Page 77 of The Rogue's Bride
Sorcha returned to the keep early, while Alasdair and Caitrin left the crowds, making their way east of the village to where the stone bridge over the Cleatburn was taking shape.
Alasdair carried Eoghan now, for Caitrin’s arms and back had started to ache. Pride shone in Alasdair’s eyes, and the lad was delighted to have his uncle carry him. He squealed and burbled gibberish, pointing at things as they walked. Dùnglas padded after them, although the dog was distracted by clumps of heather and rocks he felt compelled to lift his leg at.
Caitrin stopped on the western bank of the Cleatburn and surveyed the bridge. The half-built structure was twice the size of the old bridge. It was made of basalt blocks of stone and thus much sturdier than its predecessor, spanning the water in a graceful curve.
“Alasdair … did ye design this yerself?” she asked.
“There’s a beautiful bridge inInbhir Nis,” he replied. “It’s much bigger than this one, but I studied it while I was there.”
Caitrin tore her gaze from the structure and glanced over at him, smiling. “Just as well ye did. It’s remarkable.”
Alasdair smiled back. “Like that bridge, we built this one with a pointed arch. It makes it less likely to sag at the crown … it’ll also put less strain on the supports.”
Caitrin nodded. She was impressed by his knowledge. “When will it be finished?”
“In a month, I’d guess … if the fine weather holds, we’ll be able to work faster.” Alasdair grimaced then, grabbing Eoghan’s hand as the lad grabbed hold of his hair and yanked.
Watching them, Caitrin smiled once more. She liked seeing Alasdair and Eoghan together. The family resemblance was there, although Alasdair’s features were more hawkish than his nephew’s.
I wonder when we shall have our first bairn.
The thought made warmth spread across her chest. She looked forward to giving him children: sons or daughters, she didn’t mind which.
She thought then of her sisters. Rhona’s belly would have become noticeable by now. When would Adaira and Lachlann start a family?
A tiny kernel of sadness lodged in Caitrin’s breast then, as she thought about her sisters. She loved her life here at Duntulm, her marriage, and her son. Yet Rhona and Adaira were a part of her. She suddenly missed them with a force that made her chest ache.
“What is it, love?” Alasdair’s voice brought Caitrin out of her reverie. She glanced up to see he was watching her. “Ye look leagues away.”
She smiled. “I was just thinking about my sisters … I miss them.”
Alasdair’s mouth curved. “Well then … we should organize another visit to Dunvegan … and perhaps a trip to Argyle.”
“Really?”
“I’ll see what I can do. We should cross to the mainland before the cold weather sets in.”
A smile spread across Caitrin’s face. The past month since their wedding had been an exciting, wondrous time. It was as if she’d been reborn; all the hurts of the past slowly faded into the mist. She woke up every morning, curled up in her husband’s arms and wondering how it was possible to feel so happy.
She’d told Alasdair that she found it difficult to trust, but as the days passed, she found herself opening up to him more and more. With him she didn’t need to be wary, to keep an eye out for dark moods or a vicious temper.
Alasdair still suffered nightmares—even if they had started to become less frequent and intense. The tremors in his hands had ceased of late, but sometimes she still caught him staring off into the distance—caught up in unpleasant memories. The wounds he’d brought home with him from war were gradually starting to heal.
Caitrin’s vision misted. Alasdair wasn’t like the other men she’d known. As much as she loved her father, Malcolm MacLeod was not a man who treated any woman, even his wife, as an equal. He had no use for conversation with them, preferring the company of his men and a horn of mead. Baltair had been much harsher than her father though. MacLeod at least suffered the opinions of his daughters, even with bad grace at times. Baltair had forbidden her from expressing her views entirely. She’d learned that lesson quickly upon coming to live at Duntulm.
But with Alasdair there were no rules she had to follow, no subjects she had to avoid. She could be herself completely, and he loved her for it.
The friendship they’d once shared as bairns, the ease in each other’s company, had been reforged—and with it a deeper bond. Something that had taken root inside Caitrin’s breast and grew stronger with each passing day.
Caitrin stepped close to her husband. Then, going up on tip-toe, she leaned in and kissed him. “I love ye, Alasdair MacDonald,” she murmured. “Sometimes the force of it overwhelms me.”
He stared down at her, his dark eyes gleaming. “Ye don’t know how I’ve longed to hear those words,” he murmured, his voice catching. “I was beginning to think I never would.”
Caitrin cupped his face with one hand, while taking hold of one of Eoghan’s grappling fingers with the other. “I’ve known for a while now … I’ve just been waiting for the right time to say it.” Her mouth curved then. “Ironic really … for I once thought I loathed ye.”
He huffed. “Gavin MacNichol told me that love and hate are close cousins.”
“They are.” Caitrin then inclined her head. “What passed between the two of ye?”
