Page 11 of The Rogue's Bride
She watched his hawkish profile as he leaned forward, his gaze tracking down the page. After a moment he paused. “Ye bought a lot of grain from MacLeod last autumn … oats especially. Why?”
“We didn’t have a large harvest of oats,” Caitrin replied without hesitation, before she met Alasdair’s eye. “Baltair had decided to use the lower fields for kale and cabbage instead.”
Alasdair raised an eyebrow before shifting his attention back to the ledger. Caitrin watched him continue to read, although with each passing moment she could feel her spine growing more rigid. She hadn’t missed the challenge in his voice.
“Ye have made a mistake here,” he said after a pause, his finger tracing down one column to the sum at the bottom. “Twelve, eight, thirty-five, and twenty … does not equal seventy-eight.”
“It’s seventy-five,” Boyd piped up with a laugh.
Caitrin’s cheeks flamed. Alban had helped her do the calculations. Any errors belonged to them both. However, she wouldn’t mention him here—it would only make her look as if she was making excuses for herself. Fury coiled up within her when she saw Alasdair flash Boyd a conspirator’s grin. “Aye.”
“It was an honest mistake,” Caitrin said stiffly, forcing down her ire, “and one that I shall correct.”
“See that ye do,” Alasdair replied.
A knock at the door interrupted them, bringing Caitrin a reprieve.
“Enter,” Alasdair called out, and an instant later Sorcha appeared, carrying Eoghan in her arms. The bairn was awake, clutching to Sorcha, his eyes wide as he surveyed the two strangers in the room.
Next to her, Caitrin sensed Alasdair grow still. She glanced his way to see that his gaze had fixed upon the lad. Eoghan stared back, equally fascinated.
“God’s bones,” Alasdair murmured. “He looks the image of Baltair.”
Caitrin grew even tenser at this comment. She knew it to be the truth, yet hated that Eoghan’s similarity to his father was the first thing folk noted when they set eyes on the lad.
“That’s not surprising,” she replied.
Alasdair cut her a glance, gaze widening at the sharpness of her tone. “Doesn’t that please ye?” he asked, his dark brows knitting together. “At least ye have something to remember my brother by.”
Caitrin didn’t reply. She didn’t trust herself to. However, she saw a shadow move in Alasdair MacDonald’s eyes and realized that he’d drawn his own conclusions. “The grieving widow, eh?” he murmured.
Caitrin swallowed, dropping her gaze. She’d not engage him on this subject, not now with Boyd and Sorcha present. If he wanted to know about the state of her marriage to Baltair, he could show her some respect by bringing it up in private.
“Would ye like to hold the lad, milord?” Sorcha asked, favoring Alasdair with a warm smile.
Caitrin bit back the urge to say he wouldn’t. Her hands clenched on her lap, her fingernails biting into her palms. Yet Alasdair pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “Very well. Give the lad here.”
“He’s not used to strangers,” Caitrin said tightly. Her body coiled as Sorcha handed Eoghan to Alasdair. Any moment now, Eoghan would start wailing.
“Aye … but I’m kin,” Alasdair replied, not bothering to glance her way.
Swaddled in lambswool, Eoghan stared up at his uncle, chubby fingers reaching forward to explore his leather vest. To Caitrin’s surprise, the lad’s face didn’t crumple. Instead, he favored Alasdair with a beautiful, wide smile.
And in response, Alasdair MacDonald’s own face transformed. For a few instants he wore a soft expression, his dark eyes glowing with tenderness. “It’s good to meet ye, Eoghan,” he murmured. “Ye never met yer grandsire, but it’s a fine name ye have inherited.”
“The lad’s taken a shine to ye, Alasdair,” Boyd noted, grinning.
Alasdair snorted, never taking his gaze off the bairn. “Blood is blood … the lad knows it too.”
“I’ve never seen Master Eoghan so fascinated with someone, milord,” Sorcha said. “Maybe he does sense ye are his uncle.”
Alasdair smiled. “Aye … I’m the closest thing ye have to a father now, wee Eoghan.” He tickled the lad under the chin, and the bairn gave a gurgling laugh. “And one day ye will inherit all of this.”
Caitrin drew in a deep breath, attempting to quell her irritation and failing. “I’m sure ye will have bairns of yer own, milord,” she said, unable to hold her tongue any longer. “Ye won’t need Eoghan to carry on the MacDonald line.”
Alasdair tore his gaze from his nephew then, his attention fixing upon her. “I don’t intend to wed,” he said, his voice hardening, “and I won’t be siring any bairns. Eoghan is the sole MacDonald heir.”
A chill feathered down Caitrin’s spine. Why wasn’t he planning to take a wife? The proprietary edge to Alasdair’s voice made her uneasy.
