by Jayne Castel
THE
ROGUE’S BRIDE
B O O K T H R E E
T H E B R I D E S O F S K Y E
J A Y N E C A S T E L
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Some things cannot be forgotten—or forgiven. The widow trying to forge a new life for herself. The man she once spurned bent on revenge.
Caitrin is a widow left to rule her husband’s territory alone. The survivor of a loveless, unhappy marriage, she vows never to let another man control her. Instead, she finds herself in charge of a vast estate.
Alasdair MacDonald returns from war to discover his sister-in-law is chatelaine over his dead brother’s lands—territory that now belongs to him.
Caitrin has haunted Alasdair’s dreams from the moment she spurned him years earlier. He’s never gotten over it, or forgiven her for breaking his heart by choosing his elder brother over him. Now he has a chance for vengeance, to take her young son and her new-found freedom from her. Only he soon discovers that his long dormant feelings for the beautiful widow can’t be so easily set aside.
Historical Romances by Jayne Castel
DARK AGES BRITAIN
The Kingdom of the East Angles series
Night Shadows (prequel novella)
Dark Under the Cover of Night (Book One)
Nightfall till Daybreak (Book Two)
The Deepening Night (Book Three)
The Kingdom of the East Angles: The Complete Series
The Kingdom of Mercia series
The Breaking Dawn (Book One)
Darkest before Dawn (Book Two)
Dawn of Wolves (Book Three)
The Kingdom of Mercia: The Complete Series
The Kingdom of Northumbria series
The Whispering Wind (Book One)
Wind Song (Book Two)
Lord of the North Wind (Book Three)
The Kingdom of Northumbria: The Complete Series
DARK AGES SCOTLAND
The Warrior Brothers of Skye series
Blood Feud (Book One)
Barbarian Slave (Book Two)
Battle Eagle (Book Three)
The Warrior Brothers of Skye: The Complete Series
The Pict Wars series
Warrior’s Heart (Book One)
Novellas
Winter’s Promise
MEDIEVAL SCOTLAND
The Brides of Skye series
The Beast’s Bride (Book One)
The Outlaw’s Bride (Book Two)
The Rogue’s Bride (Book Three)
Epic Fantasy Romances by Jayne Castel
Light and Darkness series
Ruled by Shadows (Book One)
The Lost Swallow (Book Two)
All characters and situations in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
The Outlaw’s Bride, by Jayne Castel
Copyright © 2019 by Jayne Castel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author.
Published by Winter Mist Press
Edited by Tim Burton
Cover photography courtesy of www.shutterstock.com
Scotch thistle vector image courtesy of Wikipedia Commons.
Map by Jayne Castel
The Wild Mountain Thyme poem, courtesy of www.rampantscotland.com/songs/blsongs_thyme.htm
Visit Jayne’s website and blog: www.jaynecastel.com
Follow Jayne on Twitter: @JayneCastel
***
For Timbo—you have been with me every step of the way.
***
Contents
Map
Chapter One
The Missive
Chapter Two
Too Much Ale
Chapter Three
Ye Are Looking Well
Chapter Four
Trouble Sleeping
Chapter Five
Taken Seriously
Chapter Six
Too Far
Chapter Seven
Taking Instruction
Chapter Eight
Friends Again
Chapter Nine
Planting Barley
Chapter Ten
Deer Stalking
Chapter Eleven
Before the Beltane Fire
Chapter Twelve
Looking for a Wife
Chapter Thirteen
A Waste of a Good Woman
Chapter Fourteen
A Trifling Thing
Chapter Fifteen
I Don’t Want This
Chapter Sixteen
He Will Want for Nothing
Chapter Seventeen
Out for Vengeance
Chapter Eighteen
Return to Dunvegan
Chapter Nineteen
First Impressions
Chapter Twenty
Competition
Chapter Twenty-one
Ye Want to Choose Wisely
Chapter Twenty-two
Dancing and Feasting
Chapter Twenty-three
The Bonniest Lass on Skye
Chapter Twenty-four
Before It’s Too Late
Chapter Twenty-five
Make Ye Mine
Chapter Twenty-six
Mo Leannan
Chapter Twenty-seven
Forgiveness
Chapter Twenty-eight
Vows
Chapter Twenty-nine
Sing for Us
Chapter Thirty
Irreplaceable
Chapter Thirty-one
All We Need Is Time
Chapter Thirty-two
Duntulm Fair
Chapter Thirty-three
Willing
Chapter Thirty-four
A Man of My Word
Epilogue
I Made Ye a Promise
More works by Jayne Castel
About the Author
Map
Memories are dangerous things.
You turn them over and over,
until you know every touch and corner,
but still you’ll find an edge to cut you.
—Mark Lawrence
Chapter One
The Missive
Duntulm Castle, Isle of Skye, Scotland
Winter, 1347 AD
“NOT POTTAGE … AGAIN?”
