Page 36 of The Rogue's Bride
He hadn’t meant to kiss her. The conversation had spiraled out of control, and then he’d forgotten himself. Alasdair hadn’t thought about the consequences of his actions. He’d reached for her on instinct, and when she was in his arms, her mouth under his, he’d been unable to stop kissing her.
Caitrin had tasted even better than in his dreams.
But then she’d pushed him away. She didn’t want him.
Alasdair strode back to the window and threw himself down on the window-seat, where Caitrin had been sitting until a few moments earlier. He reached for his goblet of wine, and stopped. His hand trembled badly, as if he were an old man struck by palsy.
Jaw clenched, Alasdair fisted his hand and lowered it to the window-sill.
He couldn’t believe he’d made an utter fool of himself for the second time—kicked in the guts twice by the same woman.
It had taken everything he had to reach for Caitrin. And she’d rejected him—again. Only this time it felt worse. This time he’d been kissing her, and she’d recoiled from him.
There was no coming back from such an act. Caitrin had made her feelings clear.
Alasdair squeezed his eyes closed. The pain that constricted his chest made it hard to breathe. Disappointment and hurt churned within him, making his bile rise.
Enough.
Alasdair opened his eyes, his gaze shifting to the mantelpiece, where the rolled missive from Malcolm MacLeod still sat. He’d been meaning to discuss it with Caitrin during supper but had forgotten.
Truthfully, he’d been reluctant to, for he’d wanted her to remain in Duntulm.
But that was before he’d kissed her, before she’d shoved him away from her as if his very touch made her skin crawl.
I don’t want this.
No—she couldn’t stay here. Caitrin needed to go home.
Chapter Sixteen
He Will Want for Nothing
CAITRIN STABBED HER finger with the needle before letting out a curse.
Shocked, Sorcha glanced up from her own sewing. “Milady?”
Caitrin cast the hand-maid a baleful look but didn’t reply. Instead, she sucked on her injured finger, which now throbbed. She wasn’t in the best frame of mind for embroidery. Her nerves felt stretched tight as a drawn bow-string this morning.
“Is something amiss, Lady Caitrin?” Sorcha asked gently.
Caitrin shook her head. “I’m just tired,” she replied. “After so much worry over Eoghan.” She cast a glance left at where the lad sat upon a rug, playing with blocks of wood. He was building a tower, which he then knocked over with a squeal of laughter. Caitrin’s expression softened as she watched him. The sight of her son was like a balm, soothing her anxiety.
As long as she had Eoghan, life was manageable.
“I’m so relieved he’s better,” Caitrin murmured.
“Aye, milady. We’ve all been worried about him.”
Caitrin glanced up, smiling. Sorcha’s words soothed her. “I’m sorry I’ve been snappish this morning.”
The hand-maid held her gaze. “Ye are more than just tired, milady,” she observed. “Ye have been jumping at shadows since dawn.”
Caitrin sighed, considering whether to confide in Sorcha about what had happened between her and Alasdair the evening before. She sometimes felt so alone, and at moments like this missed her sisters terribly. Rhona and Adaira had always been there for her, but they couldn’t listen to her now.
“I—” she began, but a knock on the door to the solar prevented her from continuing.
“Come in,” she called, irritation rising. No doubt one of the servants wanted her help with something, only this morning she didn’t have the patience it. She just wanted to be left in peace for a while.
