The Rogue's Bride (The Brides 0f Skye Book 3) Page 8

  “Good day, milord,” she greeted him. The rain had drenched her and Eoghan now. The bairn still squawked loud enough to bring down the heavens. She then favored Gavin with an apologetic smile. “Excuse me, but I must get my son inside.”

  “Aye,” Alasdair replied with a grimace, just as more thunder boomed overhead. An instant later, lightning lit up the sky. “None of us should linger out here.”

  “How long has it been since we saw each other last?” Gavin MacNichol regarded Alasdair over the rim of his goblet.

  “A while,” Alasdair replied with a wry smile. “At least four years, I’d wager.”

  The MacNichol chieftain snorted. “I remember now.” He cut a glance to where Darron sat a few yards away. “It was when I accompanied my nephew here. The pair of ye could barely grow half a beard between ye … and now look at ye both. One’s a guard captain and the other is a chieftain.” He shook his head. “Makes me feel old.”

  Darron laughed. “That’s because ye are, uncle.”

  “Not too old to whip yer arse,” the chieftain rumbled.

  Observing the MacNichol chieftain, Caitrin noted that his face bore lines that hadn’t been there last time she’d seen him. During her marriage to Baltair, he’d visited Duntulm twice—the first time with his wife, the second alone, for his wife had been ill. Gavin MacNichol now neared his fortieth winter, but he was still an attractive man: blond and broad-shouldered with warm blue eyes. Yet recent events had left their mark upon his face. He looked tired.

  “Milord,” Caitrin spoke up, meeting his eye. “I was so sorry to hear about Lady Innis.”

  The MacNichol chieftain’s gaze shadowed, and the light went out of his usually affable face. “Aye … thank ye, Lady Caitrin. I can’t believe it has been nearly a year since she died.” He raised his goblet to his lips and drank deeply. “With her gone, and losing many of my men to the war, my broch feels empty these days.”

  “I’m sorry, Gavin,” Alasdair spoke up, frowning. “I didn’t know about yer wife.”

  MacNichol waved him away. “No offense taken. Ye were off fighting for Scottish freedom. Ye weren’t to know.”

  An awkward silence fell across the table then. They were seated in the Great Hall. Outside, the storm still raged, battering the thick stone walls, while indoors the air was humid and heavy with the odor of wet wool and leather.

  Gavin MacNichol reached for more wine. “In the meantime, life goes on … as it must,” he said quietly. His attention returned to Caitrin. “I received word from yer father two days ago, milady.”

  “Ye did?” Something in the man’s tone made Caitrin tense, as did his change of expression.

  “Aye … he tells me that ye are in search of a new husband?”

  Caitrin’s fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet. She’d known her father would start meddling sooner or later. He’d gone suspiciously quiet of late, which could only mean he was planning something.

  “He is in search of a husband for me, milord,” she said after a pause. “However, I am content to remain as chatelaine here.”

  “So ye don’t wish to remarry?”

  Caitrin swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. She was aware that all the men at the table—Alasdair, Darron, Boyd, and Alban—were watching her.

  “No,” she murmured. “I don’t.”

  The chieftain held her eye for a long moment, before his mouth curved. He shifted his attention to Alasdair then, his expression curious. “I take it that Lady Caitrin has proved herself invaluable to Duntulm?”

  “Aye,” Alasdair replied. His expression had turned serious, his gaze shuttered. “She ran things well after Baltair’s death … and continues to do so.”

  “So ye will let her remain here? A good chatelaine is hard to find.”

  Alasdair nodded, although his face had tensed, warning Gavin MacNichol to cease his line of questioning.

  Heeding him, his guest took a sip from his goblet and glanced back at Caitrin. “It’s a pity ye aren’t interested in wedding again, milady,” MacNichol said, favoring her with a warm smile. “For I am looking for a wife.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Waste of a Good Woman

  EOGHAN’S WAILS ECHOED down the hallway.

  Caitrin picked up her skirts and hurried toward his bed-chamber. She’d just left her solar, and was about to descend the stairs, when she heard his cries. Eoghan usually had a nap mid-morning, but it appeared he’d awoken early.

  Inside the warm, dimly-lit chamber, she found Eoghan red-faced and gripping the sides of his cot.

