Page 20 of The Rogue's Bride
“That’s welcome news indeed.” Relief flowered across the hand-maid’s face, before her blue eyes narrowed. “Galiene told me about cook. The old woman’s a trouble-maker.”
“She’s never liked having another woman oversee her,” Caitrin agreed, turning back so Sorcha could finish unpinning her hair. “Alasdair’s return was just the opportunity she needed. Unfortunately, the chieftain was looking for a reason to obstruct me.”
“Why would he do that?”
Caitrin hesitated, wondering if she should confide in Sorcha or not. She trusted her hand-maid. Sorcha didn’t have a loose tongue. Even so, it was a personal thing to divulge.
“Alasdair proposed to me once,” she said finally. “I rejected him in favor of his brother.”
Sorcha paused her brushing. “He wanted to wed ye?”
“Aye … but ye aren’t to breathe a word to anyone about this. The chieftain won’t want folk knowing.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Sorcha assured her. She resumed the long slow strokes of the brush. “Whydidye chose Baltair over Alasdair, milady?”
Caitrin went still.
“Because Baltair was chieftain?” Sorcha pressed.
Caitrin sucked in a breath. “He was handsome and gallant,” she replied after a pause, “the kind of man who dominates any room he walks into. I was mesmerized.”
The two women fell silent. Sorcha knew more than anyone in this keep just how unhappy Caitrin had been with Baltair. Sorcha had found her sitting in her solar alone weeping into her hands more than once. He’d treated his wife’s hand-maid with thinly-veiled contempt as well. Sorcha liked most folk, but she’d never warmed to Baltair.
“Alasdair MacDonald seems a different man to his brother,” Sorcha said finally. “He’s proud … determined … but I’m glad to see he lacks Baltair’s cruel edge.” She set the brush aside and went to fetch her mistress’s night-rail. “I’m glad he’s returned home.”
Caitrin smiled. For the first time since seeing Alasdair again, she dared feel the same way.
Chapter Nine
Planting Barley
“WHAT SAY YE, Lady Caitrin?” Alasdair turned, meeting Caitrin’s eye. “Shall we plant out the lower fields in oats this year?
Caitrin hesitated before answering him. She’d been wary when he’d asked her to join him and Alban that morning. They were meeting the villagers to discuss the spring plantings. But, looking into his eyes, he seemed sincere.
“Aye,” she replied, casting a look in Alban’s direction. She and the steward had already discussed the coming season’s plantings at length. Baltair had made a mistake, one that they’d planned to rectify. “We use more oats than any other grain … it makes sense to plant more of it.” She paused here, shifting her attention back to Alasdair. “We’ll need to set aside at least twenty bags for the cáin.”
Alasdair nodded before turning from her. “Go ahead and plant out those fields,” he told the men.
“And what of the summer barley,” an elderly farmer called out. “It grows badly on the hillside … the land is too dry there. We should move it down to the meadow next to the burn.”
“Let’s go up to the hill now and take a look at the soil in the barley field,” Alasdair replied. “Lead the way.”
They followed the knot of farmers down the path amidst rows of kale and cabbages. A light rain fell in a chill mist over the fields. Grey clouds hung low; it was a grim day to be outdoors, yet Caitrin enjoyed the kiss of the misty rain on her face and the fresh air. Winter days inside the keep could start to feel restrictive, the air stale and heavy with the odor of peat-smoke.
After a few strides down the path, Alasdair slowed his pace, allowing Alban to draw ahead with the others, and deliberately fell in step with Caitrin.
“Baltair never had much interest in farming,” Alasdair said with a rueful smile. “I’m pleased to see that his widow does.”
Caitrin compressed her lips. Baltair had been a warrior to the core. He loved hunting and fighting—everything else bored him. “Da always told me that fallow fields and bad harvests are signs of a poor leader,” she replied. “Folk are always happier with full bellies.”
Alasdair’s smile widened. “Wise man, MacLeod.” He paused here, his gaze narrowing slightly. “How’s he doing these days?”
Caitrin huffed. “Well enough.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Da hasn’t been that impressed with his daughters of late,” she said with a grimace. “Both my younger sisters have had trouble with him over the past year … and I’m likely to soon.”
