Page 26 of The Rogue's Bride
They stood in silence for a few moments, laughter and excited chatter eddying around them. A farmer was ushering his small herd of long-haired cattle past the fire. The beasts were mooing loudly and trying to run back down the hill, much to the entertainment of a cluster of lads nearby, who hooted at the farmer’s attempts to herd the cows.
But Alasdair paid none of the chaos any mind. He watched Caitrin steadily. “Do ye remember that one Beltane our clans spent together?” he asked finally.
Caitrin nodded before smiling. “How could I forget? Yer father tanned yer hide after ye tried to set fire to my hair.”
Alasdair snorted. “It was windy … yer hair blew into my torch.” He grinned then. “One of yer uncles got caught swiving a woman behind the bonfire … do ye remember?”
Caitrin looked away, focusing her attention on the dancing flames before her. “Of course,” she replied, her mouth curving. “We were the ones who caught him. I had nightmares about Dughall’s hairy arse for months afterward.”
Alasdair laughed, and Caitrin glanced back at him to see his dark eyes gleamed with mirth. “We used to take delight in observing the goings-on in our households.”
Caitrin snorted. “Aye, we were like two gossiping crones, always speculating on which servants would end up wedded … or bedded.”
“And what of those three?” Alasdair jerked his head to the left. Caitrin shifted her attention and saw that Sorcha now had Boyd and Darron standing with her. The captain of the guard was asking Sorcha something. He gazed down at her as he spoke, his gaze intense. Next to him Boyd wore a slightly irritated expression.
“Which man do ye think yer maid will choose?”
Caitrin raised an eyebrow. “She may pick neither.”
Chapter Twelve
Looking for a Wife
“IT LOOKS AS if a storm is brewing.”
Caitrin glanced up from where she was picking herbs to find her hand-maid looking up at the sky. Following her gaze, Caitrin frowned. The dark grey and purple clouds to the south certainly looked ominous. Four days had passed since Beltane, and the weather had warmed considerably, but it seemed the warmth was about to come to an abrupt end. “Aye, ye could be right,” she murmured.
It was a relief to venture outdoors without a cloak or woolen shawl. The afternoon was humid, the air heavy and close. As such the scents of the herbs in the courtyard garden were heady. She breathed in the perfume of the lavender she’d been cutting. This was her favorite place in the keep: a tiny walled courtyard that sat against the western edge of the curtain wall. A riot of flowering and culinary herbs surrounded her.
Both Sorcha and Eoghan had joined Caitrin this afternoon. Her hand-maid kept an eye on Eoghan as he crawled over the lichen-encrusted cobbles. The poor lass had been forever wresting objects from Eoghan’s fingers and confiscating them before he stuffed them into his mouth.
Caitrin turned to watch her son now. He was sitting up, his pink cheeks flushed, as he examined the sage leaf Sorcha had just given him. Her chest tightened at the sight of him. His dark hair grew thick now, so much like his father’s.
Turning back to the lavender she’d been collecting, Caitrin resumed her work, cutting off the tips. She regularly made lavender tonic and lotion. It was good for the hair and skin, and she always made enough to share with other women in the keep.
She’d only been working a few moments when a large splash of water hit her in the face. Another swiftly followed, and then thunder rumbled over them.
Behind her, Eoghan let out a loud squawk.
Caitrin huffed a curse and turned from the lavender bush once more. Thunder boomed again, much louder this time. Eoghan’s face crumpled, and he drew in a deep breath before letting out a frightened wail.
“Oh laddie.” Sorcha put down the trowel she’d been using to weed a herb bed. “All will be well … it’s just a wee bit of thunder.”
Eoghan ignored her, his crying explosive now. Face bright red, he reached out his hands to Caitrin.
“I’ll take him, milady,” Sorcha offered, but Caitrin shook her head. She handed her hand-maid the basket of lavender. “Please take this up, I’ll carry Eoghan.”
Scooping up her son, she murmured soothing words as the bairn hiccoughed against her shoulder.
Meanwhile, the rain was starting in earnest; large wet drops soaked into her charcoal kirtle.
The women made their way out of the courtyard garden into the bailey beyond. Thunder crashed overhead once more and Eoghan’s wails turned into panicked screeches. His cries echoed over the bailey, ricocheting off the high surrounding walls.
Men turned their gazes to the hysterical child.
Alasdair MacDonald was one of them. He was leading his horse toward the stables, having just returned from a patrol. Handing the reins to one of his men, he strode toward Caitrin, intercepting her as she headed toward the steps leading up into the keep.
“What’s wrong with the lad?” he asked, frowning. “Is he unwell?”
