The Rogue's Bride (The Brides 0f Skye Book 3) Page 5

  A pause followed. “Did he beat her?”

  “If he did, it was behind closed doors.”

  “But it wasn’t a happy union?”

  Darron pursed his mouth.

  “Answer me, MacNichol.”

  “They didn’t speak much, milord … it seemed to me that Baltair ignored Lady Caitrin for the most part.”

  Alasdair digested this news. It didn’t overly surprise him. Baltair had never had much use for women beyond swiving them.

  Loosing a sigh, Alasdair cast a glance up at where the castle loomed before them. He’d enjoyed putting Caitrin in her place, humiliating her in front of his men, but an uneasiness had settled over him in the aftermath.

  Vengeance didn’t taste as sweet as he’d expected. He felt strangely empty, disappointed.

  Maybe he’d taken things too far.

  Chapter Seven

  Taking Instruction

  ALASDAIR SWALLOWED A mouthful of pottage and stifled a grimace. It was awful: overcooked with a faintly acrid taste as if the bottom of the pot had burned. Alasdair frowned. How was this possible? Cook usually served up delicious meals.

  Next to him Boyd also tasted the pottage, his face screwing up. Mumbling a curse, he reached for his goblet of wine to wash it down. “Foul,” he muttered. Likewise, the others at the table looked similarly unimpressed with the fare before them.

  “I thought cook agreed not to serve up this slop any more,” Alban grumbled. The steward cast Caitrin a questioning look, but she didn’t meet his eye. Instead, the chatelaine appeared fascinated with the piece of bread she was buttering.

  Caitrin hadn’t made eye contact with any of them since taking a seat at the table for the noon meal.

  “Lady Caitrin?” Alban, who hadn’t been down at the bridge earlier that morning, spoke up once more. “Didn’t ye have a word with cook?”

  Caitrin did glance up then. “Aye,” she replied, her tone clipped, “but it appears I’m to have no say in what meals are prepared in future.” Her attention shifted to where Boyd was looking down at his bowl with a look of disgust. “I hope ye like pottage … because Briana likes to serve it at least four times a week.”

  Boyd’s gaze snapped up, his mouth thinning.

  Watching Caitrin, Alasdair noted that her expression was shuttered. He let out a long exhale and pushed his bowl away, reaching instead for some bread. “I don’t remember Briana’s cooking being this bad,” he said mildly. He then pulled a wheel of cheese toward him and cut off a large wedge.

  “She’s not usually,” Darron replied. “Except for when she makes pottage. It’s the dish she cooks when she wants to use up old vegetables and grain.”

  Caitrin glanced Darron’s way, gaze narrowed, yet didn’t reply.

  “Maybe ye should let Lady Caitrin plan the meals, milord?” Alban ventured, frowning. “She knows how to utilize the stores. Cook needs a firm hand.”

  Irritation flared within Alasdair. He didn’t appreciate the steward speaking up on Caitrin’s behalf. Of course, the man had no idea what had happened earlier. Alban had served both Alasdair’s brother and father. He was a good, solid man who’d always been staunchly loyal to the family he served. Yet it appeared he was also protective of Caitrin.

  “Briana knows what she’s doing,” he growled.

  Boyd snorted. “Really?”

  Alasdair ignored him, his attention shifting to Caitrin. This time she met his eye. “I shall talk to cook,” he said.

  Caitrin’s mouth thinned. She gave a barely perceptible nod before dropping her gaze.

  The noon meal continued, the atmosphere strained. Around them the rumble of voices in the Great Hall rose and fell along with the clunk of tankards and the clatter of wooden spoons. Servants circled with pots of pottage, offering a second serving.

  Alasdair noted that no one partook.

  The vegetable stew was barely edible. Cook had chosen a fine time to disgrace herself, especially just after his confrontation with Caitrin.

  Alasdair glanced the chatelaine’s way once more. At least she wasn’t smirking over being proved right. He remembered that Caitrin had never been that kind of lass. Years earlier, when they’d been friends, she’d beaten him once or twice at the board game ‘Ard-ri’. His young ego had taken a battering, but she’d been a graceful victor. It was after one such game that he’d realized he was in love with her. It had been a rainy spring afternoon, and they’d been seated near the hearth in her father’s Great Hall. He’d visited Dunvegan with his father. Caitrin had taken his king before glancing up at him, a smile of disbelief stretching her face.

