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

by Jayne Castel

  Alasdair raised an eyebrow before shifting his attention back to the ledger. Caitrin watched him continue to read, although with each passing moment she could feel her spine growing more rigid. She hadn’t missed the challenge in his voice.

  “Ye have made a mistake here,” he said after a pause, his finger tracing down one column to the sum at the bottom. “Twelve, eight, thirty-five, and twenty … does not equal seventy-eight.”

  “It’s seventy-five,” Boyd piped up with a laugh.

  Caitrin’s cheeks flamed. Alban had helped her do the calculations. Any errors belonged to them both. However, she wouldn’t mention him here—it would only make her look as if she was making excuses for herself. Fury coiled up within her when she saw Alasdair flash Boyd a conspirator’s grin. “Aye.”

  “It was an honest mistake,” Caitrin said stiffly, forcing down her ire, “and one that I shall correct.”

  “See that ye do,” Alasdair replied.

  A knock at the door interrupted them, bringing Caitrin a reprieve.

  “Enter,” Alasdair called out, and an instant later Sorcha appeared, carrying Eoghan in her arms. The bairn was awake, clutching to Sorcha, his eyes wide as he surveyed the two strangers in the room.

  Next to her, Caitrin sensed Alasdair grow still. She glanced his way to see that his gaze had fixed upon the lad. Eoghan stared back, equally fascinated.

  “God’s bones,” Alasdair murmured. “He looks the image of Baltair.”

  Caitrin grew even tenser at this comment. She knew it to be the truth, yet hated that Eoghan’s similarity to his father was the first thing folk noted when they set eyes on the lad.

  “That’s not surprising,” she replied.

  Alasdair cut her a glance, gaze widening at the sharpness of her tone. “Doesn’t that please ye?” he asked, his dark brows knitting together. “At least ye have something to remember my brother by.”

  Caitrin didn’t reply. She didn’t trust herself to. However, she saw a shadow move in Alasdair MacDonald’s eyes and realized that he’d drawn his own conclusions. “The grieving widow, eh?” he murmured.

  Caitrin swallowed, dropping her gaze. She’d not engage him on this subject, not now with Boyd and Sorcha present. If he wanted to know about the state of her marriage to Baltair, he could show her some respect by bringing it up in private.

  “Would ye like to hold the lad, milord?” Sorcha asked, favoring Alasdair with a warm smile.

  Caitrin bit back the urge to say he wouldn’t. Her hands clenched on her lap, her fingernails biting into her palms. Yet Alasdair pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “Very well. Give the lad here.”

  “He’s not used to strangers,” Caitrin said tightly. Her body coiled as Sorcha handed Eoghan to Alasdair. Any moment now, Eoghan would start wailing.

  “Aye … but I’m kin,” Alasdair replied, not bothering to glance her way.

  Swaddled in lambswool, Eoghan stared up at his uncle, chubby fingers reaching forward to explore his leather vest. To Caitrin’s surprise, the lad’s face didn’t crumple. Instead, he favored Alasdair with a beautiful, wide smile.

  And in response, Alasdair MacDonald’s own face transformed. For a few instants he wore a soft expression, his dark eyes glowing with tenderness. “It’s good to meet ye, Eoghan,” he murmured. “Ye never met yer grandsire, but it’s a fine name ye have inherited.”

  “The lad’s taken a shine to ye, Alasdair,” Boyd noted, grinning.

  Alasdair snorted, never taking his gaze off the bairn. “Blood is blood … the lad knows it too.”

  “I’ve never seen Master Eoghan so fascinated with someone, milord,” Sorcha said. “Maybe he does sense ye are his uncle.”

  Alasdair smiled. “Aye … I’m the closest thing ye have to a father now, wee Eoghan.” He tickled the lad under the chin, and the bairn gave a gurgling laugh. “And one day ye will inherit all of this.”

  Caitrin drew in a deep breath, attempting to quell her irritation and failing. “I’m sure ye will have bairns of yer own, milord,” she said, unable to hold her tongue any longer. “Ye won’t need Eoghan to carry on the MacDonald line.”

  Alasdair tore his gaze from his nephew then, his attention fixing upon her. “I don’t intend to wed,” he said, his voice hardening, “and I won’t be siring any bairns. Eoghan is the sole MacDonald heir.”

