hearth and the candles that burned around them, Caitrin walked toward the bathtub. Alasdair watched her, transfixed, his mind suddenly going blank.

  Every time he saw Caitrin naked he felt like a gauche youth, a simpleton who didn’t know what to do with such a sight except gape.

  “God’s bones,” he breathed finally. “Ye are so beautiful it hurts to look upon ye.”

  Caitrin’s mouth curved. She then stepped into the bath and sank down into the water opposite him.

  They stared at each other for a long moment, a veil of steam encircling them. Alasdair shifted so that his legs encircled Caitrin, and she was able to stretch out her legs before her. “See,” he said with a grin. “I told ye we’d both fit.”

  Caitrin arched an eyebrow before reaching for a soft cloth and cake of lye, and holding them out to him. “Come on then, let’s bathe before the water cools.”

  Alasdair inclined his head, smiling. “I’d like ye to wash me.”

  She huffed a laugh. “I’m sure ye don’t need my assistance.”

  He gave her a sultry look. “What I need and what I want aren’t the same thing, my love … will ye?”

  She appeared almost shy then, dipping her head so that her hair fell in loose pale waves around her face. Of course, despite that she’d been wedded before, Caitrin was new to love play. He sensed her sudden nervousness. Even so, she obliged, moving onto her knees so that she could reach him properly.

  Dipping the cloth into the water, she soaped it before beginning to wash his shoulders and chest.

  The feel of her touch sliding across his skin made Alasdair let out a long sigh. He leaned back, resting the back of his head against the rim of the tub, and gave himself up to the sensation.

  Caitrin seemed to be taking her task seriously. She lifted up his arms, washing under them, before soaping his arms and hands. Then she returned to his chest and began a leisurely path down to his stomach. Then she stopped.

  Alasdair’s eyes flickered open to see that she was staring down at his groin. His gaze shifted to where his shaft strained up out of the soapy water.

  Caitrin glanced up at him. “Can I?”

  “Ye don’t even have to ask,” he replied, his breathing quickening. “I’m all yers.”

  Caitrin smiled, her gaze dropping once more to his arousal. Then she wet the cloth, soaped it once more, and began to slide it up and down his shaft.

  Alasdair groaned. His head fell back as he gave himself up to the sensation. Then, moments later, the cloth disappeared, and he felt her fingers encircle him. He reopened his eyes to see her attention fixed wholly upon his rod, her lips parted as she pleasured him.

  Lust slammed into Alasdair like a charging bull. The blend of innocence and desire in this woman undid him.

  With a growl, he pulled her up so that she was above him, her legs spread over his erection. Then, guiding her hips, he lowered Caitrin onto him. He inched into her, watching her face as he did so. He loved how a flush appeared on her cheeks, how her eyes widened, the deeper he penetrated.

  When he pulled her down so that he was fully seated within her, she gave a soft cry, her chest now rising and falling sharply.

  Alasdair drew in a slow, deep breath, shifting his attention down to her breasts. They were delicious: small and pert but with large pink nipples that were as firm and sweet as ripe strawberries. He angled his hips so she leaned toward him, allowing him to feast on her breasts. He drew a nipple deep into his mouth and sucked till she moaned. Suckling her, he reached down and gripped her hips, gyrating them so that they began to gently move together.

  Caitrin gasped, her lithe body trembling in his grip.

  Alasdair groaned against the breast he suckled. He loved how quickly she responded to him, how little it took for him to bring her to the edge.

&nbs
p; It excited him beyond measure.

  They were so aware of each other that even a heated glance across a crowded room was enough to arouse him. The feel of being buried deep inside her was enough to bring him to the brink of madness.

  Tearing his mouth from her swollen nipple, he gazed up at Caitrin. She was lost in a haze of pleasure, neck arched back, eyes closed, and an expression of rapture upon her face.

  “Caitrin,” he rasped. “My love.”

  She opened her eyes and gazed down at him. “Alasdair,” she whispered, her breath hitching. “Mo chridhe.”

  My heart.

  Alasdair sucked in a breath. This was the first time she’d uttered such an endearment to him, the first time she’d openly acknowledged that she felt as he did.

  He reached up, pulling her down for a kiss. Their mouths collided, hungry and devouring. Alasdair gripped her hips, lifting her. He then slid her up and down the length of his shaft with relentless determination. He wanted to take her over the brink, to see her shatter.

  Caitrin cried out into his mouth, her body shuddering now. But still she rode him, the bath water splashing over the sides of the tub onto the floor. Neither of them paid it any mind, and when Caitrin finally sobbed his name, Alasdair’s cries joined hers.

  Caitrin stretched out on the bed, smiling. She felt as if she was floating, untethered from the earth.

  “What are ye looking so pleased about?”

  Her eyes flickered open to see that Alasdair had propped himself up on an elbow and was staring down at her.

  Caitrin’s smile widened. “If I say, ye will be insufferable.”

  His mouth twitched. “How so?”

  She reached out, her fingertips tracing the whorls of dark hair on his chest. “Ye are a wonderful lover.”

  He did smile then, as she’d known he would, delight twinkling in his eyes. “Why, thank ye, milady.”

  “I mean it.”