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

by Jayne Castel

  Outside, she could still hear the hiss of the rain. She didn’t care about the gloomy weather though, or that they would have to set off for Duntulm in it the following morning. Soon she would be reunited with Eoghan, but right now she was wrapped in her husband’s arms.

  A soft smile curved Caitrin’s lips. At this moment, she was exactly where she wanted to be.

  Rhona watched her sister ride out of the bailey. Caitrin sat astride a grey palfrey, a delicate mare with a mincing gait. She rode alongside her husband, Alasdair MacDonald. He towered above her upon a bay courser. A grey wolf hound loped along beside his horse, its gaze keen.

  “Isn’t that Adaira’s dog … Dùnglas?” Rhona asked, glancing at where Taran stood beside her.

  “Aye,” he replied with a smile.

  “Why is he he leaving with MacDonald?”

  “Dùnglas took a shine to Alasdair … I thought the hound would be happier elsewhere.”

  Rhona favored her husband with an incredulous look, before she shifted her attention back to the departing riders. A light rain fell this morning, and the clouds hung low over Dunvegan. All of the MacDonald party wore woolen traveling cloaks and had pulled up their hoods.

  As she descended the incline toward the Sea-gate, Caitrin turned, her gaze catching Rhona’s. She then smiled and raised her hand in farewell. Rhona waved back, her vision misting.

  Caitrin turned away, and a moment later she disappeared through the gate. Shortly after, the rest of the party from Duntulm followed, the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves ringing against wet stone.

  “Don’t look so worried, love. She will be fine.”

  Rhona swallowed before glancing up at Taran. He was watching her, a soft look in his eyes. “Really,” she said huskily. “Can ye be sure of that?”

  “No … but ye can’t be certain she’ll be miserable either.”

  Rhona huffed. “I thought ye didn’t like him?”

  “I hardly know the man,” Taran replied evenly, “but now that he has done right by yer sister, I’m prepared to revise my opinion of him.”

  Rhona’s mouth thinned, before her gaze shifted back to the Sea-gate, almost as if she expected Caitrin to reappear at any moment. “If I ever find out he’s mistreated her, I’ll ride to Duntulm and sink a dirk into his guts,” she growled.

  “There will be no need for that, mo ghràdh,” Taran replied, amusement lacing his voice. “Ye can see MacDonald adores her.”

  Rhona drew back, favoring Taran with an arch look. “What’s wrong with ye this morning?”

  Taran smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. To most folk he had a frightening face, made even more so by a formidable expression. But to Rhona he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. It was nearly a year since they’d been wed, and with each passing day she grew to love Taran MacKinnon more.

  “Nothing,” he replied. “Only that I know what it’s like to lose yer heart to a woman … long before she knows ye exist.”

  Rhona felt chastened by that, remembering how she had seen Taran before they’d been wed. He’d been her father’s faithful warrior, her servant, and a friend of sorts. But she hadn’t seen him as a man. “Ye think it’s a good match then?” she asked, still unconvinced.

  Taran nodded, before he slung an arm around her shoulders and turned her back toward the keep. The others, who’d come out to see the MacDonald party off, had all dispersed, including MacLeod and his wife—driven indoors by the wet weather. “Perhaps. But only time will tell,” he replied before he leaned in and kissed her. “Come on … let’s get out of this rain.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Sing for Us

  ALASDAIR STOLE A glance at the woman who was now his wife

  It didn’t seem real.

  He had much to thank Gavin MacNichol for—the man had made him see sense, had made him look truth squarely in the eye. He’d taken a risk. His visit to Caitrin could have gone terribly wrong. She could have rejected him and thrown him out of her bower. She could have called for her father’s guards and caused an ugly scene.

  But she hadn’t.

  Something had shifted within him since that night. It was as if a bitter thorn that had been festering within his flesh had finally been lanced. He felt lighter, freer. He hadn’t realized just how big a burden he’d been carrying. Ever since making the decision to take Caitrin back to her father, he’d struggled with it. What a relief it was to cast the weight aside.

