by Jayne Castel
He captured her hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing her fingers gently. “I know ye do. Although I don’t think I can take all the credit … ye play yer part.”
Silence stretched between them. Caitrin stared up at him, her smile fading. “Do I? Sometimes I worry that ye must think me cold … emotionally that is …”
He inclined his head. “Why would I think that?”
“Because I hold back my feelings … I know I do.” She swallowed. “I don’t think I’ve ever trusted a man … any man.”
His gaze widened. “Even yer father?”
Caitrin huffed. “Especially him. He’s behaved better of late, but any woman who puts her faith in Malcolm MacLeod’s loyalty is a fool. Ye know what he did to my sisters.”
Alasdair nodded. Releasing her hand, he reached out and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “I want ye to trust me,” he said softly, “and I will work to earn it. Even if it takes me the rest of my life.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Duntulm Fair
One month later …
CAITRIN WALKED AMONGST the crowds in Duntulm village. A sense of contentment settled over her like a warm cloak. Of all the festivals that marked the year, this one was her favorite: Duntulm Fair. Her home of Dunvegan held a similar festival a little later in the summer, yet she preferred this one.
Folk from miles around came for the festival, swelling Duntulm’s population to nearly five times its usual size. The screech of a highland pipe echoed through the streets, although the sound was almost drowned out by the excited chatter of conversation.
Caitrin walked slowly, aware that she had a footpad. Instead of Darron shadowing her—for Alasdair had relieved him of that duty as soon as they’d returned to Duntulm—a leggy wolf hound loped along at her heels. Dùnglas had become a constant presence in their life of late. Eoghan loved him, and the hound now lived indoors, sleeping in a basket in the chieftain’s solar at night, and following his master and mistress around during the day as they went about their duties.
Caitrin had thought the dog might get underfoot and annoy her, but it hadn’t. She enjoyed going out for walks with Dùnglas at her side. The hound was also a constant reminder of Adaira.
Surveying her surroundings, Caitrin noted how tidy and prosperous the village looked. Greenery, boughs of pine and hawthorn, decorated the humble cottages, and the streets were filled with stalls boasting the best of the summer produce. She was pleased to see that there remained no sign of the devastating flood of a month earlier. The Cleatburn had now returned to its usual flow, and Alasdair and his men had built a make-shift wooden bridge over it, while they started work on a new stone bridge. One that would hopefully withstand the test of time.
Eoghan perched in a sling on Caitrin’s back, chubby arms waving at passersby. It was a joy to wander here, enjoying the kiss of the sun on her face. The weather leading up to the fair had been grey and wet, but this morning the day had dawned bright.
Caitrin stopped to buy herself a square of rich cake dripping in butter and honey. She had to eat it quickly, lest the honey dripped over her clothing. Dùnglas sat gazing up at her wistfully as she finished the cake and licked honey off her fingers.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she admonished the dog. “There will be plenty of scraps for ye later.”
Caitrin moved on down the crowded street. She walked by men having arm-wrestling contests. An excited crowd swirled around them, shouting encouragement. Not far from the waterfront, a pretty lass with a crown of daisies in her hair danced with other maids before a clapping crowd. Caitrin stopped to watch the dancing, as did many young men. Most of the lads were gawking at the lass with the crown of flowers—this year’s Summer Queen.
Amongst the crowd, Caitrin spotted many of those who worked within Dunvegan keep. Galiene had even managed to drag cook out from her lair. Briana watched the dancing with a grin on her face, her hands full of sticky cake. Sorcha was there too. Caitrin’s hand-maid had joined the dancers. She laughed with the other lasses as she spun and dipped, her hair flying behind her.
Spotting Caitrin, Sorcha broke away from the dancers and joined her. She linked her arm through Caitrin’s, and they moved on, toward the shore. “Will ye watch the men race, milady?” she asked.
“Of course,” Caitrin replied with a smile.
She hadn’t always felt this way. Baltair used to take part in the race, and she’d made a point of staying away, browsing the stalls while he competed. It was tradition that the MacDonald chieftain took part.
