by Jayne Castel
She enjoyed her responsibilities as chatelaine here at Duntulm, but she was a mother first. Caitrin’s chest constricted as love welled within her. Baltair had given her very little worth keeping—except for this bairn.
Caitrin left her son and slipped silently back into the hallway. Reaching her bed-chamber, she found Sorcha awaiting her. The hand-maid sat by the fire, mending clothing by the light of a cresset that burned on the wall above her. Sorcha glanced up. “Good eve, milady.”
“I’m tired, Sorcha,” Caitrin informed her with a weary smile. “I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”
Her hand-maid nodded, although she looked a little disappointed. It was their nightly routine to sit by the fire and talk awhile before bed.
“Do ye wish me to fetch ye some warmed milk?”
Caitrin shook her head and sank into a chair next to the bed. “No … not tonight.”
Sorcha set her sewing aside and rose to her feet. She crossed to Caitrin and, standing behind her, started to unpin her hair. It was a nightly ritual, one that relaxed Caitrin.
“Is something amiss, milady?” Sorcha asked as she unwound the heavy braid and reached for a hog-bristle brush. “Ye don’t usually retire at this hour?”
“I’m just feeling a bit drained.”
Sorcha didn’t reply immediately. Of course, she knew where Caitrin had been—and would be wondering how the supper had gone. “Are ye still at war with the chieftain, milady?”
Caitrin twisted her head round, smiling as she met Sorcha’s eye. “No … I think we’ve managed to mend things.”
“That’s welcome news indeed.” Relief flowered across the hand-maid’s face, before her blue eyes narrowed. “Galiene told me about cook. The old woman’s a trouble-maker.”
“She’s never liked having another woman oversee her,” Caitrin agreed, turning back so Sorcha could finish unpinning her hair. “Alasdair’s return was just the opportunity she needed. Unfortunately, the chieftain was looking for a reason to obstruct me.”
“Why would he do that?”
Caitrin hesitated, wondering if she should confide in Sorcha or not. She trusted her hand-maid. Sorcha didn’t have a loose tongue. Even so, it was a personal thing to divulge.
“Alasdair proposed to me once,” she said finally. “I rejected him in favor of his brother.”
Sorcha paused her brushing. “He wanted to wed ye?”
“Aye … but ye aren’t to breathe a word to anyone about this. The chieftain won’t want folk knowing.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Sorcha assured her. She resumed the long slow strokes of the brush. “Why did ye chose Baltair over Alasdair, milady?”
Caitrin went still.
“Because Baltair was chieftain?” Sorcha pressed.
Caitrin sucked in a breath. “He was handsome and gallant,” she replied after a pause, “the kind of man who dominates any room he walks into. I was mesmerized.”
The two women fell silent. Sorcha knew more than anyone in this keep just how unhappy Caitrin had been with Baltair. Sorcha had found her sitting in her solar alone weeping into her hands more than once. He’d treated his wife’s hand-maid with thinly-veiled contempt as well. Sorcha liked most folk, but she’d never warmed to Baltair.
“Alasdair MacDonald seems a different man to his brother,” Sorcha said finally. “He’s proud … determined … but I’m glad to see he lacks Baltair’s cruel edge.” She set the brush aside and went to fetch her mistress’s night-rail. “I’m glad he’s returned home.”
Caitrin smiled. For the first time since seeing Alasdair again, she dared feel the same way.
Chapter Nine
Planting Barley
“WHAT SAY YE, Lady Caitrin?” Alasdair turned, meeting Caitrin’s eye. “Shall we plant out the lower fields in oats this year?
Caitrin hesitated before answering him. She’d been wary when he’d asked her to join him and Alban that morning. They were meeting the villagers to discuss the spring plantings. But, looking into his eyes, he seemed sincere.
“Aye,” she replied, casting a look in Alban’s direction. She and the steward had already discussed the coming season’s plantings at length. Baltair had made a mistake, one that they’d planned to rectify. “We use more oats than any other grain … it makes sense to plant more of it.” She paused here, shifting her attention back to Alasdair. “We’ll need to set aside at least twenty bags for the cáin.”