  The impact of that moment had been like a punch to the guts. Alasdair had been unable to breathe. She’d won more than just a game of Ard-ri that day—she’d won his heart.

  Alasdair tore his gaze from Caitrin and took a bite of bread and cheese. What a gullible idiot he’d been.

  A short while later the noon meal ended. Men and women rose to their feet and began filing from the hall, returning to their chores.

  “Back to the bridge, milord?” Darron MacNichol asked, getting up.

  “Aye,” Alasdair replied. “I want to make sure the pillars are shored up by nightfall.”

  Boyd pulled a face, but Darron slapped him heartily on the back. “Come on, MacDonald. Not afraid of hard graft, are ye?”

  Muttering under his breath, Boyd cast Darron a jaundiced look. The men moved off, and Caitrin rose to her feet. She was about to turn from the table when Alasdair spoke.

  “Lady Caitrin … wait a moment.”

  She paused, although her body had gone rigid. He watched a nerve feather in her cheek; she was uncomfortable in his presence.

  “Join me for supper in my solar this eve,” he murmured. “I think it’s time we spoke privately.”

  Caitrin’s gaze flicked up, her sea-blue eyes alarmed. Her throat bobbed. “My lord,” she began, her voice low and hesitant. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  A lazy smile stretched Alasdair’s mouth. “On the contrary, it is,” he replied. “If ye are to stay on as chatelaine at Duntulm, ye and I must talk.”

  Their gazes fused for a long moment, and then, reluctantly, she nodded.

  Caitrin stopped before the door to the chieftain’s solar and drew in a sharp breath. She’d been dreading this meeting all afternoon. Unable to concentrate on her chores, she’d been unusually snappish with the servants. Even Eoghan’s company hadn’t relaxed her.

  She wished there could be some way to avoid this supper. But there wasn’t.

  Alasdair MacDonald had been insistent.

  Releasing the breath she was holding, Caitrin raised her clenched fist and knocked.

  “Enter.” Alasdair’s voice greeted her.

  Tensing her jaw, Caitrin pushed open the door and stepped inside the solar.

  Alasdair stood before the fire warming his back. “Good evening, Lady Caitrin,” he greeted her with a smile. “Shut the door … ye are letting a draft in.”

  Caitrin did as bid, pulling the door closed behind her.

  They were now completely alone—for the first time since his arrival at Duntulm.

  For the first time since he proposed to her on that balmy summer’s day.

  Caitrin clenched her jaw. She didn’t want to be in this man’s presence. Ever since he’d gotten back, he’d taken pains to torment her. He might be smiling at her now, but she didn’t trust him. She’d seen the glint in his eyes as he’d humiliated her earlier that day.

  And she wasn’t about to forgive him for it.

  “Don’t look so worried, Caitrin,” Alasdair said, raising an eyebrow. “I’d just like a word.” He motioned to the huge oaken table that dominated the center of the solar, where two places had been set. “Take a seat. The servants will bring the food up shortly.”

  Caitrin turned, moving woodenly to the table. The sight of it reminded her of how unpleasant he’d been when they’d gone over the accounts together. She wasn’t about to forgive him for th
at either.

  Anger coiled within her, overcoming her nervousness. It occurred to her then that she wasn’t afraid of Alasdair, not like she had been of Baltair. The few times she’d stood up for herself with her husband, he’d been brutal with her. She’d never have spoken to him like she had to Alasdair today.

  But she wasn’t going to apologize for it.

  Caitrin sat down at the table, and a moment later Alasdair joined her, lowering himself into a seat opposite. He was watching her, an intent expression on his face.

  “Ye are annoyed,” he noted.

  Caitrin started. “No, milord,” she said quickly. “I—”

  “Yer eyes turn dark blue when ye are riled,” he cut her off. “I remember that from when we were bairns.”

  Caitrin dropped her gaze to the polished wood surface before her. His comment made her feel uncomfortable, exposed.