But this year was different. This year Alasdair was competing.
Caitrin caught the gleam in her hand-maid’s eye. “I imagine ye won’t bother attending?” she asked, feigning innocence.
Sorcha favored Caitrin with a coy smile. “I wouldn’t want to miss watching a dozen handsome men strip down to their braies, would I?”
Caitrin laughed. Her hand-maid could be almost prudish at times, but then surprise her with a bawdy comment like this.
The two women made their way down to the shore, Dùnglas padding along behind them. Garlands and bright buntings of meadow flowers and heather decorated the streets, leading down to the wooden jetty where small boats bobbed in the tide.
Caitrin stopped, her gaze shifting out across the sparkling water. “How far will they swim?”
Sorcha pointed to where a small blue boat bobbed with the incoming tide. “Out to that dinghy and back.”
They stopped talking then, realizing that the race was about to start: a row of men were undressing ready for it.
Caitrin’s attention immediately strayed to Alasdair. He had his back to her as he pulled his léine over his head, revealing his long, finely muscled back, narrow waist, and broad shoulders. He turned then, tossing his léine aside, and her attention traveled to the dark hair covering his chest, tapering down to his belly.
Despite that she’d seen him naked countless times now, the sight made heat pool in Caitrin’s lower belly.
Shifting her focus to Sorcha, Caitrin saw her hand-maid was watching Darron MacNichol. The warrior had also stripped down for the race as he chatted to Alasdair. Farther down the line, Boyd MacDonald readied himself to race. Tall and lean, his blond hair tied back, Boyd glanced over his shoulder. His gaze rested upon Sorcha until he caught her eye, forcing her to shift her attention from Darron. Then he winked.
The men moved down to the waterline, their bare feet slipping on the loose shingle, and then in a flurry they dove into the water.
Caitrin stifled a gasp. Despite that it was summer, the water would still be freezing.
The swimmers struck out toward the boat. It was hard to tell who was in front. The water foamed around them. However, as they circled the boat, the swimmers drew apart.
Sorcha gripped Caitrin’s arm. “Look, the chieftain and Boyd MacDonald are in the lead.”
Caitrin raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, squinting. “Aye … it’ll be a close race too.”
Cheering echoed out across the water. Most of them were calling Alasdair’s name.
As if hearing them, Alasdair inched forward. He swam in long confident strokes, moving ahead of Boyd.
Caitrin clapped her hands, her voice joining the rest of the watching crowd. Likewise, Eoghan started to squeal with excitement, his chubby arms and legs waving in the sling. Dùnglas started to bark then, adding to the chaos.
Caitrin clasped her hands together as the swimmers drew close. She was sure Alasdair would win, but then, just yards from shore, Boyd put on a spurt of speed and reached the beach just before him.
Cries of disappointment echoed over the shore, Caitrin’s among them.
Boyd staggered up onto the beach, wiping water from his eyes. Oblivious to the fact that everyone had been cheering on the chieftain, he wore a wide, victorious smile.
Alasdair followed him out of the sea. Spying Caitrin among the spectators, he made his way toward her. “I’m slowing down,” he gasped as he
reached the women. “Time was, no one could beat me.”
Boyd stepped up beside him. “That’s only because ye had never raced me.” He then grinned at Sorcha. “I’m half-selkie, didn’t ye know?”
Caitrin frowned. She wondered, if that was the case, why Boyd hadn’t dived in to help that woman on the day they’d arrived home from Dunvegan. If her memory served her correctly, Boyd had remained on the shore holding the end of a rope while Alasdair risked his life.
Alasdair snorted before waving to the men who were pouring out cups of ale from barrels on the jetty. “Get Boyd a drink, he’s earned it.” He then turned his attention back to his wife. “I’m glad ye came to watch the race,” he said, before giving a sheepish smile. “Even if I didn’t win.”
“I don’t care about that.” Caitrin stepped close, pushing Dùnglas out of the way. The hound had a habit of wrapping himself around Alasdair’s legs whenever it got the chance. She stretched up and kissed his wet lips. “Ye were still magnificent.”
