Page 62 of The Outlaw's Bride
Joy exploded within Caitrin’s breast, and she realized how lonely she’d been of late. Her nervousness forgotten, she hurried forward to greet them.
Rhona reached her first. Her sister swung down off her chestnut mare and rushed at Caitrin. They hugged, and when Rhona pulled away, her grey eyes were shining.
“I’ve missed ye,” she greeted her. “With both ye and Adaira gone, the keep feels so empty.”
At the mention of their youngest sister, Rhona’s joy dimmed. Caitrin hadn’t spoken to Rhona since Adaira’s disappearance. But since Adaira had explained everything, Caitrin now knew that Rhona and Taran had helped her escape.
Rhona would be wondering why they’d never arrived in Argyle.
“Ye look well, daughter,” Malcolm MacLeod boomed as he lumbered over to them. “Although black washes ye out.”
Caitrin’s mouth thinned. She would have to wear black for a while yet.
“Good day, Da,” she greeted him with a kiss. His whiskers tickled her cheek. “What brings ye all to Duntulm? Had I known, I’d have had a feast prepared for this evening.”
“Can’t a man pay his daughter a surprise visit?” he rumbled.
“We’ve all missed ye,” Rhona spoke up with a smile.
Taran had stepped up next to her, acknowledging Caitrin with a nod. “We thought a visit north was in order,” he added. “Before the bitter weather sets in.”
“Ye are all welcome,” Caitrin replied, keeping a smile plastered on her face. However, inwardly she cursed their ill-timing. Duntulm wasn’t as big as Dunvegan; it wouldn’t be easy to keep Adaira and Lachlann hidden. She’d found them lodgings next to the kitchens, in two tiny chambers usually occupied by servants.
It was away from the main keep, and somewhere that Malcolm MacLeod was unlikely to go without good reason.
“Good to hear, lass,” MacLeod boomed. “Now, enough chatter. Lead the way to the Great Hall, and open a barrel of yer finest ale. I’ve got a plague of a thirst.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Soft-hearted
“STILL NO WORD of Adaira?” Caitrin took a sip of wine and surveyed her father over the rim of her goblet. She was reluctant to bring her sister up, but thought her family might get suspicious if she did not.
“No.” Malcolm MacLeod was onto his third cup of ale and was showing no sign of slowing. His face turned thunderous. “I’ve sent men out far and wide,” he growled, “but it’s as if she was taken by fairies. The only place we haven’t searched is Talasgair itself. If I ever find Lachlann Fraser, I’ll rip his head off with my bare hands.”
Caitrin nodded, schooling her face into a grave expression. Her father’s blustering and threats were commonplace whenever he mentioned his escaped prisoner; only, he had no idea that the man he hunted was hiding in this very keep.
Trying not to think of the chaos that would ensue if her father ever found out, Caitrin glanced across at where Rhona sat. Her sister looked so sad that Caitrin’s chest constricted. Rhona needed to know Adaira was safe. Somehow, she had to find a way to tell her.
They sat upon the raised dais at the far end of the Great Hall, a spread of food before them. The servants had pulled what they could from the larder, while cook was furiously preparing some apple and bramble tarts to serve later with thick cream.
“Excellent drop this.” Her father wiped his mouth with a meaty hand. “The MacDonalds know how to brew a good ale.”
Caitrin frowned. Her father had deliberately changed the subject. He wasn’t here to talk about Adaira it seemed. Malcolm MacLeod did nothing by chance. She didn’t doubt that Rhona had missed her, but there would be something behind her father’s visit.
As if sensing her suspicions, MacLeod fixed her with that level iron-grey stare she knew so well.
“We need to speak of yer future, Caitrin.”
Her heart sinking, Caitrin held his eye. “Aye, and what of it?” She knew her tone was surly, yet she didn’t care. She was getting used to being the chatelaine of Duntulm and didn’t wish for things to change.
“Ye are young and fair, daughter. In time, ye must wed again.”
Caitrin drew in a long, steadying breath. Next to Caitrin, Rhona cast her a sympathetic look. They both knew what Malcolm MacLeod was like when it came to finding his daughters husbands. An unwed daughter was a millstone around his neck, a burden he had to rid himself of.
“And in time, I might,” she replied. It was a lie. As she felt right now, she never wished to be shackled to another man.
“Have ye heard of our defeat against the English?” MacLeod’s face screwed up as he asked this, as if the subject was deeply distasteful—but necessary.