  A chill feathered down Caitrin’s spine. Why wasn’t he planning to take a wife? The proprietary edge to Alasdair’s voice made her uneasy.

  He handed Eoghan back to Sorcha. Meanwhile, Boyd caught the hand-maid’s eye and smiled. “We haven’t been introduced … Boyd MacDonald of Glencoe at yer service.”

  “My name is Sorcha MacQueen,” she replied with a shy smile.

  “Of the MacQueens of Skye?”

  The girl’s smile faltered. “Aye … Chieftain MacQueen is my father.”

  Boyd inclined his head, his own smile widening “Pleased to make yer acquaintance, lass.” His gaze held hers. “Since I’m new to Duntulm … ye might want to give me a tour of the keep later.”

  “Captain MacNichol can do that,” Caitrin cut in, her voice sharp.

  Boyd shrugged, his gaze never leaving the hand-maid. “I’d prefer a prettier guide, milady.”

  “Thank ye Sorcha,” Alasdair cut in, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. His voice was edged with impatience. “Ye can take Eoghan back to his quarters now. We have work to do.”

  Sorcha nodded, dropped into a curtsy, and quit the solar. Caitrin noted that her hand-maid now wore a flustered expression, her cheeks pink. After her departure, Alasdair returned to the table and took his seat next to Caitrin once more.

  Caitrin met his eye and, seeing the challenge there, tensed. This meeting thus far hadn’t been pleasant—and she wagered the mood wasn’t about to improve.

  Alasdair favored her with a wintry smile. “Shall we return to the accounts?”

  “Arrogant cur. He missed no opportunity to make me look small!” Caitrin knuckled away a tear that trickled down her cheek. The stress of the last two days was starting to take its toll.

  Sorcha’s blue eyes widened. “Milady,” she gasped. “I’m sure the chieftain meant no offense.”

  “Oh, he did.”

  Caitrin snatched up the woolen tunic she’d been knitting for Eoghan and viciously started to unravel her last session’s work. There were imperfections in the knit, a few small holes that annoyed her. She took vindictive pleasure in undoing her hours of labor. Good—she preferred anger to tears.

  “He went through those accounts, line by line, and picked on the slightest things.” She paused in her unraveling and fixed her hand-maid with a look of fury. “He even questioned the amount of produce we’ve set aside to pay this year’s cáin.”

  Sorcha’s brow furrowed, setting down the embroidery she’d just started. “Isn’t it enough?”

  “Of course it is,” Caitrin huffed. “I’m a clan-chief’s daughter … I know exactly how much yearly tribute the king requires of his vassals. The cáin is sufficient.”

  “But the chieftain doesn’t think so?” Sorcha appeared genuinely concerned. Caitrin clenched her jaw. She knew that her hand-maid’s loyalty would always go first to her master, but even so it grated upon Caitrin.

  A woman was never taken seriously in a man’s world, even by other women.

  “It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Caitrin muttered. Yet as she said those words, a weight settled in the pit of her belly. Unfortunately, Alasdair MacDonald’s opinion did matter—and she needed to try harder if she wanted to stay on as chatelaine.

  Chapter Six

  Too Far

  CAITRIN FROWNED, PEERING into the bubbling cauldron of sulfurous, over-cooked vegetables. “I thought we already planned out all the meals for the week?”

  “Aye, milady … we did.”

  Caitrin glanced over her shoulder, at where cook and her two assistants were busy kneading bread dough on the large table that dominated the kitchen. “Pottage wasn’t on
the list.”

  Cook gave her a wary look. “No, but I decided we should have it for today’s noon meal. We had old vegetables that needed using up.”

  Caitrin inhaled deeply. She wasn’t in the mood for this. Tired and on edge, Caitrin had gotten up well before dawn over the past week to redouble her efforts as chatelaine. She didn’t want to give Alasdair MacDonald any excuse to criticize her.

  But now, Briana wanted to cross swords with her—again.

  After their last confrontation, she’d thought she and cook had reached an understanding: they made a plan of the week’s noon meals and suppers and then cook followed it. But, clearly, Briana wasn’t ready to do as she was told.

