Page 12 of The Rogue's Bride
He handed Eoghan back to Sorcha. Meanwhile, Boyd caught the hand-maid’s eye and smiled. “We haven’t been introduced … Boyd MacDonald of Glencoe at yer service.”
“My name is Sorcha MacQueen,” she replied with a shy smile.
“Of the MacQueens of Skye?”
The girl’s smile faltered. “Aye … Chieftain MacQueen is my father.”
Boyd inclined his head, his own smile widening “Pleased to make yer acquaintance, lass.” His gaze held hers. “Since I’m new to Duntulm … ye might want to give me a tour of the keep later.”
“Captain MacNichol can do that,” Caitrin cut in, her voice sharp.
Boyd shrugged, his gaze never leaving the hand-maid. “I’d prefer a prettier guide, milady.”
“Thank ye Sorcha,” Alasdair cut in, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. His voice was edged with impatience. “Ye can take Eoghan back to his quarters now. We have work to do.”
Sorcha nodded, dropped into a curtsy, and quit the solar. Caitrin noted that her hand-maid now wore a flustered expression, her cheeks pink. After her departure, Alasdair returned to the table and took his seat next to Caitrin once more.
Caitrin met his eye and, seeing the challenge there, tensed. This meeting thus far hadn’t been pleasant—and she wagered the mood wasn’t about to improve.
Alasdair favored her with a wintry smile. “Shall we return to the accounts?”
“Arrogant cur. He missed no opportunity to make me look small!” Caitrin knuckled away a tear that trickled down her cheek. The stress of the last two days was starting to take its toll.
Sorcha’s blue eyes widened. “Milady,” she gasped. “I’m sure the chieftain meant no offense.”
“Oh, he did.”
Caitrin snatched up the woolen tunic she’d been knitting for Eoghan and viciously started to unravel her last session’s work. There were imperfections in the knit, a few small holes that annoyed her. She took vindictive pleasure in undoing her hours of labor.Good—she preferred anger to tears.
“He went through those accounts, line by line, and picked on the slightest things.” She paused in her unraveling and fixed her hand-maid with a look of fury. “He even questioned the amount of produce we’ve set aside to pay this year’s cáin.”
Sorcha’s brow furrowed, setting down the embroidery she’d just started. “Isn’t it enough?”
“Of course it is,” Caitrin huffed. “I’m a clan-chief’s daughter … I know exactly how much yearly tribute the king requires of his vassals. The cáin is sufficient.”
“But the chieftain doesn’t think so?” Sorcha appeared genuinely concerned. Caitrin clenched her jaw. She knew that her hand-maid’s loyalty would always go first to her master, but even so it grated upon Caitrin.
A woman was never taken seriously in a man’s world, even by other women.
“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Caitrin muttered. Yet as she said those words, a weight settled in the pit of her belly. Unfortunately, Alasdair MacDonald’s opinion did matter—and she needed to try harder if she wanted to stay on as chatelaine.
Chapter Six
Too Far
CAITRIN FROWNED, PEERING into the bubbling cauldron of sulfurous, over-cooked vegetables. “I thought we already planned out all the meals for the week?”
“Aye, milady … we did.”
Caitrin glanced over her shoulder, at where cook and her two assistants were busy kneading bread dough on the large table that dominated the kitchen. “Pottage wasn’t on the list.”
Cook gave her a wary look. “No, but I decided we should have it for today’s noon meal. We had old vegetables that needed using up.”
Caitrin inhaled deeply. She wasn’t in the mood for this. Tired and on edge, Caitrin had gotten up well before dawn over the past week to redouble her efforts as chatelaine. She didn’t want to give Alasdair MacDonald any excuse to criticize her.
But now, Briana wanted to cross swords with her—again.
After their last confrontation, she’d thought she and cook had reached an understanding: they made a plan of the week’s noon meals and suppers and then cook followed it. But, clearly, Briana wasn’t ready to do as she was told.
