by Jayne Castel
Caitrin watched Alasdair halt between two spruce saplings and motion to his companions. Then he unslung his bow, nocked an arrow, and raised it. Caitrin heaved in a deep breath and went still.
Alasdair sighted one of the deer, a large doe that now cropped grass at the edge of the creek. It was a long shot, one only an experienced bowman would dare make. Nearby, Boyd and Darron had sighted the other two deer. They were all ready.
A heartbeat later the arrows flew, the whistle of their passage shattering the valley’s peace. The doe near the edge of the creek leaped into the air—and then fell, an arrow piercing its neck.
Boyd’s curse echoed through the trees as his and Darron’s deer bounded away, unhurt.
Alasdair moved, running swiftly through the trees. He emerged at the bottom of the valley and reached his quarry in half a dozen long strides. Steel flashed when he dropped to his knees next to the fallen deer and brought its suffering to an end.
Only then did Caitrin release the breath she’d been holding.
“Good shot!” Boyd slapped Alasdair on the shoulder, “although ye chose the hind closest.”
Alasdair grinned back at him. “Ye can never concede defeat gracefully, can ye?”
Boyd snorted. “MacNichol got in the way of my shot, or I’d have brought a deer down too.”
A few feet away, Darron looked up from where he had just hog-tied the fallen doe and bound its fetlocks to a pole. “I’m surprised ye didn’t scare the hinds off with yer heavy breathing.”
“Come on.” Alasdair jabbed Boyd in the ribs with his elbow. “Make yerself useful and help MacNichol carry the deer.”
Boyd muttered something rude under his breath, but did as bid, stepping forward and taking hold of one end of the pole. He and Darron heaved it into the air, resting it on their shoulders. Then, the party turned and traveled north back through the pine woods, toward where they’d tethered their horses.
Unlike the journey south, the men talked and laughed as they walked, their voices drifting through the trees. The hunting was done. They no longer needed to keep silent.
Alasdair followed at the rear, deliberately slowing his pace so that Caitrin drew up alongside him.
He cast her a smile, admiring her in the pale winter light. She was still clad in black, although he liked her attire, and how she’d donned leather leggings and long hunting boots under her kirtle. He caught a glimpse of her shapely legs with each stride. Her long pale hair hung between her shoulder blades in a thick braid.
“Did ye enjoy that?” he asked.
Caitrin met his gaze, her mouth curving. “Aye … ye look like ye were born knowing how to wield a bow and arrow?”
His smile widened. “Da used to take me out hunting with him before I could walk. I could fire a long-bow before my fourth winter.”
Caitrin arched her finely drawn eyebrows. “Now ye are exaggerating.”
“No … although I’ll admit he had a special bow made for me, to fit my size.”
Caitrin laughed, a soft melodious sound that made Alasdair’s breathing quicken. “I remember seeing ye compete at archery once at the summer games at Dunvegan,” she replied. “Ye even bested yer brother.”
“Aye.” Alasdair’s smile turned rueful. “Baltair wasn’t pleased about that. He waited till he got me alone, before he punched me in the belly.”
Chapter Eleven
Before the Beltane Fire
Four months later …
CAITRIN WALKED DOWN the hill, following the line of revelers. Pulling her woolen shawl closer, she glanced up at the sky. It was clear, although the air held a bite as if the ghost of winter still lingered. It had been a cold, wet last few months.
She, like most folk, had been looking forward to Beltane—the night that symbolized the transition from spring to summer. No more huddling around hearths. No more chilled fingers and toes, and having to wear layers of woolen clothing to keep warm.
Halfway down the hill, the Beltane Fire blazed, a beacon that illuminated the night. The heat kissed Caitrin’s face as she stopped around ten yards back from it.
“Would ye like me to get ye some ale, milady?”
Caitrin glanced over her shoulder at where Darron stood. She’d almost forgotten he was there, that he’d followed her down from the keep. The man had mastered the art of becoming invisible it seemed.
Caitrin’s mouth curved. “Aye, thank ye, Darron.”
