Page 55 of The Rogue's Bride
MacNichol gave a soft laugh. “Aye, ye are. I know the look. I’ve been there myself.”
“Well, ye are mistaken,” Alasdair drawled, stepping back from the fire. “Is that all ye have to say?”
“No.” MacNichol’s tone hardened. “Why are ye letting the lass go?”
Alasdair folded his arms across his chest. “MacLeod wants Lady Caitrin to wed again. It has nothing to do with me.”
“Then why the Devil didn’t ye take her for yerself? Ye could have saved us all a trip.”
Alasdair drew in a deep breath, his anger rising. However, he deliberately left the question unanswered.
MacNichol’s gaze narrowed. “Ye are stubborn and proud, MacDonald. Careful, or it’ll be yer downfall.”
Alasdair went still. “What’s any of this to ye?” he growled. “Lady Caitrin is likely to choose ye … isn’t that what ye want?”
MacNichol snorted. “I don’t want another man’s leavings. Caitrin will chose me because of what I offer, not for love. I’ve already wed once for duty. I’ll not do it again.”
The frank admission made Alasdair pause. “I thought ye were happily wed?”
Gavin MacNichol held his gaze for a long moment. “Eventually … aye. But Innis wasn’t my choice. I loved her younger sister, but that wasn’t who our families wanted me to wed.”
“And where’s her sister now?”
MacNichol’s gaze clouded. “She took the veil at Kilbride.”
Silence fell in the chamber. Alasdair shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure how to respond, or what the man wanted from him exactly. He wished only to leave.
“I don’t tell ye this for sympathy,” MacNichol continued, his tone sharpening, “but as a warning. Ye stand upon a crossroads. If ye don’t decide which road to take, fate will do it for ye … and ye will have to live with the consequences for the rest of yer life.”
Alasdair snorted. “Ye forget that the lady in question hates me.”
Gavin MacNichol raised a dark-blond eyebrow. “Does she?”
“Aye, ye saw for yerself tonight.”
MacNichol gave a dry laugh. “I might not be blind, butyeare. The moment ye took her hand tonight, Caitrin’s cheeks flushed. We all saw the way she looked at ye.”
“In loathing?”
The chieftain shook his head, his mouth curving. “Love and hate are close cousins, lad. Talk to her … before it’s too late.”
Caitrin was sitting by the fire, staring at the dying embers, when someone knocked on the door to her bed-chamber.
She frowned. It was late. After returning from the Great Hall, she’d thought that she’d fall into bed exhausted. However, she’d been unable to relax.
The day’s events had left her drained yet restless. Fury still churned in her belly at what Alasdair had done, how he’d treated her. She’d hoped he’d leave the hall after she slapped him—but he hadn’t. Instead, she’d been forced to ignore him for the rest of the evening, all the time painfully aware of his presence.
She hated how responsive she was to him, how the touch of his skin against hers had set her blood aflame. She hated him, and yet her body betrayed her.
Caitrin’s throat constricted then. Tomorrow Alasdair MacDonald would be the least of her concerns—for then she’d have to choose a husband.
Thud. Thud.
Again, someone knocked. Rising to her feet, Caitrin padded barefoot across to the door. Dressed in her night-rail and robe, she wasn’t in a state to welcome visitors. However, she guessed it would be Liosa or Rhona coming to check on her. She wished they wouldn’t fuss.
Caitrin opened the door and froze.
Alasdair MacDonald stood there. Hair tousled, he wore a slightly wild expression.