  “What is it, my wee laddie?” She scooped him into her arms. “Worry not … Ma’s here.”

  Caitrin carried Eoghan across to a chair and sat down. Her son was growing heavy to hold now. She’d recently weaned him, and he’d taken to solid food with relish. As she settled Eoghan on her knee, her hand brushed his face.

  Caitrin frowned. It was warm in the chamber, as Sorcha made sure the hearth was well stoked, but Eoghan’s brow was hot to touch. His cheeks were flushed, not from crying, but fever. He hadn’t been outdoors long in the rain the afternoon before—but he appeared to have caught a chill.

  The bairn wriggled on her knee, his flushed face scrunched up as he cried. Murmuring to him, Caitrin cradled him against her breast. After a few moments, Eoghan quieted. Caitrin closed her eyes, enjoying the peace. Gavin MacNichol’s visit had thrown the keep into chaos. They hadn’t been expecting him, so there had been chambers to ready for him and his men, and extra food to be prepared.

  Caitrin had just come up from the kitchens, where cook had been in a temper about having no time to plan for the visitors. Caitrin had left her with instructions to put out an extra haunch of mutton with the noon meal. Briana had muttered under her breath about this, but had acquiesced in the end.

  She’d been much more compliant of late, since Alasdair had spoken with her.

  Once Eoghan had calmed, Caitrin lay him back into his cot. She needed to find Sorcha. Slipping out of the bed-chamber, she had almost reached the stairs when she met her hand-maid.

  “I was coming up to fetch ye, milady,” Sorcha greeted her with a smile. “The supplies have just arrived.”

  This was good news, for Caitrin had been waiting for a delivery of goods from the mainland for days now: cloth, spices, and other items that were difficult to buy on the isle. She wanted to make an inventory of the items, before they were put away.

  “Thank ye, Sorcha,” Caitrin replied. “I’ve just seen Eoghan. He has the beginnings of a fever. Can ye please stay with him while I see to the supplies? I hate to leave him when he’s upset.”

  Sorcha’s brow furrowed, worry lighting in her blue eyes. “Of course.”

  Leaving her hand-maid to look after Eoghan, Caitrin fetched her wooden board and a stub of charcoal from her solar. She then continued down to the bailey. Picking her way across the muddy ground, doing her best to avoid the puddles left by yesterday’s storm, she approached a large wagon. A young man had just pulled back the hide tarpaulin, revealing tightly stacked wooden barrels and crates.

  “Good day, Tory,” she greeted the servant.

  “Good morning, milady,” Tory returned the greeting with a grin. “Shall we take these into the stores?”

  “Open them up first, please,” Caitrin instructed. “I want to make sure we’ve gotten what we ordered.”

  He obeyed, using a knife to pry the lid off a small barrel. A sweet, woody scent drifted into the damp air, and Caitrin peered inside, a smile curving her lips. “Cinnamon,” she breathed. She’d forgotten that she’d ordered some all those months ago—the scent reminded her of mulled wine at Yuletide.

  Scratching a note on her board, Caitrin nodded to Tory.

  “Open that one next to it.”

  The young man pried the lid off another small barrel, which was filled with black peppercorns. Another costly spice, and one which would hopefully last them a while.

  “Make sure ye close those barrels well,” Cait
rin ordered, “and put them on the top shelf in the stores.”

  “Aye, milady.” Tory carried the barrels of precious spice away, leaving Caitrin alone. She was just scratching another note when a male voice behind her made her start. “Good day, Lady Caitrin.”

  She glanced over her shoulder to see that Gavin MacNichol had approached. Her heart sank at the sight of him. After the words they’d shared the day before, she felt a little uncomfortable around the chieftain. She’d always liked Gavin, but during that meal she’d seen the glint of interest in his eyes. Her father hadn’t helped matters either, but she didn’t want to encourage him further. She also didn’t want to linger out here in the bailey any longer than necessary. With Eoghan so restless, she needed to return to her son as soon as possible.

  “Good day, Chieftain MacNichol.”

  “Busy, I see,” he observed. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Alasdair is lucky to have yer help here.”

  “These are long awaited supplies,” she replied, favoring him with a smile of her own. “The first since the war.”

