Page 13 of The Rogue's Bride
“Ye need to start heeding me, Briana,” she said finally, careful to keep her tone low, even though she was inwardly seething. “I don’t plan the keep’s meals with ye because I have nothing better to do with my time. I’ve made an inventory of the stores and know exactly what needs using up and what doesn’t. Those vegetables would have easily kept another few days.”
Cook stared back at Caitrin, a mutinous expression settling upon her face. An older woman named Galiene, and a red-headed lass who worked alongside Briana, now exchanged nervous glances. Cook then drew herself up, holding Caitrin’s eye boldly. “Ye don’t have to plan the meals with me anymore, milady.”
Caitrin’s gaze narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t need yer help.”
Anger curled up like wreathing smoke within Caitrin. Her patience was nearing its limits now. “I care not what ye think ye need,” she growled. “As chatelaine, the running of the household is my responsibility … and that includes this kitchen. Ye take orders from me.”
“No, I don’t.” Cook blurted, the words tumbling out of her now she’d worked up the courage. “The chieftain rules here, milady … and he says I can prepare whatever meals I choose.”
Caitrin went still. “Ye have spoken to Alasdair about this?”
Cook pursed her lips before nodding. “Aye, and he agrees that ye have no need to meddle in my affairs.” The victorious gleam in cook’s eyes made Caitrin want to slap her face.
Wordlessly, for rage had momentarily rendered her speechless, Caitrin walked to the kitchen door, aware of the three pairs of eyes tracking her path. At the threshold she halted, swiveled round, and pinned cook under a hard stare. “We’ll see about that.”
How dare he?
Caitrin stormed across the bailey toward the archway leading out of the castle. It was a chill windy day outdoors, but she was so incensed that she hadn’t even gone back inside to fetch her cloak. Instead, she marched over the drawbridge and down the hill toward the village, ignoring the cold that bit into her flesh through her kirtle and léine.
She knew where to find Alasdair MacDonald. He and a group of men had spent the last day beginning work on shoring up the Cleatburn Bridge.
Reaching the bottom of the hill, she strode through the village, attracting curious looks from folk she passed. It was an odd thing to see the Lady of Duntulm out on such a chill day without a winter mantle—or an escort. Darron usually shadowed her whenever she left the keep.
Caitrin, who often liked to wave and stop to chat with the villagers, ignored them this morning. She was too upset to focus on anyone right now—other than the man who’d taken vindictive pleasure in thwarting her ever since his return.
The bridge loomed up ahead, and Caitrin spied the outlines of men working on it. She recognized Darron first, for his pale-blond hair gleamed even in the winter’s dull light. He’d just picked up a stone from the back of a wagon and was about to turn and carry it into the waters of the Cleatburn when he spied Caitrin approach.
Darron’s brow furrowed. “Good morn, Lady Caitrin.” His gaze shifted behind her, his eyes narrowing when he realized she was alone. “Ye should have asked one of the guards to escort ye down here.”
Irritation surged within Caitrin. She didn’t need MacNichol or one of his men following her about.
“Morning, Captain MacNichol,” she replied curtly, deliberately ignoring his comment. “Where is the chieftain?”
Darron’s frown deepened. “Is something amiss, milady?”
“Just answer me, please.”
Darron jerked his head to the left, indicating that the man she wanted was behind him. He then stepped to one side.
Caitrin’s gaze shifted to the water, to where Alasdair and Boyd worked, clearing debris from around the bridge’s stacked-stone pillars. Both men were shirtless, their braies sodden. Mud splattered their torsos and arms as they wielded heavy shovels.
Without realizing she was doing so, Caitrin found herself inspecting Alasdair’s half-naked body. He was lean and strong, the light dusting of hair across his muscular chest tapering down to a hard, flat stomach. Even through her fury she acknowledged that he was an attractive, virile sight.
Angrily, she shoved the thought aside.
Sensing the weight of her stare, Alasdair looked up, and their gazes fused. An instant later, he smiled. “Lady Caitrin. Have ye come down to oversee the repairs?”
Boyd laughed at this. “Keeping an eye on ye, is she?”
Caitrin clenched her hands by her sides. Their mockery hardened her temper into something dangerous. “I’ve come from the kitchen.” She bit out the words, aware that the surrounding men had all stopped work and were watching her. She didn’t care. Let them gawk. “It appears ye have told cook that I have no right to oversee the meals that are prepared for the keep?”
Alasdair’s mouth curved. “Aye, and what of it? Briana’s been around since my father was a lad. She doesn’t take kindly to having another woman oversee her.”
“We were getting along fine before ye returned home … milord.”
“Really?” He gave her an arch look. “That’s not what she said.”