With a nod, he went off to fetch her a drink. Folk had dragged down barrels of ale and wine from Duntulm’s cellar. Cook had spent the last week preparing for this night. Huge rounds of ‘Beltane Bannock’ sat upon a table and were being sliced up and handed out. Nearby, a row of lamb carcasses finished roasting over a spit.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Caitrin’s attention shifted to where two young men sat beating calf-skin drums. The sound, slow and steady like the beating of a heart, called folk from miles around to join the revelry.
“Here ye are, milady.” Darron had returned. He held out a wooden cup of ale to her and a wedge of cake. “I got ye some bannock too.”
Caitrin took the bannock in one hand and the cup of ale in the other. Then, with a smile, she bit into the cake. Crumbly and enriched with milk and honey, it was delicious.
Taking a sip of ale to wash down her mouthful of cake, Caitrin’s gaze traveled across the milling crowd. She watched as folk from the village approached the fire with unlit torches. They had doused their hearths at home and would light them afresh with the Beltane fire. Folk believed that the fire had protective qualities.
Bleating drifted across the hillside. A woman had brought up two goats to be blessed by the fire. The woman, who wore a harassed expression, led the skittish beasts around the fire, letting the smoke drift over them, before she dragged them off home.
Darron had taken his place next to Caitrin, his fingers curled around a cup of ale. Caitrin studied his profile in the firelight. He wore a pensive expression this evening, and when Caitrin followed the direction of his gaze, she saw it was focused upon Sorcha MacQueen.
Caitrin had given her hand-maid the evening off and left one of the older servants with Eoghan. Sorcha stood at the edge of a group of servants from the keep. She was nibbling at a piece of bannock.
The intensity of Darron’s stare took Caitrin aback.
Could it be that the inscrutable Captain MacNichol had gone soft on her hand-maid?
At that moment, as they both watched Sorcha, Boyd MacDonald sauntered up to the lass. The warrior greeted her with a roguish smile. Boyd was a good-looking man and pleasant enough, yet Caitrin found his arrogance grated upon her. However, judging from the blush his greeting brought to Sorcha’s cheeks, the lass didn’t share her mistress’s opinion of him.
Caitrin shifted her attention back to Darron and saw that he’d stiffened, his jaw tightening.
Clearing her throat, Caitrin broke the silence. “There’s no need to stay with me,” she said with a smile. “I’m happy here watching the fire.”
Darron tore his gaze away from where Boyd and Sorcha now laughed together. “I should remain with ye, milady.”
Caitrin clicked her tongue, irritated. “I’m perfectly safe, as ye well know, MacNichol. Now stop fussing and go enjoy yerself.”
Darron frowned. “Very well, milady. But please, come and find me when ye wish to return to the keep.”
“I will.”
Caitrin watched Darron wander off, although she noted he didn’t head in the direction of Sorcha and Boyd.
Caitrin took another bite of Beltane Bannock and chewed slowly.
In the midst of the crowd, she spotted Alasdair MacDonald.
He was surrounded by a few of his men as they drank and laughed. Alasdair appeared to be telling a story. His hands moved expressively and his dark eyes gleamed. One of his men then said something and Alasdair laughed.
The firelight bathed his face and shone upon his long dark hair, which he wore loose this evening. He’d matured into a striking l
ooking man, Caitrin had to admit.
She wasn’t sure what she thought about the MacDonald chieftain these days.
There were moments when Caitrin could believe they were friends again, as they once had been, while at other times she found herself wary of him. A reserve existed between them now. And yet they’d settled into a comfortable working relationship over the last four months. Caitrin saw Alasdair a few times daily, although never alone. She hadn’t joined him for supper in his solar again, and when they did speak, it was usually about factual matters.
Lost in thought, Caitrin continued to observe Alasdair. Another of his men asked him something, and he shook his head. He raised a cup to his lips—and then his gaze lifted, meeting hers.
Caitrin froze.
Mother Mary, he’d caught her staring.
Resisting the urge to tear her gaze away, Caitrin took a deep breath and casually shifted her attention to the fire, as if he was just part of the scene she’d been observing. However, she felt her cheeks warming under the weight of his answering stare.