  He gave her a long, searching look. “It’s good to see ye happy again, lass.” Caitrin tensed, and when she didn’t answer, he continued. “Innis told me how unhappy ye were … but the last time I visited, I didn’t need anyone to point it out to me. I’ve never seen a woman with such sad eyes.”

  Caitrin dropped her gaze to the muddy ground, aware that Tory would return soon. MacNichol had been so direct she didn’t know how to respond.

  “Baltair could be a brute, and he wasn’t easy to like,” the chieftain said after a pause. “I’m just sorry he put ye off wedding again.”

  Caitrin glanced up, meeting his gaze. Gavin MacNichol was watching her with a soft look that made her feel wretched.

  “Not every woman is meant to be a wife,” she replied, her tone brittle.

  He inclined his head. “No … but it’s a waste of a good woman such as yerself.”

  “How is he?” Caitrin let herself into her son’s bed-chamber to find Sorcha seated by the fire, sewing in hand. Eoghan lay asleep in his crib.

  As soon as the supplies had been dealt with, she’d made her way back upstairs.

  Sorcha cast aside her sewing and rose to her feet, her face tense with concern. “His cheeks are very red … but he has been sleeping since ye left.”

  Caitrin crossed to the crib and gazed down at her son’s sleeping face. Sorcha was right. His cheeks were deeply flushed now, and when she pressed a hand to his forehead, she drew in a sharp breath. He was burning up. “Go and fetch a healer, Sorcha,” she ordered. “Quickly, please.”

  Sorcha nodded. Without another word, she left the chamber.

  Alone, Caitrin let out a deep sigh. Massaging a tense muscle in her shoulder, she continued to watch Eoghan, calmed by the steady rise and fall of his chest.

  It’s only a fever, she reassured herself.

  Why then did cold dread curl in the pit of her belly?

  “Where are ye off to in such a hurry?”

  Sorcha was looping a woolen shawl over her shoulders as she crossed the keep’s entrance hall, when a familiar voice hailed her. She glanced over her shoulder to see Darron MacNichol approach.

  “Wee Master Eoghan has a fever,” she replied briskly, “I’m off to the village to fetch the healer.”

  Darron stepped close to her. “I’ll come with ye.”

  Sorcha clicked her tongue. “There’s no need for that, MacNichol. Ye don’t have to escort a hand-maid.”

  He favored her with a stubborn look. “Ye serve Lady Caitrin, Sorcha. That makes ye my responsibility as well.”

  Sorcha huffed. “Suit yerself.”

  They made their way outside and crossed the bailey under an overcast sky, their boots splashing through the mud. Crossing the drawbridge, Sorcha avoided looking down at the deep ditch that surrounded the curtain wall on three sides. If she ever slipped and fell into it, she’d break her neck for sure.

  Striding down the hill toward the village, Sorcha stole a glance at Darron. The captain of the guard was an enigma. Upon her arrival at Duntulm, she’d suffered something of an infatuation for him. But after realizing he barely noticed her existence, she’d promptly put him out of her head.

  These days though, he’d altered in his manner toward her. It seemed that everywhere she went, Darron MacNichol appeared. He wasn’t a garrulous man, yet he’d approached her at Beltane—much to Boyd’s irritation.

  Boyd MacDonald. She wasn’t sure she trusted him. He often went out of his way to speak to her—and when he did his charm was breathtaking—but just yesterday she’d heard two of the scullery maids gossiping about how he’d stolen a kiss from one of them. Sorcha had gone cold. Suddenly, his compliments and melting looks took on a different meaning.

  Pushing thoughts of Boyd aside, Sorcha broke the silence between her and Darron. “Is yer uncle still at Duntulm?”

  Darron glanced her way. “Aye … Gavin leaves tomorrow. Why?”

  “I heard he’s looking for a wife.”

  Darron raised an eyebrow. “Are ye interested?”

  “Of course not.” Sorcha cast Darron an irritated look. As the bastard daughter of the MacQueen chieftain, men like Gavin MacNichol were far beyond her reach. “Galiene told me that he was showing an interest in Lady Caitrin.”

  Darron snorted. “Galiene has the loosest tongue in the keep.”