Alasdair nodded before turning from her. “Go ahead and plant out those fields,” he told the men.
“And what of the summer barley,” an elderly farmer called out. “It grows badly on the hillside … the land is too dry there. We should move it down to the meadow next to the burn.”
“Let’s go up to the hill now and take a look at the soil in the barley field,” Alasdair replied. “Lead the way.”
They followed the knot of farmers down the path amidst rows of kale and cabbages. A light rain fell in a chill mist over the fields. Grey clouds hung low; it was a grim day to be outdoors, yet Caitrin enjoyed the kiss of the misty rain on her face and the fresh air. Winter days inside the keep could start to feel restrictive, the air stale and heavy with the odor of peat-smoke.
After a few strides down the path, Alasdair slowed his pace, allowing Alban to draw ahead with the others, and deliberately fell in step with Caitrin.
“Baltair never had much interest in farming,” Alasdair said with a rueful smile. “I’m pleased to see that his widow does.”
Caitrin compressed her lips. Baltair had been a warrior to the core. He loved hunting and fighting—everything else bored him. “Da always told me that fallow fields and bad harvests are signs of a poor leader,” she replied. “Folk are always happier with full bellies.”
Alasdair’s smile widened. “Wise man, MacLeod.” He paused here, his gaze narrowing slightly. “How’s he doing these days?”
Caitrin huffed. “Well enough.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Da hasn’t been that impressed with his daughters of late,” she said with a grimace. “Both my younger sisters have had trouble with him over the past year … and I’m likely to soon.”
Alasdair inclined his head. “What happened with yer sisters?”
“He tried to force Rhona to choose a husband … and when she refused, he organized games where she was to wed the winner.”
Alasdair gave a soft laugh. “That would have been ill news for yer sister. Did she not rebel?”
“She did … Rhona ran away but failed in her attempt to flee the isle. In the end she wed Taran MacKinnon.”
Alasdair’s gaze widened. “That scarred brute … yer father’s right-hand?”
“Aye, the same. He won the games.” Caitrin paused here, her mouth quirking. “She wasn’t pleased … but fate turned in her favor. They’re now in love.”
Alasdair shook his head in disbelief. “And wee Adaira. What happened to her?”
“Da tried to wed her to Aonghus Budge.”
“Lord … he didn’t?”
Caitrin grimaced. “Luckily, that never came to pass, for Adaira freed a prisoner from Dunvegan dungeon and escaped with him. They’re now wed and live in Argyle.”
Reaching out, Alasdair placed a hand on her arm, forcing her to stop walking. “God’s bones, Caitrin. Ye must be spinning me a tale?”
Caitrin shook her head. Strangely, she was enjoying this conversation. It reminded her of years past when she and Alasdair had swapped stories of the goings on in their respective castles. It seemed a lifetime ago. “The man she freed was Lachlann Fraser, the Fraser chieftain’s eldest,” she replied. “Da nearly went mad when he learned of it, but he has given them his blessing now.”
Alasdair gave a low whistle, his gaze searching her face. “And what of ye, Caitrin? Surely the old dog has let ye off the leash?”
Caitrin pulled a face. “Ye would think so, yet now I’m a widow, he’s already scheming. He wishes to find me another husband.”
&nb
sp; Alasdair’s face tensed. “He does?”
“Aye … I imagine ye will receive a missive from him soon enough, asking ye to send me home.”
Alasdair nodded, his gaze shuttering. They resumed walking, following the party up the hillside now to the fallow barley field.
“And what do ye wish?” Alasdair asked finally. “Do ye want to wed again?”
Caitrin shook her head. “I’d prefer to remain at Duntulm as chatelaine,” she murmured. “I have a son and a life here.”
She glanced away then, aware that she’d possibly said too much. It was bold for a woman to make such statements. However, Alasdair had just given her the opportunity to make her wishes for the future clear. He might help her keep her father at bay.
Caitrin met his eye once more and smiled. “I’m glad we are friends again, Alasdair.”
He held her gaze for a moment before glancing away. His voice, when he answered, was soft and reflective. “So am I.”
