Page 40 of The Rogue's Bride
Stretching out, Caitrin rolled onto her back and listened to the rumble of the men’s voices beyond.
Eoghan.
Caitrin wrapped her arms around her torso, squeezing her eyes shut as a wave of loss crashed into her.
Her son would be wondering where she was, why she never came into his bed-chamber to tuck him in and sing him a lullaby.
I’ll find my way back to ye, my darling.
Tears leaked from her eyes, trickling down her cheeks, where they soaked into her hair. Despair pressed down upon her like a great boulder upon her chest, but she wouldn’t give into it.
She wouldn’t give up. She owed it to Eoghan to be strong.
I promise.
Alasdair leaned forward and poked the glowing embers with a stick, ignoring Darron. He’d deliberately sat apart from the others, while Boyd took the first shift of the night watch.
But the captain had sought him out.
Darron lowered himself onto the edge of the large flat stone where Alasdair sat. Neither man spoke, yet Alasdair could feel the weight of the captain’s stare.
Moments passed, and eventually Alasdair turned to him with a scowl. “For God’s sake, MacNichol … out with it.”
Darron’s mouth thinned. “Taking Lady Caitrin’s bairn from her seems … harsh.”
Alasdair snorted, although his ire rose at Darron impertinence. “Itisharsh—but necessary. Eoghan is the last of my family’s bloodline. He must stay at Duntulm.”
Darron fell silent, his attention shifting to the glowing embers of the fire pit before them. “Lady Caitrin did a fine job as chatelaine,” he said finally. “I don’t understand why ye would send her away.”
Alasdair frowned. “Ye know why … her father wants her to remarry.”
Darron glanced his way. “Butyecould wed her?”
Alasdair threw back his head and laughed. “I’d be the last man in Scotland that Lady Caitrin would deign to wed.”
“Why?” Darron looked confused now, and Alasdair wished the man would cease his incessant questioning. “Ye seem well suited.”
“Appearances deceive, MacNichol,” Alasdair replied, his tone making it clear that the conversation was over.
The night was still, the darkness smothering. Alasdair found he couldn’t settle.
Rising from the fireside, he walked to the edge of the camp, stepping up next to where Boyd stood watch.
“I’ll take over,” he said quietly. “Ye get some rest.”
Boyd glanced over at him. “Are ye sure? I can keep watch for a while yet.”
“I can’t sleep anyway. There’s no point in both of us being awake.”
Boyd nodded, although his face, illuminated by the faint glow of the torch behind him, was thoughtful. “Still not sleeping?”
Alasdair shrugged. “Some nights are better than others.” He cast an eye over Boyd. Unlike him, his cousin appeared to have emerged from the war unscathed. “Ye sleep easy these days then?”
Boyd gave a jaw-cracking yawn and stretched. “Aye … like a bairn.” He clapped Alasdair on the back and stepped away from him. “My bed roll beckons. I’ll leave ye to it.”
His cousin walked off, returning to the camp and leaving Alasdair alone.
Somewhere in the undergrowth, an animal rustled, and then an owl softly hooted. Alasdair drew in a deep breath, listening to the slumbering land around him. The night sounds were gentle, calming, yet they did little to relax him.