Sorcha took a bite of pie, savoring the rich flavor of venison. It was a treat she only got to enjoy a few times a year. This mid-summer’s fair was the best she could remember. The good weather had brought in huge crowds.
The pie was hot, and Sorcha ate it gingerly, careful not to spill the filling down the front of her kirtle. Pale blue, the color of a summer’s sky, it was the prettiest one she owned; she didn’t want to ruin it. She stood in the shade between two cottages at the edge of the festivities. As she ate, Sorcha’s gaze skirted the crowd.
The chieftain and his lady were enjoying the fair together. Lady Caitrin still carried Eoghan on her back, although the lad had now fallen asleep. She and Alasdair watched the dancing. Heads bent close, they laughed over something.
It warmed Sorcha’s heart to see them so happy. One day, she too hoped to find such contentment.
Finishing her meal, Sorcha brushed pastry crumbs off her fingers. Her gaze shifted away from the chieftain and his wife, continuing through the crowd. She realized then that she was looking for Darron. Ever since his return from Dunvegan, they’d been spending more time together. He often sought her out when she’d finished her chores, and over the last week they’d shared an ale in the Great Hall before retiring for the night.
Sorcha had found herself starting to think about him—a lot.
Instead of spying Darron in the crowd though, her gaze alighted upon Boyd. He was approaching her.
When he’d first arrived in Duntulm, Boyd MacDonald had drawn her eye, with his arrogant swagger and boyish smile. But these days Sorcha wasn’t so sure of him. His manner, once charming, had developed an aggressive edge to it. Discomfort settled over her when he stopped before her.
“I was wondering where ye had got to,” he greeted her.
“Why?” she asked innocently. “Were ye looking for me?”
He grinned. “Aye … thought ye might like to congratulate me properly for my win.”
“I already have.”
He laughed. “I’d like more than a few words, lass. How about that kiss ye keep promising me?”
Sorcha stiffened. “I have promised ye no such thing.”
Boyd moved closer, and Sorcha instinctively shifted back into the space between the two cottages. That was a mistake, because it took her out of view of the crowd of folk filling the market square.
“Ye don’t need to tell me,” he said, lowering his voice intimately. “I can see ye want it.”
“Nonsense.” Sorcha kept her voice light although inside she felt a frisson of alarm. “Ye are quite mistaken, MacDonald.”
“I don’t think so.”
Sorcha tried to edge around him. She’d had enough of such talk. He was making her uncomfortable, and she wished she hadn’t let him take her out of view of the crowd. “I think I’ll return to the dancing.”
“I’ll still have that kiss though.” He grabbed her arm. His fingers bit into Sorcha’s flesh, and he shoved her back against the white-washed wall. “Ye have been tempting me for months now.”
His mouth came down on hers roughly, cutting off the scream that rose in Sorcha’s throat. Without thinking, she brought her knee up, jabbing him in the cods.
Boyd ripped his mouth from hers and let out a hiss of pain.
She thought it would be enough to make him let go, but it just seemed to enrage him. His grip tightened, and he dragged her down the alley between the two dwellings.
Fear slammed into Sorcha, and she began to struggle. “Let go of me!”
His hand slammed over her mouth to stifle her protests. He threw her up against the wall, his free hand fumbling with her skirts. “Keep yer mouth shut,” he growled, “and spread yer legs for me.”
Sorcha didn’t obey him. She couldn’t shout for help, for his hand prevented her, but she started to struggle wildly, clawing at him. Boyd MacDonald wasn’t a big man, but he was lean and wiry, and much stronger than her.
Terror pulsed in her breath as she felt his hand on her thighs, raking her skin. He was trying to wedge his thigh in between her legs. He was going to rape her, right there, just yards away from where folk were enjoying the fair. Sorcha wasn’t strong enough to fight him off.
And then, as suddenly as he’d grabbed her, Boyd jerked away.
Sorcha sagged against the wall to see Darron drag Boyd backward by his hair. Then he spun him round and punched him hard in the face. Boyd staggered, blood pouring from his nose.
