by Jayne Castel
Caitrin huffed, stopping and turning to face her sister.
Rhona’s face was pale this morning, her expression strained. She sat rubbing her lower sternum. “How long will this go on?” she muttered.
“I felt ill most mornings until I was around three months in with Eoghan,” Caitrin replied with a sympathetic smile. “But I hear it differs with each woman.”
Rhona sighed, her hand shifting to her belly. She wasn’t showing signs of carrying a bairn yet as it was still early. “I wish Taran could share some of this,” she grumbled. “Men have the easy part.”
Caitrin gave a soft, humorless laugh. “They do indeed.”
Rhona’s grey eyes clouded. “I’m sorry, Caitrin. That was insensitive of me … ye must be missing Eoghan terribly.”
Caitrin swallowed, her hands clenching by her sides. “I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again … it feels as if there’s a gaping hole in my chest where my heart should be.”
Rhona put aside the embroidery she’d been working on. “Ye will see him again.” Her jaw firmed then. “Have ye got any further with that plan of yers?”
Caitrin nodded, taking a seat opposite her. A large loom sat to her left, with a half-finished tapestry on it. Caitrin had been trying to work on it, but then restlessness had overtaken her. She picked up the tapestry beater, a wooden comb she used to push the strands of yarn into place, but didn’t resume work. Instead, she traced her fingertips along the teeth of the beater.
“I’ve met all three of them now,” she replied softly, staring down at the comb, “and later I’ll decide who can best help me get Eoghan back.”
“Any early thoughts?”
Caitrin glanced up. “Gavin MacNichol is a neighbor, and he makes regular trips to Duntulm … he might be a good choice.”
Rhona frowned. “He’s on good terms with MacDonald though, and might not want to fall out with him.”
“Ye think I should choose someone more aggressive?”
Rhona shrugged. “Perhaps. MacKay looks like he has some fire in his belly.”
“What about Ross Campbell? Would he help me?”
Rhona went still, her expression turning thoughtful. “I’m not sure what to think of him. Maybe it’s just because I don’t like Una. He’s difficult to read.” She grinned then. “Although Campbell’s certainly the best-looking of the three. Liosa can’t stop sighing over him.”
Caitrin snorted. “I care not about looks.” It was true. She wasn’t searching for a man who’d make her knees go weak or one to fall in love with. Finding a husband wasn’t her choice, but if she had to wed, it would be to a man who’d treat her well, who valued her happiness—and who realized how important it was for her to be with her child.
Rhona smiled. “Ye had better think on what to ask them later then,” she said, rising to her feet. “Ye want to choose wisely.”
Rhona then reached for a woolen shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders.
“Where are ye going?” Caitrin asked with a frown.
“It’s nearing noon,” her sister replied. “The men will be back at any moment. I’m going down to the stables to wait for Taran.” She cast Caitrin an appraising look. “I’ll find Liosa on my way and send her up … ye had better start getting ready for the feast.”
Caitrin watched Rhona leave the solar, the door thudding shut behind her.
Loosing a sigh, Caitrin leaned back in her chair. She still toyed with the beater, turning it over and over in her hands, but made no move to resume her weaving. In truth, although she knew what she must do, she dreaded the coming feast and the hours of music and dancing that would inevitably follow.
She wasn’t looking forward to making idle chatter and smiling till her face ached. She wasn’t looking forward to pretending that she wanted a husband at all.
Alasdair swung down from the saddle, landing lightly on the cobblestones. Rain beat down on his head, and he blinked water out of his eyes. He’d thought the storm might abate during the journey back to Dunvegan, but if anything, the rain was even heavier than earlier. The roar of it filled his ears as it thundered down into the bailey.
Leading his horse into the stables, his boots squelching with every stride, Alasdair breathed in the odor of wet horse, dog, leather, and wool. Around him men grumbled as they tied their horses up inside the stalls and began unsaddling them.
“Come on lads, finish up here and get inside.” Malcolm MacLeod’s voice boomed through the stables. “Soon ye shall be feasting and making merry.”