  They were riding east, across a stretch of bare hills. The rain clouds hung over them in an oppressive grey curtain. Shortly after leaving Dunvegan, they’d been soaked through. Strangely, Alasdair didn’t mind. He felt as if he’d been reborn; all the things that used to matter didn’t.

  Glancing right, he saw that Dùnglas was managing to keep up with him. The wound to its shoulder was healing well. The wolf hound trotted along, tongue lolling. It had shadowed him ever since leaving Dunvegan. Alasdair smiled. He’d almost forgotten about taking the dog with him, but when he’d led his horse out of the stables that morning, Dùnglas had been there, sitting upon the cobbles in the rain, waiting for him.

  It was as if the hound knew he was leaving and was determined not to be left behind.

  Alasdair glanced up, his gaze sweeping the road ahead. To the south-east he spied great brooding peaks just visible through the shroud of rain and mist, but they weren’t heading that way. By the end of the day, they’d cross into MacDonald lands, and then turn north for Duntulm.

  For home.

  Alasdair cut Caitrin another glance, his gaze lingering on her profile as she looked ahead. Sensing his gaze upon her, his wife shifted her attention to Alasdair.

  “What is it?” she asked, her lips curving in a way that made him wish they were alone. During the two nights they’d spent together, Caitrin had surprised him; she was lustier and more sensual than he could have ever hoped or dreamed. She had given herself to him wholeheartedly.

  Alasdair smiled back. “Just gazing upon my wife’s beauty.”

  Caitrin huffed although her eyes gleamed. “Ye have a honeyed-tongue, Alasdair. I’m wet, bedraggled, and smell of wet wool and horse.”

  “Aye … but ye are still the bonniest lass I’ve ever set eyes on.” He gave her a long look then that made her cheeks pinken. “Or ever will.”

  She cleared her throat, embarrassed by his declaration. Yet he saw from the twinkle in her sea-blue eyes that she’d responded favorably to it. “Ye are a rogue, husband. The world is filled with fair-faced women. How do ye know ye won’t meet one prettier?”

  “None lovelier than ye, Caitrin,” he replied. “That I promise ye.”

  As dusk neared, they made camp at the bottom of a shallow valley. The rain continued falling in a steady patter upon the already soaked earth. Caitrin dismounted from her palfrey, her already soaked boots squelching on the wet grass. They stood in a grove of beech trees, where the men started to erect an awning between three trees for the party to shelter under, and another a few yards away for the horses.

  The bedraggled wolf hound they’d brought from Duntulm shook out its wet coat and sat down under a tree, watching the men work.

  “If this continues, we’ll have to build ourselves an arc and row the rest of the way to Duntulm,” Boyd MacDonald grumbled as he removed a roll of hide from behind his saddle. “We’ll be lucky if we find any dry wood for a fire.”

  Darron MacNichol snorted, relieving him of his roll. “Well, I’m sure if anyone can, it is ye. Off ye go and find us some then.”

  Boyd’s lip curled. As a member of the Duntulm Guard, he now took orders from Captain MacNichol and had no choice but to do as bid.

  Watching the brief interaction between the men, Caitrin noted that there was little in the way of friendship between them. She remembered the scene back at Beltane and wondered if their rivalry over Sorcha MacQueen’s affections had anything to do with it.

  At the thought of Sorcha, warmth filtered over Caitrin. This time tomorrow she’d be wa
rm and dry and back in Duntulm—with Eoghan in her arms. They’d been apart for only a few days, but it felt like months to her. She was impatient to see him again.

  Once the awning had been erected, Caitrin helped the others roll out dry sheets of hide around a small hearth area. Grateful to be out of the rain, Caitrin removed her sodden cloak and hung it up on a branch. It was sheltered here, although with the air so damp, she doubted her cloak would dry much overnight.

  Boyd and a couple of other men returned presently with armloads of firewood, although some of it was damp. While the others settled themselves on the hide, Darron crouched down next to the hearth and got a fire going. He used a flint and steel to light a pile of tinder that he’d carried with him wrapped in an oiled cloth. It took a few tries, and a bit of ribbing from the likes of Boyd, but he eventually managed to light a fire.

