by Jayne Castel
They were halfway down the hill when Darron spoke, his tone guarded. “Alasdair MacDonald isn’t a harsh man, milady. He’ll not turf ye out.”
Caitrin huffed, keeping her gaze fixed upon the village below. Could the man read minds?
Darron was only trying to reassure her, but he’d just unwittingly made her feel worse. He didn’t know of the history between her and the MacDonald heir.
Few besides her sisters did—and even they didn’t know everything.
“I’m sure ye are right, Darron,” she murmured. “Surely, Alasdair will treat Eoghan and me kindly.”
Liar. She wasn’t sure of that at all.
She wouldn’t be surprised if Alasdair MacDonald now hated her.
Chapter Two
Too Much Ale
Kiltaraglen, Isle of Skye, Scotland
Two weeks later …
“I’LL BET YE three silver pennies that I’ll have that wench in my bed by midnight.”
Alasdair MacDonald snorted, bringing the tankard to his lips and taking a deep pull of ale. “A bit overconfident, aren’t ye? The lass hasn’t looked yer way all evening.”
Across the table Boyd raised an eyebrow. “Ye think ye stand a better chance?”
Alasdair smiled back. “Aye.”
“We’ll see about that.” Boyd leaned back in his chair, blue eyes narrowing. “Challenge accepted.”
Alasdair huffed, his gaze traveling across the crowded common room. ‘The Merchant’s Rest’, Kiltaraglen’s only tavern, was packed tonight. Drunken male voices boomed around them. Situated upon Skye’s north-eastern coast, the port village was just a day’s ride from their destination. Their journey back to Duntulm was almost over.
His attention settled upon a blonde and comely lass, with milky skin and a twinkle in her eye, who was carrying a tray of food over to a table in the far corner. She was the inn-keeper’s daughter, and Boyd had been leering at her since they’d stepped through the threshold of the inn.
A smile curved Alasdair’s lips. Boyd was about to lighten his purse. His second cousin, who hailed from the MacDonalds of Glencoe, got bumptious whenever he was full of drink.
Shifting his gaze back to Boyd, Alasdair saw he was smirking at him. Tall and lanky with a shock of red-gold hair, his cousin had a look in his eye that Alasdair knew well. He liked to turn everything, even wooing women, into a contest.
“Very well,” Alasdair drawled. “But ye are not to sulk like a bairn when I win.”
Around them the din increased as two men started having an argument near the fire. The inn had a low ceiling, trapping in the pall of smoke and the odor of roast mutton, unwashed bodies, and damp wool.
Boyd cast him a withering look and raised his hand, catching the serving wench’s attention. “Lass!” he called out, beckoning her to their table. “More ale … can’t ye see we’re thirsty?”
The young woman retrieved a jug and made her way across the sawdust strewn floor toward them. Reaching the table, she gave both men a bold smile and set the jug down.
“We can’t have ye going thirsty, lads,” she greeted them. Her gaze then went to the two empty plates that sat between Alasdair and Boyd. “Was the supper to yer liking?”
“Delicious,” Boyd replied, his tone so lascivious that Alasdair swallowed a laugh. His cousin was a liar. The mutton had been greasy and tough, and the cabbage overcooked.
The girl eyed Boyd, her smile widening. “Will ye be wanting anything else?”
“Why don’t ye pour yerself an ale and take a seat on my lap?” Boyd favored her with a toothy grin. “Take a well-earned rest.”
The inn-keeper’s daughter laughed, not remotely cowed by Boyd’s boldness. “Da would beat me for idleness if I did such a thing,” she replied with a shake of her head. The girl’s attention then shifted to Alasdair, where it halted. “Yer face is familiar … have I seen ye before?”
Alasdair held her gaze for a heartbeat, before he allowed himself a slow smile. “I’m Alasdair MacDonald,” he replied.
The young woman’s eyes widened, her lips parting slightly. “Ye are Baltair MacDonald’s brother?”
Alasdair’s smile widened. He could feel Boyd’s glare cutting into him. His cousin was a fool if he thought Alasdair wouldn’t use his position to his advantage. Baltair had taught him how attractive women found a man with a title.