They reached the barley field then, a wide gently sloping stretch that crowned the top of a hill behind the lower fields.
The farmers were waiting for them, gathered in a huddle as they bickered together over the best spot to plant the barley.
Caitrin moved past them, walking across the fallow earth a few paces. She then crouched down and scooped up a handful of soil and examined it.
“What say ye, milady?” The elderly farmer approached her, his brow furrowed. “It’s too dry, isn’t it?”
Caitrin sighed, brushing off her hands and rising to her feet. “Perhaps … but I’m not sure the meadow next to the burn is the right spot to plant barley either. It gets waterlogged in heavy rain.”
“The lady has a point.” Alasdair stepped up next to the farmer. “Barley doesn’t thrive in wet soil. It needs a well-drained field.”
“Aye,” Caitrin replied with a smile. “If I may make a suggestion, milord … I think ye would be best to plant out this year’s barley in the field behind the kirk.”
The mist had lowered when they made their way back down the hill. The rain shrouded the winter landscape in a heavy veil. Picking her way down the slippery, pebble-strewn path, Caitrin cast Alasdair a quick look. “Ye love this land, don’t ye?”
He glanced up, smiling. “Is it so obvious?”
“Aye.”
He huffed a breath. “I once found it too small, too isolated … but after some time away I have a new appreciation of Duntulm.”
“I like the folk here,” Caitrin replied with a smile of her own. “They’ve been good to me.”
Alasdair met her eye. “I take it, my brother never took ye with him to speak to the cottars?”
Caitrin shook her head, her smile fading. “He sent Alban to do such tasks. I wasn’t consulted.” She was surprised by the bitter edge she heard in her own voice.
Alasdair raised an eyebrow. He’d noted it too. “Why does it matter that much to ye?”
Caitrin’s mouth compressed. “Ye wouldn’t understand.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Caitrin shook her head, once again taken aback by her own vehemence. “I’m as clever as any man … yet because I’m a woman I’ve been patronized and dismissed all my life.” She couldn’t believe she was voicing such thoughts to Alasdair. But as the words poured out, relief settled over her. It felt good to be able to be honest with him. “I only ever once made a suggestion to Baltair about the running of the keep,” she said softly, “and he humiliated me in front of his men for it.”
Alasdair’s gaze clouded. “Like I did by the bridge.”
Caitrin looked away. “No … ye didn’t go as far as he did.”
Silence fell between them as they reached the bottom of the hill and took the muddy path through the fields toward the village. The way was narrow here, forcing them to walk in single file. Caitrin went ahead with Alasdair following a few paces behind. However, when they reached the hamlet, Alasdair increased his pace and fell into step beside her once more.
“Ye are a clever woman, Caitrin,” he said, favoring her with a boyish smile that reminded her of the old Alasdair. “I can see why ye have been frustrated.”
“Aye … better that I was born dull-witted and content with my lot.”
He threw back his head and laughed. The sound, warm and rich, filtered through the wet air. “I’d almost forgotten how sharp ye are,” he said, grinning. “How I used to enjoy sparring with ye.”
Caitrin cast him a sidelong glance. “Ye liked it?”
His mouth lifted at the corners. “Aye … I still do.”
Chapter Ten
Deer Stalking
CAITRIN STEPPED OUT into the bailey and raised her face to the sky. The sun had finally appeared after days of grey. It barely warmed her skin but was a welcome sight all the same.
“It’s a fine morning to be alive, Lady Caitrin!”
Lowering her face, Caitrin spied Boyd MacDonald emerging from the stables, leading his horse.
“Aye, it is,” she replied with a smile. Her gaze drifting over to where Alasdair also appeared, leading his stallion. “Where are ye all off to?”
“To stalk some deer.” Boyd flashed her a grin.
Alasdair approached her. Dressed in hunting leathers and a dark-green woolen cloak, he was an attractive, distracting sight. “I remember MacLeod used to take ye and yer sisters deer stalking,” he greeted her. “Do ye still hunt?”