  “Would ye like a cup of wine?” he asked, a smile in his voice.

  Caitrin nodded. She glanced up to see Alasdair pour two goblets of bramble wine. He handed one to her.

  Their fingers accidentally brushed when she took the goblet, and a shiver went up Caitrin’s arm. Unnerved by the reaction, she pulled her hand back and sloshed wine on the table.

  “Sorry,” she gasped. She went to rise, “I’ll find something to wipe that up.”

  “Please, sit down.” Alasdair waved her away. “The servants can clean it when they bring the food.”

  At that moment there came a knock at the door. “Supper, milord?”

  “Bring it in,” Alasdair called back.

  Fingers still tingling, Caitrin glanced up at the chieftain’s face. His smile had gone. His brown eyes were now hooded.

  Three servants, led by Galiene, entered the solar. They carried trays of food: a tureen of what smelled like pork and bean soup, fresh bread, and an array of aged cheeses.

  Caitrin felt queasy at the sight of it. She hadn’t eaten much at the noon meal—for that pottage had been virtually inedible—yet Alasdair’s presence robbed her of appetite.

  The pair of them sat in silence while the servants placed the platters on the table. Galiene spotted the spilled wine, whipped a cloth from her apron, and mopped it up. She then turned to Alasdair, favoring him with a smile.

  “Will ye be needing anything else, milord?”

  Alasdair met Galiene’s eye, his mouth curving. Galiene, who was nearing her fiftieth winter, had lived at Duntulm all her life. Caitrin sensed the affection between them. “No, that will be all, Galiene … thank ye.”

  The servants departed, and Alasdair leaned forward, ladling the thick soup into two bowls. He handed one to Caitrin, and she noted he made sure to keep his fingers far from hers.

  Caitrin helped herself to some bread and ripped a piece off it. Despite that she wasn’t hungry, eating would keep her busy, give her something to focus on.

  Silence stretched between them.

  Caitrin feigned a deep fascination for her supper, which she forced down with gulps of strong bramble wine.

  She was cutting herself a piece of cheese, when Alasdair spoke.

  “I’ve spoken to cook … she will take instruction from ye in future.”

  Caitrin glanced up. “She will?”

  He shrugged, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip from his goblet. “The men will riot if she serves up any more of that pottage.”

  Caitrin’s gaze narrowed. “Why then, did ye tell her she wasn’t to heed me?”

  Alasdair stared back at Caitrin, his gaze searing hers. His expression turned serious as a long pause drew out between them. When he answered, his tone was cool. “Because I knew it would hurt ye.”

  Chapter Eight

  Friends Again

  CAITRIN STARED BACK at Alasdair. His reply shouldn’t have surprised her, and yet it did. When she finally spoke, her voice held a rasp. “So … this is revenge?”

  Alasdair crossed his arms over his chest. “Did ye think I’d forgotten?”

  Caitrin swallowed. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet. “Ye are still bitter because I chose yer brother over ye?”

  There it was—the unspoken had finally been uttered.

  His mouth twisted.

  A brittle silence stretched between them, and eventually it was Caitrin who broke it. “I’m truly sorry for that day, Alasdair … for hurting ye.”

  His face hardened. “I don’t need yer apology.”

  “Clearly ye do,” she replied, holding his gaze. “If ye are bent on exacting some kind of petty revenge upon me.”

  He snorted. “Petty?”

  Caitrin drew in a deep breath, forcing down her ire. Even now he was deliberately baiting her. “I thought we were friends,” she said after a pause. “When ye proposed, ye took me by surprise.”

  Heat flooded across her chest at the memory of that afternoon. They’d been walking in the gardens south of Dunvegan, laughing and teasing one another, when Alasdair suddenly halted and turned to her. Then he’d gone down on one knee and proposed—just like that. Caitrin had been so shocked, she’d laughed. Her reaction had been one borne of surprise and nervousness, but the look of hurt on Alasdair’s face had haunted her for days afterward.

  “Aye,” he replied, his voice bitter. “Ye wanted a proposal from my dashing brother instead.”

  Caitrin swallowed. “I couldn’t help how I felt.” She paused here, looking into his eyes. “Ye didn’t have to run away.”