Behind Alasdair, Boyd paused while unsaddling his horse and glanced over his shoulder at him. “Does MacLeod ever let anything dampen his spirits?”
Alasdair pulled a face. “Don’t let his ready smile fool ye … Malcolm MacLeod’s not someone ye want to get off-side with.”
“His daughter’s imminent remarriage has clearly put him in a jovial mood.”
“Aye … MacLeod loves an opportunity to break out the ale.”
Boyd pushed his wet hair out of his eyes before grinning at Alasdair. “I’m enjoying Dunvegan.”
“Don’t get too comfortable. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
Boyd’s face fell. “So soon?”
“Aye.” Alasdair turned from him and started rubbing down his horse. “Tell the others we’ll be riding out shortly after dawn.”
The events of the last day had made Alasdair realize that it had been a mistake to agree to stay on in Dunvegan. The sooner he returned to Duntulm and put Caitrin out of his mind, the better.
He’d just removed his stallion’s saddle and bridle when a firm nudge to his left leg drew his attention. A wet, bloodied wolf-hound sat at his feet, gazing up at him with soft eyes.
Dùnglas.
Alasdair let out an amused snort. “What are ye doing here, lad?”
“Shouldn’t that dog be in its kennel?” Boyd muttered. “It risks getting trampled on in the stables.”
“Aye … I’ll take him back when I finish here.” Alasdair would also see to the beast’s shoulder while he was at it. Growing up, he’d helped look after his father’s dogs. As a keen hunter, Eoghan MacDonald had taken much pride in his kennel of wolf hounds.
Alasdair finished seeing to his horse and then made his way out of the stables, Dùnglas limping along at his heel. His wet clothing was starting to itch. After he saw to the dog, he would stop by his quarters and get changed before joining the others in the Great Hall.
As he approached the stable entrance, Alasdair spotted a tall woman with fiery auburn hair. Rhona MacKinnon was standing just inside the doorway, a damp shawl wrapped around her shoulders, awaiting her husband.
Rhona’s gaze seized upon Alasdair as he neared. Her attention shifted from him to the dog following him, before she frowned.
Alasdair favored her with a nod.
“Finally found a friend have ye, MacDonald?” she sneered.
Alasdair cast Rhona an answering smile. “At least the dog knows its place … milady.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Dancing and Feasting
THE STRAINS OF a lute and a harp echoed through Dunvegan’s Great Hall, rising above the rumble of voices.
Caitrin took a sip of wine, her gaze traveling down the rows of tables that filled the wide space beneath the dais.
She’d rarely seen the Great Hall so crammed. Her father’s retainers and their families packed the long tables, as did his warriors. There were also a number of faces she hadn’t seen in years, clansmen who lived throughout MacLeod lands.
They’d all come to witness Caitrin choose her next husband.
Inhaling deeply, Caitrin shifted her attention to the huge array of food that covered the table before her: platters of roast venison, a rich goat stew, and a selection of breads and braised vegetables. A great roast goose stuffed with apples and nuts dominated the table.
Caitrin helped herself to a morsel of goose. The meat was rich and delicious, although her nervous stomach took the edge off her enjoyment. She
doubted she’d be able to eat much of the spread. Despite that she’d vowed to try and enjoy herself, anxiety now bubbled up within her.
So much depended on tonight.
Her three suitors sat opposite her this eve, all of them dressed in their best léines and braies. Each wore a diagonal sash of their clan-plaid across his chest.
To Caitrin’s chagrin, her father had seated Alasdair MacDonald next to her this afternoon, to MacLeod’s right. Apparently, his guest had brought down a huge boar during the hunt. Her father wouldn’t stop talking about it.
“Such a fine pair of tusks shouldn’t go to waste. I shall have the boar’s head preserved and mounted for ye,” MacLeod announced, raising his goblet to Alasdair in yet another toast.
Alasdair smiled, raising his own goblet. “Thank ye, Malcolm.”
MacLeod grinned at him and turned to a passing servant. “Fill my horn with mead and bring it here.” He then turned his attention back to Alasdair, his expression turning sly. “Let’s see if ye can drain it in one go. Few men can.”
