Page 67 of The Rogue's Bride
Grows around the purple heather.
Will ye go, lassie, go?
And we'll all go together,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the purple heather.
Will ye go, lassie, go?
I will build my love a tower,
By yon clear crystal fountain,
And on it I will pile,
All the flowers of the mountain.
Will ye go, lassie, go?”
Alasdair finished his song, his voice fading into silence. The fine hair on the back of Caitrin’s forearms prickled, and she let out a slow breath, realizing that she’d forgotten to breathe while he sang.
“That was beautiful,” she whispered.
He ducked his head, smiling. “Ye enjoyed it then?”
“Aye.”
Across the fire, Boyd snorted. “Ye have a fine voice, I’ll give ye that cousin … but did ye have to choose something so … feeble?”
Alasdair threw back his head and laughed. “I know plenty of other songs.”
“Why don’t ye sing us one?” Boyd grinned at Caitrin then. “None that’ll offend yer lady’s ears, mind.”
They rode into Duntulm under the drumming rain, approaching the fortress from the south. However, when he crested the top of the last hill, Alasdair pulled his courser to an abrupt halt.
“What is it?” Caitrin pulled up her palfrey next to her husband, her gaze following the direction of his.
She didn’t need him to answer, for an instant later, she saw for herself what the problem was.
When they’d left Duntulm, the Cleatburn had been a meandering stream that cut east of the village, spanned by an old humpbacked stone bridge.
It was now a turbid torrent, covering the meadows and the outlying cottages. Sod roofed dwellings peeked out of the rushing water, and the bridge was completely gone. Villagers were wading through the water, trying to salvage what they could and rescue livestock from the flooded meadow.
Alasdair cursed, gathered his reins, and urged his horse down the hill. Dùnglas bounded along behind him, and Caitrin followed. The mare broke into a brisk canter, her hooves cutting into the wet turf. Caitrin pulled her up at the bottom of the hill, just in time to see Alasdair leap down from his horse, tear off his cloak, heel off his boots, and stride toward the water.
“Alasdair!” Caitrin called after him, wondering where on earth he was going.
And then she saw her.
The young woman was drifting downriver toward the sea, clinging to a tree trunk. Her cries floated across the hillside, barely audible over the roaring of the water.
Darron rushed past Caitrin, hot on Alasdair’s heels, the others close behind him. However, by the time they reached the water’s edge, the chieftain had already plunged in and was swimming in long strokes toward the lass.
“Get some rope,” Darron shouted.
Caitrin sprang down from her horse and rushed to one of the horses the men had abandoned, retrieving a heavy coil of hemp rope. She then picked up her skirts and hurried to the water’s edge, where Dùnglas sat whining, staring after Alasdair.
