Page 19 of The Rogue's Bride
“I hear ye weren’t happily wed to my brother.”
Caitrin sucked in a breath. She should have realized tongues would wag.
“I’m surprised,” Alasdair continued. “He was yer choice after all.”
Heat rose to Caitrin’s cheeks, and she dropped her gaze to the goblet of wine before her. “He was.”
“Handsome, charming, and powerful. My brother had women vying for his hand.”
Caitrin wet her lips before glancing up. “Ye knew what he was?”
He held her gaze. “Aye … and I thought ye did too.”
She shook her head. “I was infatuated with him.”
“And how long did that last?” Alasdair asked, his gaze boring into her.
Heart racing now, Caitrin looked away once more. “Until the wedding night.”
Silence fell between them, the hush broken only by the crackle of the hearth. When Alasdair finally shattered it, his voice was tired. “Neither of us is the same person we were, Caitrin. I’ll admit that when I arrived home, my first thought was to make ye suffer … but I see now that it’ll only cause disruption in the castle if things continue in this way.”
Surprised by his frankness, Caitrin glanced back at Alasdair. His fingers were curled around the stem of his goblet, but he made no move to lift it to his lips.
“Can’t we be friends again?” she asked softly. “Like we once were?”
He watched her, his expression softening. Then his mouth curved into a smile. “Aye,” he said after a pause. “Perhaps we can.”
Caitrin walked back to her quarters with a light step.
She’d never had such a strange conversation. The words that had passed between them had ranged from confrontational and accusing, to conciliatory—and strangely honest.
But in the end they’d managed to clear the air. They now had a chance to start over. Maybe the atmosphere at Duntulm would finally start to thaw.
On the way to her quarters, she stopped by Eoghan’s chamber to check on him. The bairn lay on his side, sleeping peacefully. Caitrin had fed him before joining Alasdair for supper. With any luck, the lad would sleep through into the early hours of the morning.
Leaning on the edge of the cot, Caitrin stared down at Eoghan’s face. During her pregnancy she’d been worried she’d find it hard to love Baltair’s child. Yet the moment she’d set eyes on her newborn son, she’d been lost. It was impossible not to love this sweet boy.
She enjoyed her responsibilities as chatelaine here at Duntulm, but she was a mother first. Caitrin’s chest constricted as love welled within her. Baltair had given her very little worth keeping—except for this bairn.
Caitrin left her son and slipped silently back into the hallway. Reaching her bed-chamber, she found Sorcha awaiting her. The hand-maid sat by the fire, mending clothing by the light of a cresset that burned on the wall above her. Sorcha glanced up. “Good eve, milady.”
“I’m tired, Sorcha,” Caitrin informed her with a weary smile. “I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”
Her hand-maid nodded, although she looked a little disappointed. It was their nightly routine to sit by the fire and talk awhile before bed.
“Do ye wish me to fetch ye some warmed milk?”
Caitrin shook her head and sank into a chair next to the bed. “No … not tonight.”
Sorcha set her sewing aside and rose to her feet. She crossed to Caitrin and, standing behind her, started to unpin her hair. It was a nightly ritual, one that relaxed Caitrin.
“Is something amiss, milady?” Sorcha asked as she unwound the heavy braid and reached for a hog-bristle brush. “Ye don’t usually retire at this hour?”
“I’m just feeling a bit drained.”
Sorcha didn’t reply immediately. Of course, she knew where Caitrin had been—and would be wondering how the supper had gone. “Are ye still at war with the chieftain, milady?”
Caitrin twisted her head round, smiling as she met Sorcha’s eye. “No … I think we’ve managed to mend things.”
