Page 23 of The Rogue's Bride
Caitrin nodded. Excitement arrowed through her, making her forget her discomfort. “Just give me a few moments,” she said, pivoting on her heel. “I need to get changed.”
A grin stretched across Caitrin’s face. The thunder of hooves crossing soft turf, the sting of the wind on her skin, and the feel of the horse’s body under her, made her feel truly alive.
It had been too long since she’d done this.
Alasdair MacDonald rode up ahead, flanked by Boyd and Darron, while a cluster of men from the guard brought up the rear. They’d left Duntulm as soon as Caitrin had gotten ready, and headed south over bare hills. Caitrin rode astride, like the men, having changed into leggings and a plain kirtle that was split at the sides so she didn’t need to perch side-saddle.
Up ahead, Caitrin spied the shadowed boughs of woodland approaching. This was where they’d begin the hunt. Reaching the edge of the trees, the party drew up their coursers and swung down from the saddle. Here, they tethered the horses, retrieved their weapons, and continued onward on foot. A small herd of red deer had been spotted in a valley just south of here—they would stalk them.
Alasdair carried a long bow over one shoulder and a quiver of arrows on his back, as did the other men. Only Caitrin didn’t bear a weapon. It had been a long while since she’d used a bow, and she feared she’d be a useless shot. Instead, she followed quietly behind Alasdair, Boyd, and Darron.
Caitrin inhaled the damp, pine-scented air, glad of the woolen cloak she wore. Despite that the sun was out today, there was little warmth in it. Winter still held the world in its grip. Pale sunlight filtered in amongst the trees, pooling on the mattress of pine needles below. It allowed the hunting party to move stealthily toward their destination. None of the men spoke, and Caitrin found herself enjoying the peace. Apart from the sanctuary of her solar, the keep was a hive of activity and distraction.
Alasdair led the way through the trees, soft-footed and keen-eyed. He paused now and then, gaze shifting ahead, before he turned, communicating with Boyd and Darron with a nod or hand-gesture.
Eventually, they reached the edge of the valley.
Creeping up to the top of the ridge, the hunters fanned out in a line. Caitrin approached Alasdair, crouching down next to him. He was peering through a gap in the foliage. Caitrin craned her neck forward, moving closer to him to get a clear view.
“There they are,” Alasdair murmured.
“I can’t see anything,” she whispered back, her gaze scanning the bottom of the valley. The pines fell back, revealing a swathe of green intersected by a creek.
Alasdair shifted his weight, angling his head toward her. “Shift yer gaze left,” he whispered, his breath feathering against her ear.
Caitrin swallowed. His nearness distracted her. She could feel the heat of his body just inches from her. Stiffening, Caitrin forced herself to ignore the sensation.
Tracking her gaze left as he’d suggested, she caught sight of three deer cropping grass at the tree line. They were too far away at present. Alasdair and his men would need to draw closer before any of them would get a clear shot.
Alasdair shifted again, his knee accidentally brushing hers as he twisted right and motioned to Boyd and Darron. He then inclined his head to Caitrin once more.
“The fewer of us who approach them the better,” he said softly. “Stay here with the others.”
Caitrin nodded. She remained in a crouching position and watched as the three men crept over the edge of the ridge, moving like wraiths through the tall trees. However, her gaze remained upon Alasdair.
He moved with a hunter’s grace. Unlike Baltair, who’d looked most at ease when dressed for battle, Alasdair seemed at home here in the midst of the woods. His green cloak made him blend in with his surroundings. His long dark hair was tied back at his nape, accentuating the sharp, lean angles of his face.
He led the way down the hill, winding his way through the trees. The other two men followed him. Up ahead, the deer continued to graze, unaware of the danger that stalked them.
Caitrin watched Alasdair halt between two spruce saplings and motion to his companions. Then he unslung his bow, nocked an arrow, and raised it. Caitrin heaved in a deep breath and went still.
Alasdair sighted one of the deer, a large doe that now cropped grass at the edge of the creek. It was a long shot, one only an experienced bowman would dare make. Nearby, Boyd and Darron had sighted the other two deer. They were all ready.
A heartbeat later the arrows flew, the whistle of their passage shattering the valley’s peace. The doe near the edge of the creek leaped into the air—and then fell, an arrow piercing its neck.
Boyd’s curse echoed through the trees as his and Darron’s deer bounded away, unhurt.
Alasdair moved, running swiftly through the trees. He emerged at the bottom of the valley and reached his quarry in half a dozen long strides. Steel flashed when he dropped to his knees next to the fallen deer and brought its suffering to an end.
Only then did Caitrin release the breath she’d been holding.
“Good shot!” Boyd slapped Alasdair on the shoulder, “although ye chose the hind closest.”
Alasdair grinned back at him. “Ye can never concede defeat gracefully, can ye?”
Boyd snorted. “MacNichol got in the way of my shot, or I’d have brought a deer down too.”
A few feet away, Darron looked up from where he had just hog-tied the fallen doe and bound its fetlocks to a pole. “I’m surprised ye didn’t scare the hinds off with yer heavy breathing.”
