Page 42 of The Rogue's Bride
Caitrin swallowed. She’d always been adept at masking her feelings from others—even her sisters—but not today it seemed. Her vision misted then; she was so tired of being strong, of having to keep up a wall. Now that she was alone with Rhona her defenses crumbled.
Bowing her head, she covered her face with her hands and began to weep.
Rhona was at her side in an instant, her arm circling Caitrin’s shoulders. “Caitrin … what’s wrong?”
“It wasn’t my choice to leave Eoghan behind,” Caitrin finally gasped. “Alasdair MacDonald is keeping him … as his heir.”
She raised her face, turning to her sister. Rhona’s face had gone ashen. “But he can’t keep ye from yer son,” she whispered.
Tears streamed down Caitrin’s face. “He can … and he has.”
Rhona’s features tightened. “Only the worst kind of rogue would do such a thing!”
“Aye … I didn’t think him capable of such an act, but I was wrong.”
“Why would he be so cruel?”
Caitrin loosed a breath. “He’s never forgiven me for spurning him.”
She deliberately didn’t mention the incident of a few days prior. She wasn’t sure how to articulate it. Rhona knew about the proposal Alasdair had once made though.
Rhona stared at her for a moment, before her expression hardened. It was a look Caitrin knew well—the look of a woman steeling herself for a fight. “MacDonald will not get his way. Da will learn about this. He’ll put things right.”
“No, Rhona,” Caitrin replied firmly. She sniffed, wiping her wet cheeks with her sleeve. “Da will only make things worse … if he helps at all.”
“How can ye say that?” Rhona scowled. “Eoghan is a MacLeod as much as he’s a MacDonald. Da will tell that bastard to send yer son to ye.”
Caitrin shook her head. She’d already had this discussion with Sorcha; it wearied her to have to explain it to her sister as well. “Ye have a short memory, Rhona. Da’s alliances mean more to him than we do. Ye would be wasting yer breath.”
“But after what happened with Adaira he might—”
“That was different,” Caitrin cut her off. “Adaira forced Da’s hand that day. If I want Eoghan back, I need to be the one to fight for him.”
Rhona’s gaze narrowed, and she folded her arms across her breasts. “But how will ye do that. We live in a man’s world.”
Caitrin’s expression hardened. “And that’s why we must fight using our own weapons.”
“Ye should have brought Eoghan with ye,” MacLeod grumbled. “I haven’t glimpsed my grandson in months.”
“Ye shall see him on my next visit to Dunvegan,” Alasdair assured MacLeod with a smile. “I thought it best Lady Caitrin wasn’t distracted … ye want her to focus on finding a husband, do ye not?”
Across the table Caitrin tensed. She glared at Alasdair, but he ignored her. Instead, he sipped from his goblet with a nonchalance that made her temper flare.
The MacLeod clan-chief’s brow smoothed. Tall, broad, and heavy-set with greying auburn hair, he had eyes the color of a stormy sky. He was a portly man and had gotten so fat of late that it was difficult to see where his chin ended and his neck began. “Aye … maybe ye are right.”
“We can travel to Duntulm together, Da,” Caitrin spoke up, forcing a lightness of tone she didn’t feel. “Once I’ve chosen a suitor.”
“There will be no time for that,” Alasdair replied, before MacLeod had a chance to answer. “I imagine ye will be wed as soon as ye choose a suitor. Yer new husband won’t want ye disappearing to Duntulm.”
“Aye,” MacLeod said, eyeing the MacDonald chieftain in surprise. He then shifted his attention to Caitrin. “He’s right again, lass. I’ve sent word. Yer suitors are due to arrive tomorrow. One of them is traveling from the mainland.”
Caitrin clenched her jaw, dropping her gaze to the plate of boiled mutton, turnips, and oaten bread before her. Around her the table went quiet. They sat in Dunvegan’s Great Hall, a massive space dominated by two hearths. The noon meal had just been served, and the greasy odor of mutton hung in the air.
Steeling herself, Caitrin glanced up, her gaze traveling to where Rhona and her husband, Taran, sat watching her. Rhona wore a pinched expression, while Taran, whose scarred face gave him a frightening look at the best of times, was scowling. Rhona must have told him about Eoghan, for her brother-in-law then favored Alasdair MacDonald with a dark look.
“Ye are fortunate indeed, Caitrin,” Una, her step-mother, spoke up. Small and dark, Una favored Caitrin with a smug smile. “One of yer suitors is my brother, Ross. A fine warrior he is too—any woman would be lucky to have him.”
MacLeod huffed, holding his goblet up for a passing servant to fill. “Gavin MacNichol and Fergus MacKay are both worthy too. We’ll see whom Caitrin prefers.”