Duntulm’s cook, an elderly woman with white hair pulled back into a bun and a face as wrinkled as walnut, frowned. “It’s a good, wholesome meal, milady.”
Caitrin shook her head. “We’ve had pottage and dumplings thrice over the past week. The men are starting to complain. They want some meat.”
Cook’s mouth thinned. “We need to watch our stores, milady. Spring is still some way off.”
Caitrin suppressed a sigh. “We had the best harvest in years … and the men brought back many deer and boar from their hunting trips in the autumn. Ye don’t need to worry about us running out of food.”
Cook wrung her hands, clearly unconvinced. The two women stood in Duntulm’s kitchen, a warm space dominated by a long scrubbed oaken table. The sulfurous odor of over-cooked onion, cabbage, and turnip surrounded them.
A huge cauldron of vegetable pottage simmered over the hearth at one end of the kitchen.
Caitrin did sigh then, irritation rising within her. Despite that she and cook planned Duntulm’s meals together every week, the wom
an often took it upon herself to change things. Today was one such occasion.
Caitrin was just about to speak once more when the door to the kitchen opened and a small dark-haired woman entered. Her hand-maid, Sorcha’s, cheeks were flushed, as if she’d just come in from the cold.
“Lady Caitrin, a message has arrived for ye.” The young woman’s eyes were bright; they rarely received missives at Duntulm. The fortress sat upon Skye’s isolated northern tip. They had no news of the outside world for weeks on end here. The maid clutched a scroll in her hand, holding it out to Caitrin. “It bears the MacDonald seal,” she said, her voice edged in excitement.
Caitrin’s belly contracted.
Schooling her features into an expressionless mask, she took the scroll. “Thank ye, Sorcha.”
Her hand-maid hovered, her gaze curious. “Do ye need anything, milady.”
“Aye, please check on Eoghan. I’ll be up to feed him later.”
Sorcha nodded before bobbing into a curtsy. “Aye, milady.”
The girl bustled over to the door. Small and curvaceous, Sorcha MacQueen was the bastard daughter of a neighboring chieftain. Unable to keep her under his own roof, MacQueen had given her to the MacDonalds as a hand-maid to the chieftain’s wife. Caitrin had expected the young woman to be bitter over it, for her father had essentially washed his hands of her, yet Sorcha seemed resolutely cheerful.
Maybe it was a front. Perhaps, underneath it all, Sorcha harbored sadness and resentment. Caitrin should know—for she was adept at holding up a shield to keep others at bay.
She did so even now as she stood with cook, the roll of parchment in her hand. She dared not let her true feelings show.
Instead, she turned to cook.
The elderly woman was watching her intently, a shrewd look in her dark eyes.
“No more pottage for the next week, Briana,” Caitrin said, using a sharp tone she knew cook would heed. “And put out salted pork and cheese with the noon meal today.”
Not giving cook an opportunity to argue, Caitrin left the kitchen, her ring of iron chatelaine keys rattling at her waist.
Outside, she crossed the snow-covered bailey, her boots sinking into the pristine crust. Then Caitrin navigated the slippery steps and entered the keep. Drawing her fur mantle close, she made her way up to her solar. Even indoors it was freezing today. Her breathing steamed before her. The snow had lain for days now. However, Caitrin’s thoughts were not on the weather, but upon the rolled parchment she carried.
She held it gingerly, as if it were a venomous adder, coiled, ready to sink its fangs into her. And when she entered the solar, she had to quash the instinct to throw the missive directly on the fire without reading it.
Sinking down onto a high-backed chair before the hearth, she turned the parchment over, her gaze alighting upon the MacDonald crest. It showed an armored hand clutching a cross.
“Per Mare Per Terras,” she whispered the MacDonald clan motto. By sea and land. The clan was one of Scotland’s largest, stretching its influence down most of the kingdom’s western coast.
This message could be from any of them, she told herself as nervousness tightened her throat. It isn’t from him.
Yet her gut told her differently. None of the other MacDonalds had reason to contact her in the dead of winter. There was only one man who had any business here, and she’d thought him dead.
Had prayed that he’d died in that bloody battle against the English.
It was an uncharitable thought—for she’d never wished him ill previously—but she’d hoped for it nonetheless. She wanted the past buried.
With trembling fingers, Caitrin broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. Then she drew in a deep, steadying breath, and began to read. Like her sisters, she’d learned her letters as a girl. A nun from Kilbride Abbey had traveled to Dunvegan, where Caitrin had grown up, and had patiently taught them. It was something her mother had insisted upon, although after her death the lessons ceased.
Caitrin was grateful that she could read and write. The skills had proved useful for her role as chatelaine. Even so, she’d never been quick at it. She took her time over reading now. The letter was written in a bold, masculine script. It was brief and formal, with a chill undertone.
