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

by Jayne Castel

  Caitrin stiffened at the sight of Alasdair. She’d hoped he wouldn’t be present for this meeting. Yet she should have known he’d make a point of attending—if only to watch her suffer.

  The moment she stepped inside the hall, she felt Alasdair’s attention swivel to her. The weight of his gaze unsettled her, but she ignored him. Instead, Caitrin shifted her attention to the three men who had come to woo her.

  Breathe, she counseled herself. Don’t let any of them see ye are nervous.

  Gavin MacNichol met her eye, a warm smile stretching his ruggedly handsome features. Next to him was a dark-haired warrior with swarthy good-looks and bright blue eyes. Instinctively, Caitrin knew this must be Ross Campbell. The family resemblance to Una was striking. The third suitor, Fergus MacKay, was a broad-shouldered man with a mane of thick brown hair and green eyes. An appreciative smile stretched his comely face as he watched Caitrin approach.

  Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, Caitrin favored them with a warm smile and stepped up onto the dais. “Good eve, milords … thank ye all for coming.”

  Alasdair’s fingers tightened around the stem of his goblet.

  All conversation had ceased when Caitrin entered the hall. Alasdair’s gaze hadn’t been the only one to track her path toward them.

  It was a surprise to see her not wearing black. The sky-blue kirtle clung to her lithe form, accentuating the high curve of her bust, the womanly flare of her hips. It brought out the color of her eyes, the creamy texture of her skin. Her hair, which she usually wore up in prim braids, tumbled down her back.

  Alasdair had forgotten to breathe as she’d walked toward the dais—forgotten about anything except the beauty gliding toward him.

  And then, he’d watched her attention focus upon the three men seated near MacLeod.

  When she’d smiled, his gut had twisted.

  That smile wasn’t for him—it would never be for him. Especially now.

  The three suitors rose to their feet. MacNichol, the oldest of them, stepped forward first to greet Caitrin. “It’s a pleasure to see ye again, milady,” he said with a smile. He took her hand and raised it to his lips for a brief kiss.

  Jealousy knifed through Alasdair, causing him to suck in his breath.

  His reaction caught him off guard. When MacLeod had invited him and his men to join them for a goblet of wine and a light supper, he’d been happy to accept. He was curious to see Caitrin’s suitors and her reaction to them. He wanted to see her struggle, possibly even disgrace herself.

  But he hadn’t expected this—this stomach-wrenching surge of possessiveness.

  As if Caitrin belonged to him. As if he had any claim on her.

  Alasdair stared down at his wine and struggled to master his reaction. When he glanced up, the tall, raven-haired man with midnight blue eyes had stepped forward to greet Caitrin. He too took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Ross Campbell at yer service, milady.”

  The third suitor approached her then, dropping to one knee before Caitrin. “Such a vision of loveliness,” he boomed in a deep baritone. “A fairy queen stands before me.”

  “Daughter, meet Fergus MacKay, son to the chieftain of Strathnaver,” MacLeod spoke up with a grin. “He has traveled a long way to meet ye.”

  Caitrin inclined her head, favoring MacKay with a gentle smile. “I am honored, milord.”

  Alasdair raised his goblet to his lips and took a deep draft.

  Jealousy writhed in his gut like an eel. He tried to quell it, but the beast would not be calmed. It had been a mistake to accept this eve’s invitation. But now it was too late. He would have to sit through torture.

  Caitrin took a seat at the long table. Gavin MacNichol sat to her left while Ross Campbell and Fergus MacKay faced her.

  When Liosa had claimed her suitors were all fine-looking men, she’d thought her to be exaggerating. The hand-maid tended to go a bit silly over such things and couldn’t be trusted to give an accurate view. However, this time, the lass was right.

  It didn’t help ease Caitrin’s nervousness though. It had been a while since she’d been the center of attention like this.

  Courage. Ye need to do this … for Eoghan.

  Squaring her shoulders, Caitrin’s gaze swept over the faces of her three suitors. “I’m flattered ye have come all this way,” she addressed them with another smile. “I look forward to getting to know each of ye a little better.”