“Welcome home, milord,” the lass said, her eyes gleaming with interest. “When ye didn’t return after Baltair’s death, we all thought ye lost … that ye had fallen against the English.”
“Well, I’m alive, as ye can see,” he replied, saluting her with his tankard.
Her smile widened. “I shall have our best chamber prepared for ye, milord.”
“Thank ye,” he replied, his gaze holding hers. “And what is yer name?”
“Catriona,” she said, her voice lowering. “Will ye be needing anything else?”
Catriona. The name, so similar to that of the woman he’d once loved, caused Alasdair’s breathing to still.
Caitrin. Baltair’s widow, and the woman who’d once spurned him. She was only a day’s journey away now, currently ruling as chatelaine of Duntulm. He’d sent a letter ahead of him; she would be awaiting his arrival, although he didn’t imagine she’d be happy to see him. She probably wished he’d been gutted on an English sword.
Alasdair blinked, shoving thoughts of Caitrin aside. Instead, he leaned forward, his mouth curving. “Aye, bring another jug of ale up to my room, Catriona,” he murmured. “And if it pleases ye, join me up there later as well.”
The young woman’s gaze grew sultry. “Aye, milord,” she murmured, inclining her head. “It would please me.”
She turned then and walked away, her hips swaying tantalizingly. Alasdair watched her go. She was indeed bonny, and not so different in looks from his sister-in-law. An image of Caitrin MacLeod, lithe and blonde, her sea-blue eyes twinkling with laughter, assaulted him then. The wellbeing that the warmth, a full belly, and copious amounts of ale had given him, ebbed.
Irritation surged. Alasdair would have to face Caitrin again soon enough—but he didn’t want her ruining this evening for him.
He turned his attention back to Boyd. His cousin sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, scowling. “Cheating bastard,” he growled. “I should have known ye wouldn’t fight fair.”
It was Alasdair’s turn to smirk now. “Stop whining and hand over those pennies.”
Alasdair’s eyes flickered open. The light, even dim as it was inside the bed-chamber, assaulted him, and he squinted. It was early. The shutters were closed, and a fire still burned in the hearth, casting a golden veil over the inn’s best room.
Rolling over, Alasdair stifled a groan. His mouth tasted rank, and his temples throbbed. Too much ale. Last night was little more than a blur of noise and fleeting images.
Alasdair’s gaze slid to the back of the naked woman sleeping beside him, and he went still. More details of the night before flooded back. Their coupling had been rough and lusty. His wits addled with ale, Alasdair had almost forgotten to withdraw before the crucial moment, but somehow good sense had prevailed. The lass had seemed disappointed that he didn't spend his seed inside her, but Alasdair was relieved he hadn’t.
He didn’t want to father a bastard. Truth was, he didn’t want to sire any bairns at all.
Catriona shifted, stretching as she awoke. She rolled over to face Alasdair, offering him a sleepy smile when she saw he was watching her. “Good morning, milord.”
“Morning,” Alasdair rasped. He sat up, wincing as pain thundered through his skull. What did they put in the ale in this place? He’d never awoken with such a sore head after a night drinking.
Pushing aside the sheet, he rose to his feet and strode naked to where a pitcher of water sat on the sideboard. He picked it up and drank deeply, not even bothering to pour the water into a cup. He was parched and felt more than a little queasy.
As he lowered the pitcher, Alasdai
r noted that his hands trembled. He frowned. He’d hoped the tremors, which had begun shortly after the battle against the English months earlier, would stop.
It’s just the ale, he assured himself. I’ll go easy on it in future.
“It’s still early,” the girl crooned behind him. “Ye can have me again before the sun rises.”
Her voice, although gentle, made Alasdair stifle a wince. He glanced over his shoulder, meeting her gaze. Sitting there amongst the tangled sheets, her blonde curls tumbling over her naked shoulders, Catriona was a bonny sight. Yet the desire to throw up the contents of his stomach was greater than that to spread her smooth thighs. His temples now throbbed as if someone had taken a hammer to them.
