Page 17 of The Rogue's Bride
Caitrin sat down at the table, and a moment later Alasdair joined her, lowering himself into a seat opposite. He was watching her, an intent expression on his face.
“Ye are annoyed,” he noted.
Caitrin started. “No, milord,” she said quickly. “I—”
“Yer eyes turn dark blue when ye are riled,” he cut her off. “I remember that from when we were bairns.”
Caitrin dropped her gaze to the polished wood surface before her. His comment made her feel uncomfortable, exposed.
“Would ye like a cup of wine?” he asked, a smile in his voice.
Caitrin nodded. She glanced up to see Alasdair pour two goblets of bramble wine. He handed one to her.
Their fingers accidentally brushed when she took the goblet, and a shiver went up Caitrin’s arm. Unnerved by the reaction, she pulled her hand back and sloshed wine on the table.
“Sorry,” she gasped. She went to rise, “I’ll find something to wipe that up.”
“Please, sit down.” Alasdair waved her away. “The servants can clean it when they bring the food.”
At that moment there came a knock at the door. “Supper, milord?”
“Bring it in,” Alasdair called back.
Fingers still tingling, Caitrin glanced up at the chieftain’s face. His smile had gone. His brown eyes were now hooded.
Three servants, led by Galiene, entered the solar. They carried trays of food: a tureen of what smelled like pork and bean soup, fresh bread, and an array of aged cheeses.
Caitrin felt queasy at the sight of it. She hadn’t eaten much at the noon meal—for that pottage had been virtually inedible—yet Alasdair’s presence robbed her of appetite.
The pair of them sat in silence while the servants placed the platters on the table. Galiene spotted the spilled wine, whipped a cloth from her apron, and mopped it up. She then turned to Alasdair, favoring him with a smile.
“Will ye be needing anything else, milord?”
Alasdair met Galiene’s eye, his mouth curving. Galiene, who was nearing her fiftieth winter, had lived at Duntulm all her life. Caitrin sensed the affection between them. “No, that will be all, Galiene … thank ye.”
The servants departed, and Alasdair leaned forward, ladling the thick soup into two bowls. He handed one to Caitrin, and she noted he made sure to keep his fingers far from hers.
Caitrin helped herself to some bread and ripped a piece off it. Despite that she wasn’t hungry, eating would keep her busy, give her something to focus on.
Silence stretched between them.
Caitrin feigned a deep fascination for her supper, which she forced down with gulps of strong bramble wine.
She was cutting herself a piece of cheese, when Alasdair spoke.
“I’ve spoken to cook … she will take instruction from ye in future.”
Caitrin glanced up. “She will?”
He shrugged, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip from his goblet. “The men will riot if she serves up any more of that pottage.”
Caitrin’s gaze narrowed. “Why then, did ye tell her she wasn’t to heed me?”
Alasdair stared back at Caitrin, his gaze searing hers. His expression turned serious as a long pause drew out between them. When he answered, his tone was cool. “Because I knew it would hurt ye.”
Chapter Eight
Friends Again