  She glanced over then, at the man seated next to her. Gavin MacNichol smiled back. Despite that he was around eighteen years her elder, the MacNichol chieftain was still a virile man. He wore his long blond hair unbound this eve. He looked less weary than the last time she’d seen him. His blue eyes were warm as he poured her a goblet of wine.

  Opposite her, Ross Campbell was dangerously attractive. The warrior, who appeared to be in his late twenties, had a magnetic gaze and chiseled features. The sensual edge to his gaze as he briefly met her eye made Caitrin uneasy. She imagined he was used to women fawning over him.

  Fergus MacKay was of a similar age to Campbell, although his looks were less brooding. He was built like an ox; his leather jerkin strained against his muscles. MacKay stared at her, his fern-green eyes gleaming with frank admiration.

  Caitrin surveyed her suitors under lowered lashes. She needed to think. Which one would get her closer to Eoghan? Which one might even defy MacDonald for her?

  She decided then that she would make her position clear.

  “I should start this eve by telling ye what I’m looking for in a husband,” she declared, her voice carrying across the table.

  Silence fell. No one here—visitors or kin alike—had expected Caitrin to be so direct. A lady didn’t speak so. But Caitrin didn’t care. Her time as chatelaine had taught her the value of taking control of situations before others did.

  “My future husband will be honest and loyal,” she continued. “A fair-minded man who would never seek to undermine or mistreat me in any way.”

  She shifted her attention down the table then, past Rhona and Taran’s shocked faces, to where Alasdair MacDonald sat. His face was pale and strained, his gaze hooded. He didn’t look happy at all, and Caitrin felt a surge of vindictive pleasure.

  Good.

  Caitrin looked back at her father to see that Malcolm MacDonald was frowning, his gaze perplexed. He was probably wondering what had come over her. Caitrin had never spoken out of turn like this.

  An awkward pause followed, while Caitrin waited for her suitors’ responses.

  Ross Campbell met her eye and inclined his head slightly, his expression amused. Next to him, Fergus MacKay favored her with a wide grin, whereas Gavin MacNichol merely smiled, his blue eyes twinkling.

  Then, unexpectedly, MacNichol raised his goblet into the air. “Shall we toast to that then?”

  At the head of the table, MacLeod struggled to his feet. “Aye … a toast.” He too held his goblet high, although he now wore a slightly stunned expression.

  The suitors raised their goblets, smiles stretching their faces.

  “To the lovely Lady Caitrin,” Fergus MacKay boomed, with a wink to his two competitors. “May she find a man among us worthy of her beauty … and failing that … may the best man win!”

  MacNichol threw his head back and laughed at this, while Campbell smirked.

  Raising the goblet to her lips, Caitrin took a sip of sloe wine. The liquid warmed her belly, soothing the last of her nerves. The courtship she was about to endure was a game, she might as well try to enjoy it.

  “I’m taking MacDonald out boar hunting tomorrow.” Her father’s hearty voice jerked Caitrin’s attention back to the head of the table. “Ye three must join us.” He then picked up the MacLeod drinking horn—taken from a massive ox. “When we return, there will be feasting and dancing … and the mightiest hunter among ye will have to drain this.”

  “There will also be wooing,” Una reminded her husband, casting him an exasperated look. “Maybe ye shouldn’t encour
age heavy drinking, my love. Caitrin’s suitors must keep their wits about them.”

  “Of course, wife.” MacLeod dismissed Una’s comment with a wave of his hand. “Although a real man should be able to hold his drink and win my daughter’s heart.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Competition

  ALASDAIR THRUST THE spear deep into the boar’s chest.

  Man and beast were so close that he could smell its pungent odor: oily and slightly sweet. Staring into the beast’s eyes, Alisdair watched them glaze over. Then it fell to its knees and collapsed with an agonized wheeze.

  A cheer went up in the clearing.

  “Well met, MacDonald!” Malcolm MacLeod limped toward him, a grin splitting his face. “I’ve never seen anyone bring down a boar with such style.”

  Breathing hard, Alasdair straightened up and pulled his spear free of the boar’s chest. It had been a clean kill. He’d rammed the spear into its heart.

  MacLeod slapped him on the back. “Nothing like a good boar hunt, eh?”