Swallowing down bile, Alasdair turned from her and grabbed hold of the clay wash bowl. “Best ye leave me now, lass,” he muttered. “I don’t feel well.”
Caitriona gave a soft huff of annoyance. A moment later he heard the slap of her bare feet on the flagstones. Then the door thudded as she departed the chamber.
The instant he was alone, Alasdair lurched forward and threw up into the bowl.
Chapter Three
Ye Are Looking Well
BOYD LET OUT a low whistle. “What a sight.”
Alasdair followed his cousin’s gaze west to where a mighty keep rose high against the pale sky. A smile stretched his face—for the first time all day. Last night’s excesses had left him feeling wretched for the first half of the journey. Now, with his home in view, his head had finally stopped aching.
“Aye, welcome to Duntulm, cousin.”
Boyd cut him a grin. “I used to think ye were exaggerating when ye told me the castle perched like an eagle’s eyrie upon the edge of a cliff, but now I see ye weren’t.”
Alasdair’s smile widened. “Aye … no fortress in Skye is as well-defended as Duntulm. All sides of the keep save one are bounded by the cliff-face.”
Urging his horse into a brisk canter, Alasdair led the way across a hump-backed stone bridge. He ran a critical eye over the structure as he went, noting the crumbling sides on the western edge. He frowned. Things had been let go in Baltair’s absence.
A stretch of tilled fields greeted him on the opposite side of the bridge, followed by a sprawl of cottages. A crowd of eager-faced men, women, and children gathered at the roadside to greet him.
“Alasdair!” An elderly man called out. “The MacDonald heir returns!”
Alasdair slowed his horse to a trot, his gaze sweeping across the villagers’ faces. He saw tears on their cheeks and joy in their eyes. His throat constricted. He hadn’t expected such a warm welcome. It was humbling to see the folk of Dunvegan had missed him. There had been times over the past months when he’d told himself no one would mourn him if he failed to return. He was glad to see he’d been wrong.
His mood dimmed then, like a shadow passing across the face of the sun.
Caitrin awaited in Duntulm Castle.
He didn’t wish to have any contact with his sister-in-law—and yet a part of him, a glimmer of that lovestruck lad he’d once been, longed to see her.
Alasdair frowned, crushing the longing that curled, unbidden, up within him. Such instincts were weakness—they had to be quashed.
Crossing the village, he led the way up the hill toward the castle. Duntulm’s high basalt curtain wall loomed before him, the MacDonald pennant fluttering in the sea-breeze. Unslinging his hunting horn, Alasdair raised it to his lips. The sound echoed over the hillside, reverberating off the stone fortress.
Alasdair MacDonald had just announced his arrival home.
Caitrin watched the horses’ approach, and a sensation of sick, cold dread seeped over her.
Finally … he’s here.
She supposed that she should be relieved in a way—for the waiting was over at last—but the stone in the pit of her belly weighed her down.
The moment she’d been dreading, ever since the arrival of the letter, had come.
Caitrin picked up her skirts and left the solar. Half-way down the stairs to the bottom level of the keep, she met Sorcha.
“Milady,” her hand-maid gasped, out of breath from her hurried climb. “They’re here.”
“I know,” Caitrin replied curtly. “I’m on my way.”
Sorcha stepped aside to let her pass, her blue eyes clouded with worry. She was the only one Caitrin had confided in about how she dreaded this moment. Alasdair MacDonald loomed like a specter, about to destroy her peace.
Caitrin continued down the stairwell and hurried out into the bailey to find the newly arrived party there.
A tall, dark-haired man dressed in chain-mail, fur, and leather, stood talking to Darron and Alban.
All three ceased their conversation and looked her way as she approached.
The captain and steward forgotten, Caitrin’s gaze remained upon the newcomer.
She barely recognized him.
The Alasdair MacDonald she remembered was tall and lanky with a mop of dark hair and a sallow complexion. Baltair had been favored when it came to looks; his brother had seemed gawky and shy in comparison.
The man before her was lean but strong. Alasdair’s shoulders seemed broader, the bony angles and gaunt face had filled out, and his hair had grown long. It now spilled over the shoulders of his fur cloak.