Cursing loudly, Boyd righted himself. “Keep out of this, MacNichol,” he rasped, wiping away the blood with the back of his hand. “It’s my turn now to have some fun with the wee whore.”
Darron growled, before his fist shot out once more. He hit Boyd in the eye, and the man went down like a lump of peat, where he lay groaning.
Captain MacNichol then crossed to Sorcha. His face was pale and taut as he stared down at her. “Did he hurt ye?”
Chapter Thirty-three
Willing
ALASDAIR SURVEYED BOYD under hooded lids.
“Do ye have anything to say in defense of yerself?”
Boyd stared back at him before folding his arms across his chest. Darron had made a mess of his face. His nose had been flattened, his nostrils were encrusted with blood, and his left eye was purpled and had already swollen shut.
Boyd’s response, when it came, was spoken in a growl. “I thought the lass was willing.”
“Willing?” Darron growled from behind them. “Ye were trying to rape her.”
Alasdair’s gaze remained focused upon Boyd. “Were ye?”
A chill silence settled over the market square. They stood in the midst of the wide space, a large crowd of village folk looking on. The merriment and dancing had ceased the moment Darron had dragged Boyd out by the hair into the center of the square.
Boyd’s mouth thinned. “No.”
The hiss of an enraged intake of breath interrupted them. Sorcha stood next to Caitrin. The hand-maid’s face was ashen although her eyes were ablaze. “He dragged me out of the square, threw me up against a wall, and tried to force himself on me,” she said, her voice shaking with the force of her rage. “I was not willing.”
Boyd shrugged. “And ye would trust the word of that MacQueen bastard over mine?”
Alasdair drew in a long, measured breath. Boyd was starting to sorely test his patience. He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep a leash on his temper. “And what of Darron. Are ye calling him a liar too?”
A nerve flickered in Boyd’s cheek. “MacNichol has had his eye on the lass for months … he’s just jealous I got in first.”
“Dog,” Darron snarled. “I’ll blacken yer other eye.” He stepped forward, hands clenched by his sides, but Alasdair halted him with a hand to the arm.
Turning back to Boyd, Alasdair fixed him with a hard stare. “I brought ye into my home and gave ye a place in my guard. Is this how ye repay me?”
Boyd’s lip curled. “There’s no need to be over-dramatic, cousin. Don’t work y
erself up over some goose-brained slut.”
Alasdair went still, his fists clenching at his sides. The anger inside him coiled like a serpent readying itself to strike. “That’s it, Boyd,” he growled. “Ye are out of chances.”
His cousin shrugged, his battered face creasing into an expression of scorn. “If ye say so, milord.”
“I do. Ye are to leave Duntulm. Today.”
Shock turned Boyd’s face slack. “Ye are sending me away?”
Alasdair nodded. “I’ll send word to yer kin in Glencoe. They shall know what ye have done, and that ye are on yer way home.”
Boyd stared at him—and a moment later something ugly moved in his blue eyes.
Without warning, he lunged for Alasdair, his right fist swinging for his face.
Alasdair was ready for him, for he’d been waiting for Boyd to turn nasty when he realized the game was up. Alasdair grabbed Boyd’s wrist, moving back with the blow. Then he brought his knee up sharply and drove it into his assailant’s gut.
Boyd collapsed onto the ground, where he coughed and wheezed as he struggled to regain his breath.
Alasdair turned his attention to Darron. “Escort Boyd south, out of sight of the keep,” he rasped, “and make sure he doesn’t come back. He’s a disgrace to the clan.”
Darron’s mouth thinned, his gaze glinting. “With pleasure.” The captain and another warrior heaved Boyd to his feet and dragged him from the square.
Alasdair watched as they led him away, rage pulsing through him like a Beltane drum.
Caitrin didn’t take her gaze from her husband’s face.
Alasdair was staring after Boyd, his face hard, gaze burning. His skin had pulled tight over his cheekbones. Caitrin had never seen him look so angry.
Heart pounding, she released Eoghan from the death-grip she’d been holding him in. The lad was uncharacteristically subdued, as if picking up on the surrounding tension.