  Caitrin watched the bright gold tongues of flame licking at the damp wood and released a sigh. It wasn’t a cold evening, but the air was heavy with moisture. The fire was a beacon of color and warmth, a ward against the encircling grey.

  They ate a simple meal of oaten bread, butter, and boiled eggs washed down with ale. Caitrin sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Alasdair, listening to the rumble of conversation around the fireside. Despite that her clothing felt damp and itchy against her skin, and that an uncomfortable night awaited her, a warm sensation of well-being settled over her.

  With a jolt, she realized that the feeling was happiness.

  She’d not felt like this in a long while. After Baltair’s death, once she’d taken up the role of chatelaine, Caitrin had thought she’d been content in her new life. In reality though, she’d been living in dread, for she’d known that at some point a man—be it her father or Baltair’s brother—would shatter her peace.

  Now, there was no dread. She was the Lady of Duntulm once more, but this time she’d not cower before her husband. The bond between her and Alasdair was still new, yet she had a knowing deep in her bones that he’d be good to her.

  Once the supper had ended, the men started passing around skins of ale. Caitrin took a delicate sip from one before casting a look at her husband. The hound he’d brought with him had somehow sidled up to the fire and now sat pressed up against Alasdair’s right side. The dog appeared so content it almost looked as if it were smiling.

  “Should I be jealous?” she asked, stifling a laugh.

  Alasdair met her eye, his mouth curving. “Don’t mind Dùnglas … he seems to think I’m some long lost relative.”

  “Just as long as he doesn’t want to share yer bed when we get home.”

  Alasdair snorted. “No chance of that.”

  “Curse this rain.” Boyd’s voice interrupted them from across the fire. “We need some cheer to chase away the gloom.” He turned his attention to the young warrior who’d sung the bawdy songs on their journey to Dunvegan. “Come, Finlay, give us another one of yer tunes.”

  “Those aren’t songs fit for a lady’s ears, Boyd,” Alasdair pointed out.

  His cousin snorted. “Lady Caitrin won’t mind.”

  Darron cleared his throat. “I remember ye having a good voice, Alasdair. Why don’t ye sing for us?”

  Boyd’s eyes widened, and he cut Alasdair a reproachful look. “All those months together and ye never let on ye could sing.”

  Alasdair shrugged. “There wasn’t much cause for it, was there?”

  Caitrin inclined her head, focusing on Alasdair. He actually looked a little embarrassed. “Go on,” she murmured with a smile. “I’d like ye to sing for us.”

  He met her eye and gave her a pained look. “Ye would?”

  “Aye … if it means I don’t have to hear of swiving lusty tavern wenches.”

  Her comment brought bursts of surprised laughter from the surrounding men. Alasdair raised an eyebrow, and Finlay’s cheeks glowed red.

  Caitrin said nothing more though, and finally Alasdair loosed a defeated breath. “Very well, wife … here is a song more suitable for yer ears.”

  A pause followed, and then Alasdair began to sing. He had a low, slightly husky voice, and sang a slow ballad, one that Caitrin had never heard before.

  “Oh the summer time has come

  And the trees are sweetly blooming

  And wild mountain thyme

  Grows around the purple heather.

  Will ye go, lassie, go?

  And we'll all go together,

  To pull wild mountain thyme,

  All around the purple heather.

  Will ye go, lassie, go?

  I will build my love a tower,

  By yon clear crystal fountain,

  And on it I will pile,

  All the flowers of the mountain.

  Will ye go, lassie, go?”

  Alasdair finished his song, his voice fading into silence. The fine hair on the back of Caitrin’s forearms prickled, and she let out a slow breath, realizing that she’d forgotten to breathe while he sang.

  “That was beautiful,” she whispered.

  He ducked his head, smiling. “Ye enjoyed it then?”

  “Aye.”

  Across the fire, Boyd snorted. “Ye have a fine voice, I’ll give ye that cousin … but did ye have to choose something so … feeble?”

  Alasdair threw back his head and laughed. “I know plenty of other songs.”

