The Rogue's Bride (The Brides 0f Skye Book 3) Page 9

  It was a lie. She’d deliberately kept Eoghan’s fever from Alasdair. A fierce protective instinct had come over her when she’d realized Eoghan was unwell. She’d hoped that it would break during the night, and Alasdair wouldn’t have been any wiser.

  His expression hardened. “He’s the MacDonald heir. I have the right to know if he’s ill.”

  Annoyance surged within her, pushing aside the guilt. This was why she’d not told him. She didn’t like how Alasdair claimed ownership over Eoghan. He was her son, not his property.

  Alasdair straightened up, his dark brows knitting together. “The healer is to stay with him until the fever abates,” he announced, stepping back from her. “I don’t want him leaving Eoghan’s side.”

  Caitrin’s lips compressed. “But he has other patients to attend.”

  “None more important than Eoghan MacDonald. Send a servant to fetch him back. Tell him I shall pay him for his time.”

  With that Alasdair turned and strode from the bed-chamber.

  Alasdair stepped into the hallway to find the hand-maid Sorcha waiting there.

  His sudden appearance made her start. “Milord?”

  He nodded curtly before stepping past her to the stairwell. Behind him he heard the hand-maid re-enter the bed-chamber. Frowning, he climbed the stairs to the next level of the keep, to his solar.

  He’d almost reached the door when a voice hailed him. “Milord!”

  Alasdair turned to see Alban hurry up the last of the steps behind him, puffing like an old plow horse. The steward grasped something in his right hand, which he thrust at Alasdair when he reached the landing.

  “A rider just arrived from Dunvegan,” he announced, red in the face from his climb. “He brought this for ye.”

  Alasdair looked down at the rolled parchment, sealed with wax. It bore a stamp he recognized instantly: a bull’s head between two flags. The MacLeod crest.

  The steward hovered, his face expectant, but Alasdair turned from him.

  “Thank ye, Alban. I’ll read it in my solar.”

  Letting himself into his quarters, Alasdair carried the message over to the fire. With an irritated sigh he broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. Then he read it.

  Dear Chieftain Alasdair MacDonald,

  It is now nearly a year since my daughter was widowed. I understand Caitrin has proved herself useful as chatelaine at Duntulm, but I feel the time has come for her to wed once more.

  I have made enquiries and have three suitors who wish to meet with her. Please make arrangements for her to return to Dunvegan at yer earliest convenience.

  Yer humble servant,

  Clan-chief Malcolm MacLeod.

  Alasdair lowered the parchment, a frown creasing his brow. He’d expected such a letter to arrive sooner or later. Gavin MacNichol had warned them that MacLeod was growing restless.

  Caitrin had no wish to wed, or to leave Duntulm, but her father had other ideas.

  Malcolm MacLeod wasn’t a man to be crossed.

  Alasdair’s already sour mood darkened further as he realized he didn’t want Caitrin to leave.

  He’d returned home intent on making her suffer for the hurt she’d caused him—but after a while his quest for revenge had felt childish, pointless. Instead, they’d slowly built up a companionship that he’d grown to enjoy.

  Certainly, he was annoyed that she’d deliberately tried to hide Eoghan’s fever from him—it really was unacceptable behavior—but such things could be overcome.

  Alasdair loosed a breath and placed MacLeod’s letter on the mantelpiece. He wouldn’t think about Caitrin’s fate tonight, not with Eoghan burning with fever. He’d discuss this with her once her son had recovered.

  Caitrin gently lay the back of her hand on Eoghan’s brow—and let out a sigh of relief.

  His skin was warm, not burning hot as it had been. After two long days and nights, the fever had broken.

  The healer had informed her that her son was over the worst, before he departed the keep, face gaunt with fatigue, his purse heavy with silver pennies.

  Leaning against the edge of the cot, Caitrin closed her eyes. That was the second fever that Eoghan had suffered since his birth, although it was much worse than the first. Even the healer had started to look worried as the second night wore on.

  But now the worst was over.

  Caitrin felt wrung out. Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, her head heavy. She needed to rest.

