Page 39 of The Rogue's Bride
All she could think about was Eoghan, and how it had ripped out her heart to leave him.
Sorcha had been heartbroken that morning. She’d helped her mistress finish packing, all the while weeping. Now that Eoghan was weaned, Sorcha would bring the lad up within the walls of Duntulm. Caitrin trusted Sorcha and knew Eoghan was in good hands. Yet that didn’t make her feel any better.Shewas the lad’s mother. She needed to be with him.
Tears flowed silently down Caitrin’s cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she looked upon the high basalt curtain wall of the fortress. Sorcha would be watching from her solar window, Eoghan in her arms.
Pain gripped Caitrin’s ribs in a vise, and she turned away from Duntulm.
Instead, her gaze settled upon the man who rode ahead of her, leading the way out of Duntulm village. Alasdair sat tall and proud in the saddle, his long dark hair tied back. He appeared completely unmoved by what he was doing to her.
She’d grown to hate her husband during their marriage, and to fear him. But the loathing she now felt for his younger brother made those emotions seem gentle.
If she had a dirk, she’d throw it at him, and enjoy seeing the blade sink between his shoulder blades.
Since their confrontation in her solar, she hadn’t seen him—not until this morning when she’d been escorted downstairs to the bailey, where her saddled horse awaited.
Even then, he’d barely acknowledged her. Impatience bristled off his body while she mounted and servants loaded her belongings onto a cart that would accompany them south.
He was out for vengeance; she’d seen it in his eyes the day before.
She didn’t think anyone could be so cruel. It shocked her to the core—but at the same time a defiance rose within her.
He won’t win. Caitrin clenched her jaw, pushing against the despair that threatened to smother her.I’ll get my son back. I’ll fight this ….
Night settled over the world, and the last of the rosy sunset faded from the western sky.
Caitrin sat upon a boulder, staring sightlessly at the hearth the men had just lit. It wasn’t a cold evening, yet the fire provided a focal point for the small camp. They’d erected a tent a few yards back, where Caitrin would rest tonight. The men, Alasdair included, would sleep around the fire and take turns at keeping watch.
“Here’s yer supper, milady.” Darron hunkered down before Caitrin and handed her a wooden platter with bread, cheese, and salted pork upon it. Caitrin took it without a word. “There’s a skin of ale as well,” he added, placing the leather bladder at her feet.
Caitrin nodded. She wouldn’t touch the food; her stomach was clenched in a tight knot. She was too angry to eat.
Darron went to rise to his feet but hesitated. She saw the sympathy in his eyes. “I wish things were different, milady,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so that none of the others heard him. “Ye shouldn’t be separated from yer son.”
Caitrin swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. She’d spent the day in brooding silence, rage seething inside her. Anger made her feel better as it forced down the grief and despair of losing Eoghan. But with just a few kind words Captain MacNichol threatened her composure. Her vision now blurred. “Thank ye, Darron,” she said softly. “Ye have been a good friend to me over the last few years … I’ll not forget it.”
Darron’s mouth curved into a rare smile although his gaze remained solemn. “If there’s anything I can do, milady … just ask.”
Caitrin blinked rapidly and heaved in a deep breath. She needed to save her tears till later, for when she was alone. “Just keep an eye out for Eoghan, will ye?” She favored him with a brittle smile.
“Of course,” he promised. “Ye have my word.”
Darron moved away, returning to the fireside, where one of the men had started singing a bawdy drinking song about a lonely traveler, lusty wenches, and a tavern in the midst of winter. Boyd was grinning at the singer, raising his cup of ale at the end of each lewd verse.
Alasdair sat amongst his men, eating his salted pork and bread. He raised his gaze and smiled when the warrior finished his song and the others cheered. Boyd slapped the singer hard on the back and demanded another.
Not once did Alasdair look her way.
Caitrin set the tray aside and reached for the skin of ale instead. She took a large gulp of the sweet, warm liquid. She wasn’t the least bit hungry, but the ale would blunt the world’s sharp edges, for a short while at least.
The last of the light faded and night cloaked the campsite. There was no moon so Caitrin found herself watching the stars instead. They were particularly bright tonight. The sight steadied her, as did the knowledge she’d soon see her sister Rhona.
They would reach Dunvegan tomorrow morning, and she would be in a familiar place at least. Once she’d been delivered, Alasdair would leave, and she would be spared having to look upon him.
Caitrin took another deep pull of ale. The drink relaxed her, although her fury continued to simmer. He’d had his vengeance on her—how she wished she could revenge herself upon him.
Around the fire, the singing eventually ceased. The men spoke now in low voices punctuated by the odd burst of laughter. After a while, the world around their campsite grew quiet. They’d made camp at the edge of woodland, and the wind that had buffeted them on the journey south had died.
Weary, Caitrin rose to her feet and, without a word to any of the men, retired to her tent. Inside she found a small brazier burning and a thick fur spread out upon the ground, where she would sleep.