  Alasdair nodded, still out of breath from the dance the boar had led him on. In the end, he’d closed in on it, flanked by Taran MacKinnon on one side and Gavin MacNichol on the other. All three men wielded boar spears, but it was only Alasdair who’d managed to get close enough to strike.

  “Impressive,” MacNichol congratulated him with a wide smile, while MacKinnon merely gave a reluctant nod. Ever since his arrival at Dunvegan, Caitrin’s brother-in-law had viewed Alasdair with a jaundiced eye.

  “I thought ye were about to get yerself gored,” Fergus MacKay called out. He still sat astride his courser.

  Ross Campbell had pulled his horse up next to MacKay’s, his dark-blue eyes narrowing as he viewed the massive dead boar at Alasdair’s feet. Campbell then cast Alasdair an incredulous look. “Ye are either lucky or extremely skilled.”

  Alasdair tossed both men a careless smile. “I knew what I was doing … ye need to get close enough to look yer opponent in the eye before ye end him.”

  “Aye,” Clan-chief MacLeod agreed with a snort. “Yer Da always did that … every time we went out hunting I expected him to be speared in the guts by an enraged boar.”

  He didn’t add that Eoghan MacDonald had actually died while out hunting, although it had been during a stag hunt. He’d fallen from his horse and snapped his neck.

  Nearby, a whimper punctuated the clearing. One of the dogs that accompanied them was bleeding, caught by the boar’s sharp tusk on its shoulder. Turning his attention from MacLeod, Alasdair crossed to the hound, hunkering down before it. The dog whined again and tried to lick his hand. It was a young, rangy beast with a wiry grey coat and soulful dark eyes.

  “How deep is it?”

  Alasdair glanced up to see Taran MacKinnon looming over him. He’d forgotten that the scar-faced warrior was master of MacLeod’s hounds.

  “Deep enough to need some stitching,” Alasdair replied, stroking the dog’s ears.

  MacKinnon knelt next to him, and the dog nuzzled his arm, delighted to be the center of attention. “Does it need binding for the trip back?”

  Alasdair shook his head. “The tip of the tusk sliced across the bone, but not deep. It should stop bleeding shortly.”

  “Good.” MacKinnon gave a tight smile. “Lady Adaira would never forgive me for letting her hound bleed to death out on a hunt.”

  Alasdair glanced up at him. “This is her dog?”

  “Aye. His name’s Dùnglas. He’s barely a year old. She picked him out of a litter when he was a pup.”

  Alasdair smiled. Grey Fort: a noble name for a wolf hound.

  The dog gave another whine before nudging Alasdair’s arm once more.

  “Go on,” Alasdair murmured, giving his ears another rub. “Ye will live, lad.”

  He rose to his feet, leaving MacKinnon with Dùnglas, and turned back to where the other men had dismounted from their horses and gone to inspect the boar he’d taken down.

  It really was a prize. The beast had been in its prime. It had a coarse ebony coat, long deadly tusks, and a mane of spiky bristles that stretched from the crown of its head to the end of its spine.

  Alasdair was still gazing at it when raindrops, cool and wet, splashed onto his face. He glanced up to see that the sky had gone a deep, ominous grey.

  Nearby, MacLeod also looked up, his heavy brow furrowing. “That’s us done for the morning,” he announced. “Let’s get this beast over the back of one of the horses and make for home.”

  The rain swept over the woodland north-east of Dunvegan in blinding sheets. The hunting party had turned back, but the decision had come too late—the rain had arrived, soaking them all within moments.

  Initially, Alasdair resisted, bowing his head and pulling up the hood of his woolen cloak. But after a while there didn’t seem any point. The rain kept coming, even heavier than before.

  Finally, he just surrendered to it, pushing down his hood and letting the rain run down his neck in a river. The rain was cool, but not cold. This storm brought the smell of warm earth and lush vegetation: the scents of summer.

  At some point on the journey back to Dunvegan, Alasdair found himself riding next to Gavin MacNichol. The chieftain had been traveling alongside his nephew, but then Darron moved ahead to join Taran MacKinnon, leaving Alasdair and Gavin alone.