  As if reading her mistress’s thoughts, Sorcha spoke up. “I’ll watch over the lad, Lady Caitrin. Why don’t ye go and lie down awhile?”

  Opening her eyes, Caitrin cast a grateful smile over her shoulder at her hand-maid. “I don’t know what I’d do without ye, Sorcha.”

  The young woman smiled back, her cheeks dimpling. She looked tired in the grey light that filtered in from the open window. It was a sunless day outdoors. Sorcha’s face was strained, her eyes hollowed.

  Caitrin was sure she looked far worse.

  “Ye are a good mother, milady,” Sorcha replied. “Ye couldn’t have done more for Eoghan.”

  Caitrin heaved a sigh. “I keep blaming myself. I shouldn’t have had him outdoors … if he caught a chill because—”

  “Ye don’t know that, milady,” Sorcha cut her off, her voice firm. “Ye aren’t to blame.”

  Caitrin pushed herself away from the edge of the crib. “I just thank the Lord it’s over,” she murmured.

  Eoghan was all she had. She couldn’t bear to lose him.

  Leaving Sorcha with her son, Caitrin made her way back to her own quarters. She entered her solar: a small, yet comfortable space, warmed by a glowing hearth. A servant had been in here, she noted. They’d left a tray of food—bannocks with butter and honey—for her.

  Caitrin had thought she’d be too exhausted to eat, but the sight of the food made her belly growl, reminding her that she’d missed supper the night before. Seating herself at the table, she poured out a cup of milk and started to butter a wedge of bannock.

  She was halfway through her meal when a knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” she called, expecting to see a servant.

  Instead, Alasdair MacDonald appeared. Leaning against the doorframe, he folded his arms across his chest and favored her with a tired smile. “I saw the healer leave earlier. He tells me Eoghan is on the mend?”

  Caitrin put down the bannock she’d been about to bite into. She had not spoken to Alasdair since their brief conversation two days earlier. “Aye,” she replied, her manner guarded. “His fever broke just before dawn.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that.”

  Not knowing what to say to him, Caitrin fell silent.

  “Are ye angry with me?” he asked after a moment.

  “No,” Caitrin replied warily.

  Pushing himself off the doorframe, Alasdair took a step into the solar. “I haven’t been inside this chamber for years,” he said, his gaze shifting around the solar. “Not since my mother was alive. It was Ma’s favorite spot … but I see ye have made it yer own.”

  His words eased the tension between them, and Caitrin nodded. Indeed, since her arrival at Duntulm, she’d imbued the solar with her own character. There were baskets of dried herbs and flowers dotted around the space. Colorful hangings, which she and Sorcha had spent the last three winters laboring over, covered the damp stone walls.

  Alasdair met her eye then. “I’m sorry about how I spoke to ye last. I was worried about Eoghan … it made me harsher than I intended.”

  “I was worried about him too,” she reminded him quietly, “but I also owe ye an apology … I should have told ye he was unwell.”

  Alasdair’s gaze clouded. “Why didn’t ye?”

  Caitrin looked away. “I don’t know.”

  He’d take offense if she told him the truth. Despite that they’d gotten along well over the past few months, when it came to Eoghan, she still didn’t trust him.

  She glanced back to see Alasdair watching her. “Are we
still friends, Caitrin?” he asked softly. The way he said her name made a shiver of pleasure run down her spine.

  Doing her best to ignore the distracting sensation, Caitrin frowned. “Of course.”

  He gave her a lopsided smile. “Then would ye have supper with me this evening in my solar?”

  Caitrin heaved in a deep breath. The air between them was suddenly charged. She wasn’t sure she wanted to spend an evening alone with him. It was best they kept their relationship well-defined. He was the chieftain, and she his chatelaine. They spoke daily about what needed to be done to keep Duntulm running, but they didn’t need to take things further than that.

  Yet she couldn’t refuse without giving offense. The boyish smile he gave her then, unraveled the last of her reserve toward him. He looked so hopeful she couldn’t deny him.