  He barked a humorless laugh. “Is that what ye think I did?”

  She held his gaze. “Didn’t ye? Ye had never shown any interest in joining the king’s army before … and then once my betrothal to Baltair was announced, ye couldn’t leave Skye fast enough.”

  Caitrin finished speaking and dropped her gaze, heart pounding. She hated confrontation—and this one was fast spiraling out of control. Soon one of them would say something there would be no coming back from.

  Alasdair didn’t reply, and when she looked up, she saw that he was staring into the fire. The ruddy light played across his lean face and the clenched line of his jaw. It reflected off his dark eyes.

  Caitrin’s belly clenched. He looked furious.

  He turned his gaze from the fire then and reached for his goblet of wine.

  To her surprise, Caitrin saw that his hand trembled.

  “Alasdair … what’s wrong?”

  He glanced down at his hand, and his mouth thinned. He then set the goblet down. “Nothing.”

  “I know I’ve upset ye but—”

  “It’s nothing,” he snapped.

  She frowned. Alasdair met her eye a moment, before he muttered a curse and leaned back in his chair, raking a hand through his long dark hair. After a long pause he finally spoke. “It happens … sometimes. Ever since the battle, I’ve been on edge.”

  Caitrin’s frown deepened, and she lowered her gaze to where his hand now rested upon the table. She’d heard of men being scarred by war, not just physically but on the inside, in places where no soul could ever see. “Is that all?” she asked.

  He shook his head, his attention shifting back to the fire. “I don’t sleep well anymore.”

  Caitrin nodded, remembering that she’d suggested a brew of valerian root a few days earlier. “It was bad then … the war?”

  Alasdair nodded. He shifted his attention back to Caitrin, pinning her under his stare. “I see I’m not the only one who has changed … ye have too. Ye are so stern these days, and ye hardly ever smile.”

  Caitrin tensed. She didn’t like how easily he had shifted the focus to her. “It’s a while since we saw each other last,” she said stiffly. “Of course I’m not the same lass.”

  “I hear ye weren’t happily wed to my brother.”

  Caitrin sucked in a breath. She should have realized tongues would wag.

  “I’m surprised,” Alasdair continued. “He was yer choice after all.”

  Heat rose to Caitrin’s cheeks, and she dropped her gaze to the goblet of wine before h
er. “He was.”

  “Handsome, charming, and powerful. My brother had women vying for his hand.”

  Caitrin wet her lips before glancing up. “Ye knew what he was?”

  He held her gaze. “Aye … and I thought ye did too.”

  She shook her head. “I was infatuated with him.”

  “And how long did that last?” Alasdair asked, his gaze boring into her.

  Heart racing now, Caitrin looked away once more. “Until the wedding night.”

  Silence fell between them, the hush broken only by the crackle of the hearth. When Alasdair finally shattered it, his voice was tired. “Neither of us is the same person we were, Caitrin. I’ll admit that when I arrived home, my first thought was to make ye suffer … but I see now that it’ll only cause disruption in the castle if things continue in this way.”

  Surprised by his frankness, Caitrin glanced back at Alasdair. His fingers were curled around the stem of his goblet, but he made no move to lift it to his lips.

  “Can’t we be friends again?” she asked softly. “Like we once were?”

  He watched her, his expression softening. Then his mouth curved into a smile. “Aye,” he said after a pause. “Perhaps we can.”

  Caitrin walked back to her quarters with a light step.

  She’d never had such a strange conversation. The words that had passed between them had ranged from confrontational and accusing, to conciliatory—and strangely honest.

  But in the end they’d managed to clear the air. They now had a chance to start over. Maybe the atmosphere at Duntulm would finally start to thaw.

  On the way to her quarters, she stopped by Eoghan’s chamber to check on him. The bairn lay on his side, sleeping peacefully. Caitrin had fed him before joining Alasdair for supper. With any luck, the lad would sleep through into the early hours of the morning.

  Leaning on the edge of the cot, Caitrin stared down at Eoghan’s face. During her pregnancy she’d been worried she’d find it hard to love Baltair’s child. Yet the moment she’d set eyes on her newborn son, she’d been lost. It was impossible not to love this sweet boy.