Raising her cup of ale to her lips, Caitrin took a sip. Nearby, a lass laughed as a young man approached her for a dance.
Seizing the opportunity to look elsewhere, Caitrin focused on the young couple.
The girl was blushing furiously and laughing to cover up her embarrassment. She was small and blonde with a lush figure. The lad who’d approached her stared into her eyes with a look of such naked longing that Caitrin felt heat flush across her chest.
Beltane was a life-affirming evening, a night when the hard-working folk of this isle could cast aside their cares and give themselves up to revelry. Not surprisingly, it was said that many bairns were conceived on this night.
“Enjoying yerself, Lady Caitrin?”
Caitrin yanked her gaze from the couple to see that Alasdair MacDonald now towered over her. She hadn’t even seen him leave his place with the other men and approach her.
Caitrin lifted her chin, angling her face up. She wished she was taller; she felt at a disadvantage every time she had to crane her neck to meet a man’s eye.
“Aye, thank ye,” she murmured. “It’s a fair night.”
“Ye should have brought Eoghan down here.”
Caitrin huffed. “I will when he’s a little older. He’s getting too big to carry.” It was true, the lad was growing like a weed and now that he could crawl everywhere and had started to pull himself up onto furniture, he was into everything. “Old Lachina is with Eoghan tonight. I hope he behaves himself.”
They stood in silence for a few moments, laughter and excited chatter eddying around them. A farmer was ushering his small herd of long-haired cattle past the fire. The beasts were mooing loudly and trying to run back down the hill, much to the entertainment of a cluster of lads nearby, who hooted at the farmer’s attempts to herd the cows.
But Alasdair paid none of the chaos any mind. He watched Caitrin steadily. “Do ye remember that one Beltane our clans spent together?” he asked finally.
Caitrin nodded before smiling. “How could I forget? Yer father tanned yer hide after ye tried to set fire to my hair.”
Alasdair snorted. “It was windy … yer hair blew into my torch.” He grinned then. “One of yer uncles got caught swiving a woman behind the bonfire … do ye remember?”
Caitrin looked away, focusing her attention on the dancing flames before her. “Of course,” she replied, her mouth curving. “We were the ones who caught him. I had nightmares about Dughall’s hairy arse for months afterward.”
Alasdair laughed, and Caitrin glanced back at him to see his dark eyes gleamed with mirth. “We used to take delight in observing the goings-on in our households.”
Caitrin snorted. “Aye, we were like two gossiping crones, always speculating on which servants would end up wedded … or bedded.”
“And what of those three?” Alasdair jerked his head to the left. Caitrin shifted her attention and saw that Sorcha now had Boyd and Darron standing with her. The captain of the guard was asking Sorcha something. He gazed down at her as he spoke, his gaze intense. Next to him Boyd wore a slightly irritated expression.
“Which man do ye think yer maid will choose?”
Caitrin raised an eyebrow. “She may pick neither.”
Chapter Twelve
Looking for a Wife
“IT LOOKS AS if a storm is brewing.”
Caitrin glanced up from where she was picking herbs to find her hand-maid looking up at the sky. Following her gaze, Caitrin frowned. The dark grey and purple clouds to the south certainly looked ominous. Four days had passed since Beltane, and the weather had warmed considerably, but it seemed the warmth was about to come to an abrupt end. “Aye, ye could be right,” she murmured.
It was a relief to venture outdoors without a cloak or woolen shawl. The afternoon was humid, the air heavy and close. As such the scents of the herbs in the courtyard garden were heady. She breathed in the perfume of the lavender she’d been cutting. This was her favorite place in the keep: a tiny walled courtyard that sat against the western edge of the curtain wall. A riot of flowering and culinary herbs surrounded her.
Both Sorcha and Eoghan had joined Caitrin this afternoon. Her hand-maid kept an eye on Eoghan as he crawled over the lichen-encrusted cobbles. The poor lass had been forever wresting objects from Eoghan’s fingers and confiscating them before he stuffed them into his mouth.