  “Very well,” she huffed before favoring him with a smile. “Now, please go away and let me finish my bannocks in peace.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I Don’t Want This

  CAITRIN TOOK A sip of wine. The deep, spicy flavor exploded on her tongue, and she glanced up, eyes widening. “This is delicious … what is it?”

  “Spiced black plum,” Alasdair replied with a smile. “The last of the wine laid down by my father.”

  Caitrin lowered her gaze to the deep red wine in her goblet, before she took another sip. “I thought we didn’t have any of that left?”

  His smile widened. “Aye … that’s because ye don’t know of Da’s secret store.”

  Caitrin inclined her head. “Clearly not.”

  The evening was drawing out. They had long since finished their supper of pork and kale pie. The servants had cleared away the dishes, before Alasdair suggested they shared a goblet of wine together. Caitrin had now taken a seat before the window while Alasdair leaned up against the stone ledge opposite.

  Alasdair drank from his goblet, his expression turning wistful. “No one could make wine like my father. We haven’t had a decent drop here since he died.”

  Caitrin watched him, noting Alasdair’s relaxed posture as he leaned against the sill, legs crossed at the ankles before him. She’d been tense upon first entering the solar—for she couldn’t set foot in this chamber without remembering Baltair—but after a good meal she was starting to unwind.

  The tension and worry of the past days slowly unraveled, and she found that she was enjoying the evening. The shutters were open, giving her a view of the deep indigo sky, where the stars were just twinkling into existence. The air filtering in was cool and laced with the scent of the sea.

  “The seeds are sown for the summer now,” she said finally. “All we need is a few months of sunshine.”

  He huffed a laugh. “Ye are never guaranteed that on this isle.”

  “I saw the new grain store yesterday.”

  “Aye.” He met her eye, his mouth curving. “What do ye think of it?”

  “It’s a very clever design … I never thought of raising it so high off the ground.”

  Alasdair smiled. “It keeps rodents out. I saw one similar in Inbhir Nis … ye needed a ladder to get up to it. We’re going to build three more before summer ends.”

  Caitrin inclined her head, studying him. “Ye make a fine chieftain, Alasdair MacDonald. The folk of this land are fortunate to have ye.”

  Alasdair held her gaze. “Are they?”

  The atmosphere suddenly altered between them, a tension rising that had been absent earlier. Suddenly, Caitrin felt nervous. She looked away and took a large gulp of wine to fortify herself.

  “I know Eoghan is important to ye,” she said finally, “but why not find yerself a wife and father children of yer own?” She raised her chin, forcing herself to meet his eye once more. “The MacDonalds of Duntulm risk dying out.”

  His gaze guttered, and yet he didn’t reply. Instead he looked away, focusing upon the dark sky outdoors.

  Caitrin’s breathing quickened. She probably shouldn’t have spoken of something so personal, and yet this issue had been bothering her. “Alasdair?”

  He shifted his gaze back to her, and the look on his face made Caitrin swallow hard. She curled both hands around the goblet, as if anchoring herself to it.

  “After ye wed Baltair, I made a decision.” His voice held a rasp. “If I couldn’t have ye, I would have no one.”

  The words fell heavily in the solar.

  For a long moment, Caitrin merely stared at Alasdair, and then her chest constricted as guilt tore into her. She knew she’d hurt him—but the wounds went deeper than she’d thought. “Ye shouldn’t throw yer life away like that,” she whispered. “It’s a waste. Ye would make a fine husband and father.”

  He set his goblet down on the window ledge with a thump. “I’m not sure I would.”

  Caitrin heaved in a deep breath. Suddenly, it felt airless inside the solar, despite the fact that she sat next to the open window. Caitrin put down her goblet and rose from the seat, taking a step away from him. “I should go,” she said quietly, her heart racing now. “It’s late.”

  Alasdair moved.

  One moment, he’d been standing there, watching her with eyes aflame, the next he stepped forward, covering the distance between them. He reached out, grasped Caitrin’s shoulders, and pulled her toward him.

  Then he bent his head and kissed her.

  It was a searing, hard kiss—and it scattered Caitrin’s thoughts like autumn leaves caught by the wind.