  “Is she wrong?”

  “Ye shouldn’t gossip, Sorcha. It’s unbecoming.”

  “Oh, stop being such an old woman, MacNichol, and answer me.”

  He cast her a censorious look. “My uncle is a widower. If he’s considering taking another wife, there’s nothing strange in that.”

  “He’s wasting his time on Lady Caitrin … she doesn’t wish to wed again.”

  “I know,” he replied with a shake of his head. “And she’s not the only one. Alasdair MacDonald doesn’t want to wed either it seems.”

  Sorcha nodded, remembering the chieftain’s words that day in his solar months earlier when she’d brought Eoghan in to see him.

  When Darron spoke once more, his tone was introspective. “Ye didn’t meet Alasdair before he went away, did ye?”

  “No … I arrived at Duntulm the same time as Lady Caitrin. He’d already joined the king’s cause.”

  “The war changed him,” Darron said, glancing her way once more. They’d almost reached the bottom of the hill now. “There’s an edge to Alasdair that wasn’t there before … like he’s expecting someone to sneak up behind him and sink a knife into his back.”

  Sorcha nodded. “I’ve seen him staring off into the distance sometimes,” she murmured. “He’s tries to hide it … but he’s troubled.”

  Silence stretched out between them for a few moments before Darron broke it. “Do ye ever give some thought to yer own future, Sorcha?”

  Surprised, Sorcha cut him a sharp glance. “Not really … why?”

  His gaze met hers. “Do ye wish to one day wed?”

  Embarrassment flushed through Sorcha at the direct question. “I … don’t know,” she stammered, trying to tamp down the heat that was now rising up her neck. “I’ve not thought about it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Trifling Thing

  “DARRON … WHERE’S LADY Caitrin this evening?” Alasdair put down his goblet, his gaze settling upon Captain MacNichol. “She usually takes her supper with us.”

  Darron glanced up from his bowl of stew. “Hasn’t Lady Caitrin spoken to ye, milord?”

  “Not since this morning … why?”

  Darron frowned. “I thought she would have told ye.”

  Alasdair went still. “Told me what?”

  “Her son’s ill … she’ll be upstairs with him.”

  Silence fell at the table. After a long moment Gavin MacNichol broke it. “Poor lad. Is he—”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Alasdair cut in.

  “A fever.”

  Alasdair tensed. Wh
y hadn’t Caitrin sent word? If his heir was ill, he had the right to know. Pushing down his irritation, he met Darron’s eye once more. “Has the healer been fetched?”

  “Aye.”

  Alasdair pushed himself back from the table and rose to his feet. “I’d better check on the lad.”

  “Can’t it wait till after supper?” Boyd spoke up. He’d just finished setting up a board with stone markers. “I thought we were going to have a game of Ard-ri?”

  “Later,” Alasdair snapped.

  Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the Great Hall.

  “Lady Caitrin,” Sorcha slipped into the bed-chamber closing the door behind her, “the chieftain is here … he wants to see Master Eoghan.”

  Caitrin, who’d been rocking Eoghan in her arms, tensed. “Let him in,” she murmured.

  Sorcha nodded before disappearing into the hallway beyond.

  A moment later a tall figure stepped into the dimly-lit room. Dressed in plaid braies, a léine, and a leather vest, Alasdair wore an unusually severe expression.

  “Good eve, milord,” she greeted him.

  “How is my nephew?” he asked. “I hear he has a fever?”

  His brusque manner made Caitrin frown. “He does, milord.”

  “Where’s the healer?”

  “I sent him away. He’s visiting again in the morning.” Caitrin rose to her feet, cradling the hot body against her. Her arms ached from holding him, yet she didn’t want to put him back in his crib, not yet.

  Alasdair walked forward so that he loomed over her. However, it wasn’t Caitrin he was focused on at that moment, but the bairn. His brow furrowed further when he reached down and touched the lad’s flushed face. “He’s on fire.”

  “Aye … he must have caught a chill yesterday.”

  Alasdair glanced up, his gaze spearing hers. “Why didn’t ye call for me?” he asked softly.

  Guilt wreathed up within Caitrin. “I didn’t want to bother ye,” she murmured. “I thought it was a trifling thing.”