Page 15 of The Rogue's Bride
“If he did, it was behind closed doors.”
“But it wasn’t a happy union?”
Darron pursed his mouth.
“Answer me, MacNichol.”
“They didn’t speak much, milord … it seemed to me that Baltair ignored Lady Caitrin for the most part.”
Alasdair digested this news. It didn’t overly surprise him. Baltair had never had much use for women beyond swiving them.
Loosing a sigh, Alasdair cast a glance up at where the castle loomed before them. He’d enjoyed putting Caitrin in her place, humiliating her in front of his men, but an uneasiness had settled over him in the aftermath.
Vengeance didn’t taste as sweet as he’d expected. He felt strangely empty, disappointed.
Maybe he’d taken things too far.
Chapter Seven
Taking Instruction
ALASDAIR SWALLOWED A mouthful of pottage and stifled a grimace. It was awful: overcooked with a faintly acrid taste as if the bottom of the pot had burned. Alasdair frowned. How was this possible? Cook usually served up delicious meals.
Next to him Boyd also tasted the pottage, his face screwing up. Mumbling a curse, he reached for his goblet of wine to wash it down. “Foul,” he muttered. Likewise, the others at the table looked similarly unimpressed with the fare before them.
“I thought cook agreed not to serve up this slop any more,” Alban grumbled. The steward cast Caitrin a questioning look, but she didn’t meet his eye. Instead, the chatelaine appeared fascinated with the piece of bread she was buttering.
Caitrin hadn’t made eye contact with any of them since taking a seat at the table for the noon meal.
“Lady Caitrin?” Alban, who hadn’t been down at the bridge earlier that morning, spoke up once more. “Didn’t ye have a word with cook?”
Caitrin did glance up then. “Aye,” she replied, her tone clipped, “but it appears I’m to have no say in what meals are prepared in future.” Her attention shifted to where Boyd was looking down at his bowl with a look of disgust. “I hope ye like pottage … because Briana likes to serve it at least four times a week.”
Boyd’s gaze snapped up, his mouth thinning.
Watching Caitrin, Alasdair noted that her expression was shuttered. He let out a long exhale and pushed his bowl away, reaching instead for some bread. “I don’t remember Briana’s cooking being this bad,” he said mildly. He then pulled a wheel of cheese toward him and cut off a large wedge.
“She’s not usually,” Darron replied. “Except for when she makes pottage. It’s the dish she cooks when she wants to use up old vegetables and grain.”
Caitrin glanced Darron’s way, gaze narrowed, yet didn’t reply.
“Maybe ye should let Lady Caitrin plan the meals, milord?” Alban ventured, frowning. “She knows how to utilize the stores. Cook needs a firm hand.”
Irritation flared within Alasdair. He didn’t appreciate the steward speaking up on Caitrin’s behalf. Of course, the man had no idea what had happened earlier. Alban had served both Alasdair’s brother and father. He was a good, solid man who’d always been staunchly loyal to the family he served. Yet it appeared he was also protective of Caitrin.
“Briana knows what she’s doing,” he growled.
Boyd snorted. “Really?”
Alasdair ignored him, his attention shifting to Caitrin. This time she met his eye. “I shall talk to cook,” he said.
Caitrin’s mouth thinned. She gave a barely perceptible nod before dropping her gaze.
The noon meal continued, the atmosphere strained. Around them the rumble of voices in the Great Hall rose and fell along with the clunk of tankards and the clatter of wooden spoons. Servants circled with pots of pottage, offering a second serving.
Alasdair noted that no one partook.
The vegetable stew was barely edible. Cook had chosen a fine time to disgrace herself, especially just after his confrontation with Caitrin.