  At first, she was shocked and stood there rigid as his mouth slanted over hers. And then the feel of his lips on hers ignited something deep in Caitrin’s belly. His touch made her body quiver.

  Still gripping her shoulders, Alasdair pushed Caitrin back against the wall. His lips parted hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth as he deepened the kiss. The hard length of his body pressed up against hers. The spicy male scent of him filled her senses. He kissed her as if he was starved.

  Caitrin gave in to the heat of Alasdair’s embrace for a moment, before a chill washed over her.

  What am I doing?

  If she submitted to this, she’d risk losing everything she’d worked so hard to achieve here at Duntulm. Independence. Respect. She wouldn’t let another man control her. Caitrin’s hands went up to Alasdair’s chest.

  Never again.

  She braced herself against him, pushing hard.

  Alasdair pulled back, surprise filtering over his face. “Caitrin?”

  “I can’t,” Caitrin gasped. She slid along the wall, away from him. “We can’t.”

  Alasdair frowned, his eyes shadowing with concern. “What’s wrong?”

  He took a step toward her, but Caitrin held out a hand, warning him not to come any closer. “No … Alasdair. Please don’t.”

  He stopped short, his face going taut. “I’d never hurt ye.”

  Caitrin shook her head. She should have seen this moment coming. Tension had been building between them for a while now; it had only been a matter of time.

  “This was a mistake,” she whispered.

  His features hardened. “We haven’t done anything wrong, Caitrin. All I did was kiss ye.”

  “No.” The word ripped from her. “I don’t want this.”

  She backed up from him, knocking into the edge of the oaken table that dominated the center of the solar. Then she turned and fled from the chamber.

  Alasdair watched Caitrin run from him.

  He took two swift steps to follow her and then brought himself up short.

  No.

  His heart slammed painfully against his ribs as the door to the solar thudded shut, and he heard her footfalls receding quickly down the hallway beyond.

  I don’t want this.

  The words had struck him like physical blows. They still stung in the aftermath.

  Alasdair dragged a hand through his hair and spat out a curse.

  He hadn’t meant to kiss her. The conversation had spiraled out of control, and then he’d forgotten himself. Alasdair hadn’t
thought about the consequences of his actions. He’d reached for her on instinct, and when she was in his arms, her mouth under his, he’d been unable to stop kissing her.

  Caitrin had tasted even better than in his dreams.

  But then she’d pushed him away. She didn’t want him.

  Alasdair strode back to the window and threw himself down on the window-seat, where Caitrin had been sitting until a few moments earlier. He reached for his goblet of wine, and stopped. His hand trembled badly, as if he were an old man struck by palsy.

  Jaw clenched, Alasdair fisted his hand and lowered it to the window-sill.

  He couldn’t believe he’d made an utter fool of himself for the second time—kicked in the guts twice by the same woman.

  It had taken everything he had to reach for Caitrin. And she’d rejected him—again. Only this time it felt worse. This time he’d been kissing her, and she’d recoiled from him.

  There was no coming back from such an act. Caitrin had made her feelings clear.

  Alasdair squeezed his eyes closed. The pain that constricted his chest made it hard to breathe. Disappointment and hurt churned within him, making his bile rise.

  Enough.

  Alasdair opened his eyes, his gaze shifting to the mantelpiece, where the rolled missive from Malcolm MacLeod still sat. He’d been meaning to discuss it with Caitrin during supper but had forgotten.

  Truthfully, he’d been reluctant to, for he’d wanted her to remain in Duntulm.

  But that was before he’d kissed her, before she’d shoved him away from her as if his very touch made her skin crawl.

  I don’t want this.

  No—she couldn’t stay here. Caitrin needed to go home.

  Chapter Sixteen

  He Will Want for Nothing

  CAITRIN STABBED HER finger with the needle before letting out a curse.

  Shocked, Sorcha glanced up from her own sewing. “Milady?”

  Caitrin cast the hand-maid a baleful look but didn’t reply. Instead, she sucked on her injured finger, which now throbbed. She wasn’t in the best frame of mind for embroidery. Her nerves felt stretched tight as a drawn bow-string this morning.