Page 14 of The Rogue's Bride
“We’d made a truce,” Caitrin snarled. “Briana’s a fine cook but manages the supplies poorly. She’d have the keep eating boiled turnip and stale bannocks while she let fresh meat rot in the stores.”
This comment brought a scattering of laughter from the surrounding men. Even Darron raised a smile. They all knew it was the truth. Cook was stingy with supplies, as if she’d paid for them out of her own purse.
“My father and Baltair never found fault with her,” Alasdair replied. His tone was mild although his gaze had hardened. “Maybe, ye are too overbearing.”
Overbearing.
Caitrin drew in a shuddering breath. “I’m merely doing my duty as chatelaine,” she finally managed, her voice trembling with the force of the rage that caused a red mist to cloud her vision. “Why don’t ye let me?”
A heavy silence settled, broken only by the gurgle and chatter of water running over stones and the whistle of the wind. However, Caitrin barely heard those noises, for she could discern little over the thundering of her pulse in her ears. She was so angry that she felt sick.
Alasdair watched her for a long moment before pushing strands of hair from his face with his forearm. “Go back to the keep, Caitrin,” he said, his voice low and firm. “We’ll discuss this later.”
Caitrin swallowed hard. “No, I—”
“Didn’t my brother teach ye any manners?” he growled. “Go back …now.”
They stared at each other, before fear flickered up within Caitrin, penetrating the anger that had shielded her till now. The mention of his brother turned her blood cold. Baltair wouldn’t have stood for such defiance. He’d have waded out of the burn and backhanded her across the face for arguing with him.
Tears of frustration and rage blurred Caitrin’s vision. She wondered then how she’d ever once called Alasdair MacDonald a friend. The past years had altered him, turned him callous and cruel.
He’d been wanting to anger her, and in coming down to the bridge, she’d played straight into his hands. She knew though that continuing to rage at him out here would only end badly for her.
Swallowing a sob, Caitrin spun on her heel, picked up her skirts, and fled.
Alasdair watched Caitrin’s eyes glisten, her jaw tighten, and wondered if she’d obey him. To his surprise, his breathing quickened. He almost wished she wouldn’t. It would give him the excuse to throw her over his shoulder and carry her back up to the keep—an excuse to touch her.
She was beautiful this morning, her sea-blue eyes gleaming with ire, her supple body encased in flowing black. He itched to feel her softness against him.
But a heartbeat later she turned and hurried away. He could see, from the stiffness of her posture and her uneven gait, that she was upset. Her long blonde hair, braided in a long plait down her back, bounced between her shoulder blades as she walked.
Watching her go, a sensation of loss washed over Alasdair.
He’d enjoyed that altercation—far more than he should have.
“That’s quite a temper the lass has on her,” Boyd observed.
Alasdair snorted. “Aye … I’m surprised Baltair didn’t whip her for her adder’s tongue.”
Silence followed this comment.
Alasdair glanced around him to see that only Boyd was grinning. Most of the surrounding men wore hard expressions, while one or two looked horrified. Darron MacNichol was actually glowering at him.
Alasdair went still. Those words had only been said in jest—but he’d misread his audience it seemed.
After a hard morning’s work, the men made their way back up to the keep for the noon meal. Captain MacNichol fell in step with Alasdair as they walked up the hill.
Glancing across at him, Alasdair saw that the captain was watching him, his expression shuttered.
Alasdair frowned. “What is it, MacNichol?”
Darron’s own gaze narrowed. “Ye should know that Lady Caitrin would never to have spoken to Baltair like that,” he said quietly.
“Really?” Alasdair didn’t bother to temper the scorn in his voice.
“Aye … she was afraid of yer brother.”
A pause followed. “Did he beat her?”