  “Ye need to start heeding me, Briana,” she said finally, careful to keep her tone low, even though she was inwardly seething. “I don’t plan the keep’s meals with ye because I have nothing better to do with my time. I’ve made an inventory of the stores and know exactly what needs using up and what doesn’t. Those vegetables would have easily kept another few days.”

  Cook stared back at Caitrin, a mutinous expression settling upon her face. An older woman named Galiene, and a red-headed lass who worked alongside Briana, now exchanged nervous glances. Cook then drew herself up, holding Caitrin’s eye boldly. “Ye don’t have to plan the meals with me anymore, milady.”

  Caitrin’s gaze narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t need yer help.”

  Anger curled up like wreathing smoke within Caitrin. Her patience was nearing its limits now. “I care not what ye think ye need,” she growled. “As chatelaine, the running of the household is my responsibility … and that includes this kitchen. Ye take orders from me.”

  “No, I don’t.” Cook blurted, the words tumbling out of her now she’d worked up the courage. “The chieftain rules here, milady … and he says I can prepare whatever meals I choose.”

  Caitrin went still. “Ye have spoken to Alasdair about this?”

  Cook pursed her lips before nodding. “Aye, and he agrees that ye have no need to meddle in my affairs.” The victorious gleam in cook’s eyes made Caitrin want to slap her face.

  Wordlessly, for rage had momentarily rendered her speechless, Caitrin walked to the kitchen door, aware of the three pairs of eyes tracking her path. At the threshold she halted, swiveled round, and pinned cook under a hard stare. “We’ll see about that.”

  How dare he?

  Caitrin stormed across the bailey toward the archway leading out of the castle. It was a chill windy day outdoors, but she was so incensed that she hadn’t even gone back inside to fetch her cloak. Instead, she marched over the drawbridge and down the hill toward the village, ignoring the cold that bit into her flesh through her kirtle and léine.

  She knew where to find Alasdair MacDonald. He and a group of men had spent the last day beginning work on shoring up the Cleatburn Bridge.

  Reaching the bottom of the hill, she strode through the village, attracting curious looks from folk she passed. It was an odd thing to see the Lady of Duntulm out on such a chill day without a winter mantle—or an escort. Darron usually shadowed her whenever she left the keep.

  Caitrin, who often liked to wave and stop to chat with the villagers, ignored them this morning. She was too upset to focus on anyone right now—other than the man who’d taken vindictive pleasure in thwarting her ever since his return.

  The bridge loomed up ahead, and Caitrin spied the outlines of men working on it. She recognized Darron first, for his pale-blond hair gleamed even in the winter’s dull light. He’d just picked up a stone from the back of a wagon and was about to turn and carry it into the waters of the Cleatburn when he spied Caitrin approach.

  Darron’s brow furrowed. “Good morn, Lady Caitrin.” His gaze shifted behind her, his eyes narrowing when he realized she was alone. “Ye should have asked one of the guards to escort ye down here.”

  Irritation surged within Caitrin. She didn’t need MacNichol or one of his men following her about.

  “Morning, Captain MacNichol,” she replied curtly, deliberately ignoring his comment. “Where is the chieftain?”

  Darron’s frown deepened. “Is something amiss, milady?”

  “Just answer me, please.”

  Darron jerked his head to the left, indicating that the man she wanted was behind him. He then stepped to one side.

  Caitrin’s gaze shifted to the water, to where Alasdair and Boyd worked, clearing debris from around the bridge’s stacked-stone pillars. Both men were shirtless, their braies sodden. Mud splattered their torsos and arms as they wielded heavy shovels.

  Without realizing she was doing so, Caitrin found herself inspecting Alasdair’s half-naked body. He was lean and strong, the light dusting of hair across his muscular chest tapering down to a hard, flat stomach. Even through her fury she acknowledged that he was an attractive, virile sight.

  Angrily, she shoved the thought aside.

  Sensing the weight of her stare, Alasdair looked up, and their gazes fused. An instant later, he smiled. “Lady Caitrin. Have ye come down to oversee the repairs?”

  Boyd laughed at this. “Keeping an eye on ye, is she?”