Despite her nerves, Caitrin fought the sudden urge to smile. To her knowledge, only her father had ever managed to drain the horn in one go. He loved to challenge men to drinking contests. She doubted Alasdair would manage it.
Alasdair seemed unmoved by the challenge. He merely smiled and waited for the horn. Moments later, it arrived: the great curved ox’s horn, tipped in silver. Years earlier, MacLeod had faced the rampant ox armed only with his dirk and slayed it before cutting off one of its horns as a trophy.
“Ye won’t be able to drain that, MacDonald,” Fergus MacKay called out. “Hand it to me, and I’ll show ye how a real man drinks.”
Alasdair ignored him. Then, raising the horn to his lips, he tipped back his head and began to drink.
The other men at the table called out, some cheering him on while others heckled. Impressively, Alasdair paid none of them any mind. Caitrin watched his throat bob as he swallowed the mead in steady gulps.
“Drink, drink, drink!” Boyd bellowed from the far end of the table. The feasting had barely started, and the warrior was already well into his cups. At the tables below the dais, men had risen to their feet, necks craning to catch a glimpse of the commotion going on above.
Caitrin’s gaze widened as she watched Alasdair continue to drink. The horn was nearly three times the size of a normal tankard. He should have drained most of it by now?
Even her father was starting to look impressed.
Alasdair reared back then, yanking the horn away from his mouth. His gaze had gone glassy, and his face was paling. For a moment Caitrin was sure he would be sick.
Her father grabbed the horn off him and peered inside. “Ye did it!” he said, his voice incredulous. “I don’t believe it.”
A roar thundered down the table as Alasdair’s men shouted their approval. However, their chieftain looked unwell. He gripped the edge of the table, squeezing his eyes shut a moment. His throat bobbed as he forced down the last gulp of mead. Caitrin noted the sheen of sweat on his face.
“He hasn’t won yet,” MacKay boomed, a delighted grin spreading across his face as he eyed Alasdair. “He’s about to puke his guts out … look!” MacKay winked at Caitrin. “I’d move aside, milady. Ye don’t want that pretty gown ruined.”
Alasdair opened his eyes, his jaw tightening. To Caitrin’s surprise, and disappointment, he appeared to recover. Inhaling deeply, he relaxed his grip on the table edge. He then straightened up and cast Fergus MacKay a sickly smile, his gaze glinting. “Yer turn?”
The feasting lasted a long while. After the meat dishes had been enjoyed, servants brought out wheels of aged cheese, platters of fruits, and raspberry tartlets. Mead, ale, and wine flowed—and the noise of conversation gradually grew more raucous.
Caitrin both ate and drank sparingly.
She wanted her wits about her for the dancing, when she would have the opportunity to speak to each of her suitors in turn.
At the table, those surrounding Caitrin all paced themselves differently. Her father downed food and wine with abandon, while Una picked at her meal like a sparrow. MacNichol and Campbell ate and drank moderately, while MacKay drained tankard after tankard of ale. Next to Caitrin, Alasdair ate slowly and barely touched the goblet of wine before him. After downing that horn of mead so quickly, Caitrin wasn’t surprised. His face remained pale for some time afterward.
She and Alasdair didn’t speak during the feast, choosing instead to ignore each other. Yet she was aware of his presence next to her, even when she was talking to one of her suitors. All three of them worked hard for her attention during the feasting. They teased each other, flattered her, and plied Caitrin with questions.
When the last of the food was cleared away, Caitrin was exhausted. She could easily have slunk away to her bower, but there was the dancing still to come. She wouldn’t be able to leave for a long while yet.
The lutist and harpist changed their tune, instead shifting to a playful jig, while the tables were pushed back and the hall cleared.
A line of men and women then took to the floor.
“Lady Caitrin.” Fergus MacKay rose to his feet, swaying slightly. “I’d like to have the first dance with ye, if I may?”