Caitrin’s mouth curved at the unexpected question. “I haven’t been since I wed. Baltair wouldn’t let me ride out with him … said a stag hunt was no place for a woman.”
Alasdair held her gaze, a smile spreading across his face. The expression made Caitrin’s breathing catch.
She shoved the sensation aside. Attraction had no place between a chieftain and his chatelaine. She needed to watch herself around him.
“We’re leaving shortly,” he said. “Will ye join us?”
Caitrin nodded. Excitement arrowed through her, making her forget her discomfort. “Just give me a few moments,” she said, pivoting on her heel. “I need to get changed.”
A grin stretched across Caitrin’s face. The thunder of hooves crossing soft turf, the sting of the wind on her skin, and the feel of the horse’s body under her, made her feel truly alive.
It had been too long since she’d done this.
Alasdair MacDonald rode up ahead, flanked by Boyd and Darron, while a cluster of men from the guard brought up the rear. They’d left Duntulm as soon as Caitrin had gotten ready, and headed south over bare hills. Caitrin rode astride, like the men, having changed into leggings and a plain kirtle that was split at the sides so she didn’t need to perch side-saddle.
Up ahead, Caitrin spied the shadowed boughs of woodland approaching. This was where they’d begin the hunt. Reaching the edge of the trees, the party drew up their coursers and swung down from the saddle. Here, they tethered the horses, retrieved their weapons, and continued onward on foot. A small herd of red deer had been spotted in a valley just south of here—they would stalk them.
Alasdair carried a long bow over one shoulder and a quiver of arrows on his back, as did the other men. Only Caitrin didn’t bear a weapon. It had been a long while since she’d used a bow, and she feared she’d be a useless shot. Instead, she followed quietly behind Alasdair, Boyd, and Darron.
Caitrin inhaled the damp, pine-scented air, glad of the woolen cloak she wore. Despite that the sun was out today, there was little warmth in it. Winter still held the world in its grip. Pale sunlight filtered in amongst the trees, pooling on the mattress of pine needles below. It allowed the hunting party to move stealthily toward their destination. None of the men spoke, and Caitrin found herself enjoying the peace. Apart from the sanctuary of her solar, the keep was a hive of activity and distraction.
Alasdair led the way through the trees, soft-footed and keen-eyed. He paused now and then, gaze shifting ahead, before he turned, communicating with Boyd and Darron with a nod or hand-gesture.
Eventually, they
reached the edge of the valley.
Creeping up to the top of the ridge, the hunters fanned out in a line. Caitrin approached Alasdair, crouching down next to him. He was peering through a gap in the foliage. Caitrin craned her neck forward, moving closer to him to get a clear view.
“There they are,” Alasdair murmured.
“I can’t see anything,” she whispered back, her gaze scanning the bottom of the valley. The pines fell back, revealing a swathe of green intersected by a creek.
Alasdair shifted his weight, angling his head toward her. “Shift yer gaze left,” he whispered, his breath feathering against her ear.
Caitrin swallowed. His nearness distracted her. She could feel the heat of his body just inches from her. Stiffening, Caitrin forced herself to ignore the sensation.
Tracking her gaze left as he’d suggested, she caught sight of three deer cropping grass at the tree line. They were too far away at present. Alasdair and his men would need to draw closer before any of them would get a clear shot.
Alasdair shifted again, his knee accidentally brushing hers as he twisted right and motioned to Boyd and Darron. He then inclined his head to Caitrin once more.
“The fewer of us who approach them the better,” he said softly. “Stay here with the others.”
Caitrin nodded. She remained in a crouching position and watched as the three men crept over the edge of the ridge, moving like wraiths through the tall trees. However, her gaze remained upon Alasdair.
He moved with a hunter’s grace. Unlike Baltair, who’d looked most at ease when dressed for battle, Alasdair seemed at home here in the midst of the woods. His green cloak made him blend in with his surroundings. His long dark hair was tied back at his nape, accentuating the sharp, lean angles of his face.
He led the way down the hill, winding his way through the trees. The other two men followed him. Up ahead, the deer continued to graze, unaware of the danger that stalked them.