Caitrin’s step faltered when his gaze met hers.
Eyes the color of peat—dark-brown, almost black—tracked her path. Predatory. More like Baltair and not like the playful lad who had once brought her a bouquet of meadow flowers.
His features though would never have Baltair’s chiseled perfection. They were slightly sharp, hawkish.
He didn’t smile as Caitrin approached. Didn’t move.
Caitrin forced herself to keep moving, even if her instincts told her to turn and flee.
She kept walking until she was but three yards from him, and there she halted.
“Lady Caitrin.” Darron acknowledged her with a respectful nod of his chin. He then stepped aside so that she could welcome the returning MacDonald heir. Alban did the same.
Caitrin swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. His gaze was so intense that she felt stripped naked under it. She resisted the urge to reach up and check that her hair was tidy; in her rush downstairs she hadn’t even thought to take note of her appearance.
Foolish woman, she chided herself. Alasdair won’t care what ye look like.
It was true. The chill in his eyes spoke volumes. As she’d feared, he wasn’t pleased to see her.
“My Lord Alasdair.” She dipped into a curtsy and forced a bright smile. “Welcome home. It’s good to see ye again. Did ye have a pleasant journey?”
It was cold outdoors, a grey, sunless late afternoon with a damp that made her bones ache—yet suddenly, Caitrin felt flustered. Heat flared in her cheeks, flaming hotter still when Alasdair MacDonald didn’t answer.
Caitrin nervously wet her lips. “Milord?”
Alasdair smiled then, although there was still no warmth in his eyes. There was definitely a hard edge to him these days. Two and a half years had changed him. It was like looking into the eyes of a stranger.
“Good morning, Lady Caitrin.” When Alasdair spoke, she finally recognized him. He’d always had a different voice to his brother: low and slightly gruff. “Ye are looking well.”
Caitrin stared at him, once again resisting the urge to smooth her skirts and touch her hair. She felt unbalanced, strange.
And then Alasdair stepped aside and walked past her without another word. A lanky warrior with long red-gold hair, who’d been standing behind Alasdair, sauntered past her an instant later. The man favored Caitrin with a wink and a roguish grin, before he followed Alasdair MacDonald into the keep.
Ye are looking well.
Alasdair ground his teeth together and forced himself not to run up the steps. The huge keep reared up before him.
Dolt. What had possessed him to say something so inane?
Better to say nothing at
all than to put himself at a disadvantage with this woman.
Caitrin had always been able to do that—just one look from her and he used to get tongue tied. It galled him to see that little had changed.
Alasdair walked through the keep’s entrance hall and past the wide stone steps leading upstairs. Every nook, every stretch of stone here was as familiar to him as the back of his own hand. Alasdair had expected to be relieved to be home, for he’d missed Duntulm in his time away.
Yet he was distracted.
Even dressed in mourning black, her pale-blonde hair twisted up into a severe style, Caitrin was lovely. He’d been rooted to the spot as she walked toward him.
She’d changed since he’d seen her last. There was a grave dignity to her face, a seriousness in those sea-blue eyes that had been absent in the lass he’d so foolishly courted. Her figure was lusher—motherhood suited her. Baltair had sent word after Eoghan’s birth—just a few lines: “I have a son, an heir.” The letter hadn’t reached Alasdair until after the battle, by which time Baltair was dead.
“Is something amiss?” Boyd asked, appearing at Alasdair’s shoulder as he strode toward the doors of the Great Hall. “Ye look grim for a man who’s just come home.”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Alasdair cut him an irritated look. “I’m just weary.”
Boyd favored him with a sly smile. “Ye never told me that yer brother’s widow was so bonny.”
“Is she?” Alasdair replied lightly. “I thought she looked like a crow garbed all in black.”
Boyd snorted. “That’s not what ye told her though, is it? Ye looked like someone had struck ye over the head with a mallet when she walked out into the bailey.”
“Enough,” Alasdair growled, losing patience. “I tire of yer flapping tongue.”
Boyd merely grinned in response, knowing his point had been made.