Caitrin nodded. She got up and stepped down from the dais, joining the others at the end of the line. Fergus followed, taking her hand, and then they began. Two steps forward, two steps back, and then a twirl. Caitrin knew all the steps, for she and her sisters had done this one many times over the years. This was a dance that all high-born lasses knew, for it was popular at handfastings and other celebrations.
After the twirl Caitrin picked up her skirts and followed the other dancers around in a circle. She moved in short, gliding strides, while keeping her back ramrod straight.
The music grew more strident. Caitrin twirled, stepped, and dipped, while the onlooking crowd started to clap. She loved to dance, and it felt good to move after the long feast. The music caught alight in her veins, and she let it carry her away.
Alasdair watched Caitrin move.
He was unable to take his gaze off her, tracking her across the dance floor as she glided backward and forward. She circled Fergus MacKay, the pair of them edging around each other, drawing together and then apart. He watched MacKay say something to her, before Caitrin smiled back at him.
Alasdair sucked in a sharp breath.
Caitrin had never looked so lovely. She’d left her long pale-blonde hair completely unbound, although someone had threaded daisies through it. Rather than the sky-blue kirtle of the day before, she wore a gown of shimmering pale green.
It hurt Alasdair to look upon her. Each moment was torture, and yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
“Tell me of yer home in Strathnaver,” Caitrin asked as she circled her dance partner. “I have yet to visit the mainland.”
Fergus MacKay flashed her a wide smile. Despite that he’d looked unsteady on his feet when he’d risen from the table, he danced with surprising grace. “My father resides at Castle Varrich, where I grew up,” he replied. “But these days I rule the lands around Borve Castle.”
The dance brought them close, and MacKay’s smile faded, his gaze growing intense. “It’s a wild, beautiful coast, milady. I look forward to showing it to ye.”
They circled around each other, back to back now.
“Do ye visit Skye often?” Caitrin asked.
“Every year or so,” he replied. “Why?”
Caitrin twisted her head right, meeting Fergus MacKay’s eye. “My son resides at Duntulm … I don’t wish to be parted from him.”
“I’m afraid ye will be,” he said softly, regret in his green eyes. “Ye shall bear my sons … that will make it easier to forget the one ye left behind.”
Caitrin dropped her gaze. Indignance pulsed through her. Did MacKay really think a woman could just forget such things?
The dance ended then, and MacKay led Caitrin back to her seat. Another dance started u
p, a lively jig that had most of the onlookers clapping their hands and stamping their feet as the dancers whirled.
Caitrin was glad she was waiting this one out. It gave her time to think.
Fergus MacKay had just made her decision easier. If she wed him, she’d never see Eoghan again. Sipping her wine, she deliberately swiveled round on the bench, facing the dancers, so that her back was to Alasdair MacDonald. It was easier to pretend he wasn’t sitting next to her if she kept her back to him.
Once the dance ended, another gentler one commenced. And this time, Ross Campbell led Caitrin out onto the floor.
Una’s brother was an excellent dancer. He moved with fluid grace, his midnight-blue eyes tracking Caitrin with a near predatory intensity.
“Milord,” she admonished him softly as they drew close and she twirled around him. “Don’t stare so … it makes me uneasy.”
Campbell laughed, and immediately Caitrin relaxed. The expression softened his face and eyes. “I apologize … but it’s because ye are a bonny sight, milady,” he replied. “There are many men in this hall who are unable to take their eyes off ye.”
Caitrin inclined her head, acknowledging the compliment. “Da tells me that ye serve the MacKinnon clan-chief at Dunan,” she said lightly. “How long have ye been there?”
“I fostered at Dunan as a lad.” They shifted apart for a spell then, as Caitrin and Ross danced to opposite sides of the floor. When they neared each other once more, he caught her eye. “Duncan MacKinnon is more of a father to me than my own.”
Caitrin suppressed the urge to frown. She’d heard tales of Duncan MacKinnon—and none of them good. He was said to be a harsh man, one who made Malcolm MacLeod look soft-hearted in comparison. Rhona had told Caitrin that Taran had been pleased to leave Dunan and serve MacLeod instead. However, Campbell clearly held him in high regard.
“How exactly do ye serve him?” she asked.
