Page 18 of The Rogue's Bride
CAITRIN STARED BACK at Alasdair. His reply shouldn’t have surprised her, and yet it did. When she finally spoke, her voice held a rasp. “So … this is revenge?”
Alasdair crossed his arms over his chest. “Did ye think I’d forgotten?”
Caitrin swallowed. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet. “Ye are still bitter because I chose yer brother over ye?”
There it was—the unspoken had finally been uttered.
His mouth twisted.
A brittle silence stretched between them, and eventually it was Caitrin who broke it. “I’m truly sorry for that day, Alasdair … for hurting ye.”
His face hardened. “I don’t need yer apology.”
“Clearly ye do,” she replied, holding his gaze. “If ye are bent on exacting some kind of petty revenge upon me.”
He snorted. “Petty?”
Caitrin drew in a deep breath, forcing down her ire. Even now he was deliberately baiting her. “I thought we were friends,” she said after a pause. “When ye proposed, ye took me by surprise.”
Heat flooded across her chest at the memory of that afternoon. They’d been walking in the gardens south of Dunvegan, laughing and teasing one another, when Alasdair suddenly halted and turned to her. Then he’d gone down on one knee and proposed—just like that. Caitrin had been so shocked, she’d laughed. Her reaction had been one borne of surprise and nervousness, but the look of hurt on Alasdair’s face had haunted her for days afterward.
“Aye,” he replied, his voice bitter. “Ye wanted a proposal from my dashing brother instead.”
Caitrin swallowed. “I couldn’t help how I felt.” She paused here, looking into his eyes. “Ye didn’t have to run away.”
He barked a humorless laugh. “Is that what ye think I did?”
She held his gaze. “Didn’t ye? Ye had never shown any interest in joining the king’s army before … and then once my betrothal to Baltair was announced, ye couldn’t leave Skye fast enough.”
Caitrin finished speaking and dropped her gaze, heart pounding. She hated confrontation—and this one was fast spiraling out of control. Soon one of them would say something there would be no coming back from.
Alasdair didn’t reply, and when she looked up, she saw that he was staring into the fire. The ruddy light played across his lean face and the clenched line of his jaw. It reflected off his dark eyes.
Caitrin’s belly clenched. He looked furious.
He turned his gaze from the fire then and reached for his goblet of wine.
To her surprise, Caitrin saw that his hand trembled.
“Alasdair … what’s wrong?”
He glanced down at his hand, and his mouth thinned. He then set the goblet down. “Nothing.”
“I know I’ve upset ye but—”
“It’s nothing,” he snapped.
She frowned. Alasdair met her eye a moment, before he muttered a curse and leaned back in his chair, raking a hand through his long dark hair. After a long pause he finally spoke. “It happens … sometimes. Ever since the battle, I’ve been on edge.”
Caitrin’s frown deepened, and she lowered her gaze to where his hand now rested upon the table. She’d heard of men being scarred by war, not just physically but on the inside, in places where no soul could ever see. “Is that all?” she asked.
He shook his head, his attention shifting back to the fire. “I don’t sleep well anymore.”
Caitrin nodded, remembering that she’d suggested a brew of valerian root a few days earlier. “It was bad then … the war?”
Alasdair nodded. He shifted his attention back to Caitrin, pinning her under his stare. “I see I’m not the only one who has changed … ye have too. Ye are so stern these days, and ye hardly ever smile.”
Caitrin tensed. She didn’t like how easily he had shifted the focus to her. “It’s a while since we saw each other last,” she said stiffly. “Of course I’m not the same lass.”