  Like Alasdair, Gavin hadn’t bothered resisting the rain. He hadn’t even pulled his hood up, and his dark blond hair was slicked back from his wet face. He cast Alasdair a wry smile. “Looks like I won’t need to bathe before this afternoon’s feast.”

  Alasdair huffed in response. He’d intended to avoid the feast, but since he’d brought that boar down, the clan-chief intended to make a fuss of him. MacNichol, Campbell, and MacKay would compete for Caitrin’s attention like stags during rutting season. He didn’t want to see Caitrin smile at them and flirt with them.

  His belly twisted. One of them would become her husband. One of them will bed her.

  Alasdair hadn’t considered this outcome when he’d decided to heed MacLeod’s letter. He’d thought only about distancing himself from Caitrin, about making her suffer. Maybe this was his punishment for keeping Caitrin’s son from her?

  Perhaps he deserved it.

  Silence stretched between them, before Gavin spoke once more. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the thrumming of the rain.

  “How are things in Duntulm these days?”

  Alasdair glanced over at him. “Well enough … I’m kept busy.”

  “The life of a chieftain isn’t as exciting as some think, is it?” MacNichol replied. “There are walls to be built, crops to be planted, and an estate to be managed … not to mention all the petty disputes ye have to deal with.”

  Alasdair’s mouth curved. “Aye … I had two farmers visit me last week. They were bickering over a goat.”

  MacNichol laughed. “Have ye missed the warrior’s life … fighting for king and country?”

  Alasdair’s expression sobered. “No, I haven’t.”

  Gavin MacNichol studied him for a long moment, before he spoke once more. “Three of my men returned home from the mainland a few days ago. They tell me the battle near Durham is to be named after the English commander.”

  Alasdair raised an eyebrow. “Lord Neville?”

  “Aye, they’re calling it the Battle of Neville’s Cross.”

  Alasdair snorted. “The victor always gets to write history.”

  Gavin’s brow furrowed then. “Ye would have seen a lot of yer countrymen die. That never leaves ye.”

  Alasdair drew in a deep breath. He wasn’t about to admit to MacNichol that it hadn’t. “We should have won that day,” he growled. “Our force was much bigger than theirs.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “We were poorly positioned,” Alasdair replied looking away, his gaze focusing on the rain-swept woodland path before him. “The mist lay heavily as we readied ourselves for battle, and when it lifted, we saw that we stood
upon rough ground. Our movement was made difficult by ditches and walls. We started the battle on the defensive … and it only got worse from there.”

  MacNichol’s frown deepened. Alasdair didn’t blame him; the whole thing was a sorry, humiliating affair.

  “I hear they’ve taken King David prisoner,” Gavin said finally.

  “Aye, he was badly injured, but I think he still lives. They took him back to England with them. I doubt he’ll ever set foot on Scottish soil again.”

  The two men fell silent then, each brooding over the loss that had cost all of them dearly. After a lengthy pause, Alasdair spoke, deliberately changing the subject. “I was surprised to see ye here,” he said casually. “I didn’t realize ye wanted to pursue Lady Caitrin?”

  MacNichol’s mouth quirked. “Who wouldn’t? She’s a lovely lass … and she’s proven that she can run a castle too.”

  Alasdair forced down a surge of irritational jealousy. He liked Gavin MacNichol, but at that moment he wanted to choke the life out of him. “And what say ye to yer competition? Both Campbell and MacKay are younger than ye.”

  Gavin laughed, not remotely offended by this observation. When he’d sobered, he winked at Alasdair. “Many women appreciate an older man. We make better lovers.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Ye Want to Choose Wisely

  CAITRIN CLOSED THE shutters against the rain and began to pace the solar. The chamber—filled with embroidered cushions, dried flowers, and pieces of weaving and sewing in progress—was a warm, comfortable space that would forever remind Caitrin of her mother. She’d always liked this room, but this morning she couldn’t relax here.

  Just two days back in Dunvegan, and she already felt bored and restless. She was used to moving about Duntulm, her chatelaine’s keys rattling at her waist, overseeing servants and making decisions about the running of the keep.

  Here, she felt useless.

  “For the love of God, sit down,” Rhona chided her. “My belly’s already churning. Watching ye circle this chamber is making it worse.”