Page 6 of The Rogue's Bride
All three ceased their conversation and looked her way as she approached.
The captain and steward forgotten, Caitrin’s gaze remained upon the newcomer.
She barely recognized him.
The Alasdair MacDonald she remembered was tall and lanky with a mop of dark hair and a sallow complexion. Baltair had been favored when it came to looks; his brother had seemed gawky and shy in comparison.
The man before her was lean but strong. Alasdair’s shoulders seemed broader, the bony angles and gaunt face had filled out, and his hair had grown long. It now spilled over the shoulders of his fur cloak.
Caitrin’s step faltered when his gaze met hers.
Eyes the color of peat—dark-brown, almost black—tracked her path. Predatory. More like Baltair and not like the playful lad who had once brought her a bouquet of meadow flowers.
His features though would never have Baltair’s chiseled perfection. They were slightly sharp, hawkish.
He didn’t smile as Caitrin approached. Didn’t move.
Caitrin forced herself to keep moving, even if her instincts told her to turn and flee.
She kept walking until she was but three yards from him, and there she halted.
“Lady Caitrin.” Darron acknowledged her with a respectful nod of his chin. He then stepped aside so that she could welcome the returning MacDonald heir. Alban did the same.
Caitrin swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. His gaze was so intense that she felt stripped naked under it. She resisted the urge to reach up and check that her hair was tidy; in her rush downstairs she hadn’t even thought to take note of her appearance.
Foolish woman, she chided herself.Alasdair won’t care what ye look like.
It was true. The chill in his eyes spoke volumes. As she’d feared, he wasn’t pleased to see her.
“My Lord Alasdair.” She dipped into a curtsy and forced a bright smile. “Welcome home. It’s good to see ye again. Did ye have a pleasant journey?”
It was cold outdoors, a grey, sunless late afternoon with a damp that made her bones ache—yet suddenly, Caitrin felt flustered. Heat flared in her cheeks, flaming hotter still when Alasdair MacDonald didn’t answer.
Caitrin nervously wet her lips. “Milord?”
Alasdair smiled then, although there was still no warmth in his eyes. There was definitely a hard edge to him these days. Two and a half years had changed him. It was like looking into the eyes of a stranger.
“Good morning, Lady Caitrin.” When Alasdair spoke, she finally recognized him. He’d always had a different voice to his brother: low and slightly gruff. “Ye are looking well.”
Caitrin stared at him, once again resisting the urge to smooth her skirts and touch her hair. She felt unbalanced, strange.
And then Alasdair stepped aside and walked past her without another word. A lanky warrior with long red-gold hair, who’d been standing behind Alasdair, sauntered past her an instant later. The man favored Caitrin with a wink and a roguish grin, before he followed Alasdair MacDonald into the keep.
Ye are looking well.
Alasdair ground his teeth together and forced himself not to run up the steps. The huge keep reared up before him.
Dolt.What had possessed him to say something so inane?
Better to say nothing at all than to put himself at a disadvantage with this woman.
Caitrin had always been able to do that—just one look from her and he used to get tongue tied. It galled him to see that little had changed.
Alasdair walked through the keep’s entrance hall and past the wide stone steps leading upstairs. Every nook, every stretch of stone here was as familiar to him as the back of his own hand. Alasdair had expected to be relieved to be home, for he’d missed Duntulm in his time away.
Yet he was distracted.
Even dressed in mourning black, her pale-blonde hair twisted up into a severe style, Caitrin was lovely. He’d been rooted to the spot as she walked toward him.