Caitrin turned to watch her son now. He was sitting up, his pink cheeks flushed, as he examined the sage leaf Sorcha had just given him. Her chest tightened at the sight of him. His dark hair grew thick now, so much like his father’s.
Turning back to the lavender she’d been collecting, Caitrin resumed her work, cutting off the tips. She regularly made lavender tonic and lotion. It was good for the hair and skin, and she always made enough to share with other women in the keep.
She’d only been working a few moments when a large splash of water hit her in the face. Another swiftly followed, and then thunder rumbled over them.
Behind her, Eoghan let out a loud squawk.
Caitrin huffed a curse and turned from the lavender bush once more. Thunder boomed again, much louder this time. Eoghan’s face crumpled, and he drew in a deep breath before letting out a frightened wail.
“Oh laddie.” Sorcha put down the trowel she’d been using to weed a herb bed. “All will be well … it’s just a wee bit of thunder.”
Eoghan ignored her, his crying explosive now. Face bright red, he reached out his hands to Caitrin.
“I’ll take him, milady,” Sorcha offered, but Caitrin shook her head. She handed her hand-maid the basket of lavender. “Please take this up, I’ll carry Eoghan.”
Scooping up her son, she murmured soothing words as the bairn hiccoughed against her shoulder.
Meanwhile, the rain was starting in earnest; large wet drops soaked into her charcoal kirtle.
The women made their way out of the courtyard garden into the bailey beyond. Thunder crashed overhead once more and Eoghan’s wails turned into panicked screeches. His cries echoed over the bailey, ricocheting off the high surrounding walls.
Men turned their gazes to the hysterical child.
Alasdair MacDonald was one of them. He was leading his horse toward the stables, having just returned from a patrol. Handing the reins to one of his men, he strode toward Caitrin, intercepting her as she headed toward the steps leading up into the keep.
“What’s wrong with the lad?” he asked, frowning. “Is he unwell?”
Caitrin shook her head, struggling to keep Eoghan still. He was writhing in her arms. “He’s never heard thunder before … it frightens him.”
Their gazes met then, and Caitrin suddenly struggled to draw breath.
Ever since Beltane she’d been aware of Alasdair in a way she hadn’t before. She’d found herself stealing glances at him at mealtimes. And just the day before, she’d watched Alasdair from her solar window. He’d been shoeing a horse, and she’d been unable
to look away, admiring the play of muscles in his shoulders and upper-arms under the thin material of his léine.
He wore a loose léine this afternoon, stuck to his torso in places from the rain that now swept across the bailey.
Caitrin’s breathlessness increased. A strange weakness went through her. She forgot the struggling bairn in her arms, the rumbling thunder, and the rain that was soaking her hair and clothing. Meanwhile, his gaze seared her.
Alasdair broke the spell first, looking away. “Ye had better get the lad inside,” he said, a slight rasp to his voice. “Ye don’t want him to catch a chill.”
Caitrin nodded, gripped Eoghan tightly to her, and was about to flee into the keep when the ground shook beneath her feet. For a moment she thought it was more thunder, but then movement behind Alasdair caught her eye.
Horses entered the bailey, ridden by men clad in wet leathers and sodden woolen cloaks. The riders out front carried a standard bearing a plaid of red, threaded with green and blue: MacNichol clan colors.
Caitrin’s brow furrowed. Such an arrival was unexpected. They weren’t due a visit from their neighbors.
The company of riders filled the bailey, and a big man with dark-blond hair swung down from his horse. He strode over to Alasdair, a grin stretching his face. “Good day, MacDonald!”
“MacNichol!” Alasdair greeted him with an equally wide smile. “What are ye doing here?”
The two men embraced before the MacNichol chieftain slapped Alasdair hard on the back. “I thought it time I paid the new MacDonald chieftain a long overdue visit.” He pushed wet hair out his face, his gaze sweeping over the bailey courtyard.
“Uncle!” Darron MacNichol strode out of the stables, grinning.
Oblivious to the rain that now hammered down, the two men hugged.
Chieftain MacNichol’s eyes were gleaming when he pulled back. “It’s been too long.” He saw Caitrin then, and he inclined his head, smiling. “Lady Caitrin.”