  “Why don’t ye sing us one?” Boyd grinned at Caitrin then. “None that’ll offend yer lady’s ears, mind.”

  They rode into Duntulm under the drumming rain, approaching the fortress from the south. However, when he crested the top of the last hill, Alasdair pulled his courser to an abrupt halt.

  “What is it?” Caitrin pulled up her palfrey next to her husband, her gaze following the direction of his.

  She didn’t need him to answer, for an instant later, she saw for herself what the problem was.

  When they’d left Duntulm, the Cleatburn had been a meandering stream that cut east of the village, spanned by an old humpbacked stone bridge.

  It was now a turbid torrent, covering the meadows and the outlying cottages. Sod roofed dwellings peeked out of the rushing water, and the bridge was completely gone. Villagers were wading through the water, trying to salvage what they could and rescue livestock from the flooded meadow.

  Alasdair cursed, gathered his reins, and urged his horse down the hill. Dùnglas bounded along behind him, and Caitrin followed. The mare broke into a brisk canter, her hooves cutting into the wet turf. Caitrin pulled her up at the bottom of the hill, just in time to see Alasdair leap down from his horse, tear off his cloak, heel off his boots, and stride toward the water.

  “Alasdair!” Caitrin called after him, wondering where on earth he was going.

  And then she saw her.

  The young woman was drifting downriver toward the sea, clinging to a tree trunk. Her cries floated across the hillside, barely audible over the roaring of the water.

  Darron rushed past Caitrin, hot on Alasdair’s heels, the others close behind him. However, by the time they reached the water’s edge, the chieftain had already plunged in and was swimming in long strokes toward the lass.

  “Get some rope,” Darron shouted.

  Caitrin sprang down from her horse and rushed to one of the horses the men had abandoned, retrieving a heavy coil of hemp rope. She then picked up her skirts and hurried to the water’s edge, where Dùnglas sat whining, staring after Alasdair.

  Darron took the rope from Caitrin and handed one end to Boyd, who was looking on, bemused by both men’s actions. “Keep ahold of the end,” Darron ordered. “I’m going to see if I can get the rope out to Alasdair.”

  With that, Captain MacNichol waded into the water after his chieftain.

  Chapter Thirty

  Irreplaceable

  CAITRIN STOOD ON the water’s edge, her heart in her throat. The Cleatburn raged like a beast. No one should be swimming in the torrent, least of all her husband.

  “Alasdair!” Darron had waded in to waist heig
ht. “Catch the rope!”

  The chieftain twisted, attempting to tread water as the rope sailed toward him. It hit the churning water with a slap, and Alasdair lunged for it.

  Panic surged through Caitrin when he went under, disappearing from view. “Alasdair!”

  Dùnglas stood up and started barking, his hackles rising.

  For a sickening heartbeat or two there was no sign of Alasdair, and then he appeared, surfacing like a seal just yards from where the woman still floated downstream, the rope clutched in his hand.

  He reached the young woman—who was now sobbing in fear, for she clearly couldn’t swim—and wound the rope around the tree trunk.

  “Ready!” he called to Darron.

  The other men in the party had taken hold of the rope behind Captain MacNichol, and together they all heaved the log, with its two passengers, into shore. A crowd had now gathered at the water’s edge. An elderly woman stepped up beside Caitrin, sobbing. “That’s my Hilda. Ye found her … I thought her lost!”

  Alasdair helped the young woman up onto the shore. She was shivering and weeping, but when she spied the old woman, she left Alasdair’s side and ran to her. “Ma!”

  Alasdair rejoined the others then, still out of breath from his swim. Water ran in rivulets down his body. His sodden clothing clung to him. His hair was slicked back, accentuating the lean angles of his face.

  Dùnglas approached the chieftain, tail wagging, and nuzzled against his leg. Alasdair glanced down at the wolf hound before giving an exasperated snort. “Bloody useless dog.” However, he still reached down and stroked its wiry coat.

  Caitrin stepped forward. “I thought I’d lost ye,” she gasped, unable to keep the anxiety out of her voice. “When ye went under … I …”