Dear Lady Caitrin MacDonald, widow of Baltair MacDonald,
News has reached me of my brother’s death. I am currently in Inbhir Nis but will travel to the Isle of Skye presently. Upon my return, I will take up my rightful role as chieftain. Please make Duntulm ready for my arrival.
Yer humble servant,
Alasdair MacDonald.
Caitrin stared at the words so hard that her vision blurred.
Alasdair MacDonald was alive; it was there written in ink before her. She knew her father had sent word to the mainland in the hope of tracking down the MacDonald heir—and he’d found him.
Caitrin swallowed, cast the parchment aside, and stood up. Alasdair MacDonald’s return put her life at Duntulm at risk.
After Baltair’s death she’d felt adrift, worried for her future. But then she’d returned to Duntulm and assumed the role of chatelaine. She now ran the fortress—and she’d discovered that she was good at it. She liked dealing with the servants, speaking to the villagers, ordering supplies, and making plans for the year ahead.
Would Alasdair allow her and Eoghan to remain living here?
Heart pounding, Caitrin left the fireside, crossed to the south-facing window, and ripped open the shutters. Snow fluttered in, tickling her face. Caitrin leaned on the stone ledge and looked out at the wintry morning. A blanket of white covered the world, making everything look clean and bright. However, dark clouds rolled in from the sea, bringing with them fresh snow. The flakes swirled as they fell upon Duntulm, frosting the battlements beneath her.
Caitrin’s solar sat high and gave her a commanding view of the rest of the rectangular-shaped keep. In the bailey below she caught sight of a stocky figure crunching through the snow. Alban MacLean, steward of the castle. He would need to be told that Baltair’s brother was alive and returning to take up his role as chieftain.
Over these past months Alban—a gruff but kind-hearted man—had willingly shared rule over Duntulm. Initially, she’d been nervous that he and Darron MacNichol, who captained the Duntulm Guard, might try to overrule her. She was, after all, a woman alone—left in charge of a castle and a great tract of land. But they hadn’t.
Caitrin leaned against the ledge and closed her eyes, letting the icy wind and feathery touch of snowflakes caress her face.
These last seven months had been a blessing. She’d had a reprieve from the life her father had set out for her. As the eldest, she’d been the first of her sisters to wed. Two years of misery later, she’d become a widow. But Baltair hadn’t even been buried when her father—the MacLeod clan-chief—started talking of the need to find Caitrin a new husband once her mourning period passed.
Caitrin’s breathing hitched. She couldn’t bear the thought of being shackled to another man, of having to endure his touch, his demands. Being with Baltair had shattered all her illusions about what it meant to be a wife. Both her younger sisters, Rhona and Adaira, were wedded now, and happily so to men who loved them, but that wasn’t to be her story.
Not all tales had a happy ending.
An ache grew in Caitrin’s chest, and she reached up, rubbing at her breast bone with her knuckles. Opening her eyes, she stepped back from the window. She wished her sisters nothing but happiness, and yet thinking about them made her heart hurt from loneliness.
It was best not to dwell on such things.
“Good morning, Lady Caitrin.” A tall warrior with silver-blond hair stepped forward to greet Caitrin as she made her way down the icy steps from the keep into the bailey. “Watch yer step.”
Caitrin flashed Darron MacNichol, Captain of the Duntulm Guard, a tight smile. Darron could be a little over-protective at times, although she’d grown fond of him since coming to live here. Baltair had
assigned Darron to escort her whenever she left the keep, and initially Caitrin had worried the man would be as controlling as her husband. However, he wasn’t. Darron merely shadowed her, letting her go where she willed.
He followed her now. Reaching the bailey, Caitrin’s boots crunched on the fresh crust of snow, and she pulled the hood of her fur mantle up.
“Darron … I’ve just received word that Alasdair MacDonald is alive,” she said, leading the way toward the gates. “He’ll return here soon to take Baltair’s place.”
Darron didn’t reply immediately, and when Caitrin glanced his way, she saw his face was reflective. He was a handsome man, although somber. She rarely saw him smile.
“That is welcome news, milady,” he finally replied, although his tone gave no clue as to how he really felt. Darron MacNichol could be infuriatingly inscrutable, like now.
“Aye.” Caitrin looked away. “I shall go to the village now and let them know. The folk of Duntulm will be delighted.”
She was aware how flat her voice sounded, but she couldn’t force joy into it.
They passed under the portcullis and crossed the drawbridge, taking the narrow road down to Duntulm village. The hamlet was a welcoming sight in the snow, a huddle of stacked-stone cottages with thatched roofs. The village kirk sat behind them, its peaked roof frosted with snow. To the north, the grey waters of The Minch, the stretch of sea that separated Duntulm from the isles beyond, appeared like a sheet of beaten iron against the leaden sky. It had stopped snowing at present, but one look at those ominous clouds warned Caitrin that the break in the weather wouldn’t last long.
Caitrin swallowed a lump in her throat. She loved the folk here. She couldn’t bear the thought of being sent away.
