Page 7 of The Rogue's Bride
She’d changed since he’d seen her last. There was a grave dignity to her face, a seriousness in those sea-blue eyes that had been absent in the lass he’d so foolishly courted. Her figure was lusher—motherhood suited her. Baltair had sent word after Eoghan’s birth—just a few lines: “I have a son, an heir.” The letter hadn’t reached Alasdair until after the battle, by which time Baltair was dead.
“Is something amiss?” Boyd asked, appearing at Alasdair’s shoulder as he strode toward the doors of the Great Hall. “Ye look grim for a man who’s just come home.”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Alasdair cut him an irritated look. “I’m just weary.”
Boyd favored him with a sly smile. “Ye never told me that yer brother’s widow was so bonny.”
“Is she?” Alasdair replied lightly. “I thought she looked like a crow garbed all in black.”
Boyd snorted. “That’s not what ye told her though, is it? Ye looked like someone had struck ye over the head with a mallet when she walked out into the bailey.”
“Enough,” Alasdair growled, losing patience. “I tire of yer flapping tongue.”
Boyd merely grinned in response, knowing his point had been made.
Seated upon the dais, farther down the table from Alasdair MacDonald, Caitrin took a sip of wine. She barely tasted it, for nerves made her belly clench.
Around them servants, led by cook and her assistant, Galiene, were bringing out supper: venison stew, oaten bread, and braised kale. A wall of noise surrounded Caitrin, reminding her why she preferred to take most of her meals in her solar.
She found it difficult to relax, to enjoy food, in this cavernous, noisy space.
Five of them sat at the chieftain’s table this evening: Alasdair and the warrior with red-gold hair he’d introduced as his kinsman, Boyd MacDonald, along with Caitrin, Darron, and Alban.
Cook favored the chieftain with a wide smile as she placed a bowl of stew before him. “It’s good to have ye home, milord,” she greeted him. “I’ve made yer favorite supper.”
Alasdair leaned back in his chair, returning her smile. “Thank ye, Briana. It’s good to be back.”
A few feet away, the steward, Alban, rose to his feet, holding a goblet of wine aloft. Around him the hall went quiet. The excited chatter of voices settled as all gazes swiveled to the steward.
“Today we’ve been blessed,” Alban announced, his low, gruff voice echoing across the hall. “Today, the MacDonald heir has returned to Duntulm … raise yer cups. Let us welcome him home.”
A chorus of “aye” and “welcome home” followed, thundering high into the rafters. Men and women rose to their feet, raising their cups. Those at the table followed suit, Caitrin included.
Alasdair inclined his head, his smile widening. For a moment Caitrin glimpsed true warmth in his eyes. He might not be pleased to see her, but he was relieved to be home.
The toast ended, and the folk of Duntulm returned to their meals. Eating slowly, Caitrin found herself sneaking glances at Alasdair. He sat in the chieftain’s chair, one arm resting casually upon the carven armrest as he swirled wine in a goblet. Unlike the other men at the table, who all ate heartily, he’d barely touched his stew. Instead, his gaze had turned unfocused, as if he was suddenly leagues from here.
“Milord?” The steward leaned forward, trying to catch the chieftain’s attention. “Alasdair?”
The chieftain blinked, his gaze snapping back to the present. “Aye, Alban?”
“I trust ye had a good trip home?”
“Aye … the weather was against us … but that’s what happens when ye travel in winter.” Alasdair took a sip of wine, fixing Alban with a level look. “How have things been in Duntulm since my brother’s death?”
“Quiet, milord,” the older man replied with a smile.
“And the harvest … was it good?”
The steward nodded. “Aye, last summer was the warmest in years. Our stores will see us and the village safely through into spring.” Alban glanced at Caitrin then. “Lady Caitrin oversaw the harvest … she worked tirelessly and made sure every last ear of barley was reaped.”
Alasdair’s mouth quirked, his attention shifting to Caitrin for the first time since he’d taken his seat at the table. “Is that so?”
“Aye,” Alban replied. “Lady Caitrin has managed Duntulm admirably as chatelaine in yer absence.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Caitrin tensed. Was it only her who could hear the mocking edge to Alasdair’s voice? She still had difficulty accepting that this swarthy, sharp-featured man was actually Baltair’s younger brother. He had a rakish, careless edge that warned her to be wary of him.