  Caitrin clenched her hands by her sides. Their mockery hardened her temper into something dangerous. “I’ve come from the kitchen.” She bit out the words, aware that the surrounding men had all stopped work and were watching her. She didn’t care. Let them gawk. “It appears ye have told cook that I have no right to oversee the meals that are prepared for the keep?”

  Alasdair’s mouth curved. “Aye, and what of it? Briana’s been around since my father was a lad. She doesn’t take kindly to having another woman oversee her.”

  “We were getting along fine before ye returned home … milord.”

  “Really?” He gave her an arch look. “That’s not what she said.”

  “We’d made a truce,” Caitrin snarled. “Briana’s a fine cook but manages the supplies poorly. She’d have the keep eating boiled turnip and stale bannocks while she let fresh meat rot in the stores.”

  This comment brought a scattering of laughter from the surrounding men. Even Darron raised a smile. They all knew it was the truth. Cook was stingy with supplies, as if she’d paid for them out of her own purse.

  “My father and Baltair never found fault with her,” Alasdair replied. His tone was mild although his gaze had hardened. “Maybe, ye are too overbearing.”

  Overbearing.

  Caitrin drew in a shuddering breath. “I’m merely doing my duty as chatelaine,” she finally managed, her voice trembling with the force of the rage that caused a red mist to cloud her vision. “Why don’t ye let me?”

  A heavy silence settled, broken only by the gurgle and chatter of water running over stones and the whistle of the wind. However, Caitrin barely heard those noises, for she could discern little over the thundering of her pulse in her ears. She was so angry that she felt sick.

  Alasdair watched her for a long moment before pushing strands of hair from his face with his forearm. “Go back to the keep, Caitrin,” he said, his voice low and firm. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  Caitrin swallowed hard. “No, I—”

  “Didn’t my brother teach ye any manners?” he growled. “Go back … now.”

  They stared at each other, before fear flickered up within Caitrin, penetrating the anger that had shielded her till now. The mention of his brother turned her blood cold. Baltair wouldn’t have stood for such defiance. He’d have waded out of the burn and backhanded her across the face for arguing with him.

  Tears of frustration and rage blurred Caitrin’s vision. She wondered then how she’d ever once called Alasdair MacDonald a friend. The past years had altered him, turned him callous and cruel.

  He’d been wanting to anger her, and in coming down to the bridge, she’d played straight into his hands. She knew though that continuing to rage at him out here would only end badly for her.

  Swallowing a sob, Caitrin spun on her heel, picked
up her skirts, and fled.

  Alasdair watched Caitrin’s eyes glisten, her jaw tighten, and wondered if she’d obey him. To his surprise, his breathing quickened. He almost wished she wouldn’t. It would give him the excuse to throw her over his shoulder and carry her back up to the keep—an excuse to touch her.

  She was beautiful this morning, her sea-blue eyes gleaming with ire, her supple body encased in flowing black. He itched to feel her softness against him.

  But a heartbeat later she turned and hurried away. He could see, from the stiffness of her posture and her uneven gait, that she was upset. Her long blonde hair, braided in a long plait down her back, bounced between her shoulder blades as she walked.

  Watching her go, a sensation of loss washed over Alasdair.

  He’d enjoyed that altercation—far more than he should have.

  “That’s quite a temper the lass has on her,” Boyd observed.

  Alasdair snorted. “Aye … I’m surprised Baltair didn’t whip her for her adder’s tongue.”

  Silence followed this comment.

  Alasdair glanced around him to see that only Boyd was grinning. Most of the surrounding men wore hard expressions, while one or two looked horrified. Darron MacNichol was actually glowering at him.

  Alasdair went still. Those words had only been said in jest—but he’d misread his audience it seemed.

  After a hard morning’s work, the men made their way back up to the keep for the noon meal. Captain MacNichol fell in step with Alasdair as they walked up the hill.

  Glancing across at him, Alasdair saw that the captain was watching him, his expression shuttered.

  Alasdair frowned. “What is it, MacNichol?”

  Darron’s own gaze narrowed. “Ye should know that Lady Caitrin would never to have spoken to Baltair like that,” he said quietly.

  “Really?” Alasdair didn’t bother to temper the scorn in his voice.

  “Aye … she was afraid of yer brother.”