Page 27 of The Rogue's Bride
Caitrin shook her head, struggling to keep Eoghan still. He was writhing in her arms. “He’s never heard thunder before … it frightens him.”
Their gazes met then, and Caitrin suddenly struggled to draw breath.
Ever since Beltane she’d been aware of Alasdair in a way she hadn’t before. She’d found herself stealing glances at him at mealtimes. And just the day before, she’d watched Alasdair from her solar window. He’d been shoeing a horse, and she’d been unable to look away, admiring the play of muscles in his shoulders and upper-arms under the thin material of his léine.
He wore a loose léine this afternoon, stuck to his torso in places from the rain that now swept across the bailey.
Caitrin’s breathlessness increased. A strange weakness went through her. She forgot the struggling bairn in her arms, the rumbling thunder, and the rain that was soaking her hair and clothing. Meanwhile, his gaze seared her.
Alasdair broke the spell first, looking away. “Ye had better get the lad inside,” he said, a slight rasp to his voice. “Ye don’t want him to catch a chill.”
Caitrin nodded, gripped Eoghan tightly to her, and was about to flee into the keep when the ground shook beneath her feet. For a moment she thought it was more thunder, but then movement behind Alasdair caught her eye.
Horses entered the bailey, ridden by men clad in wet leathers and sodden woolen cloaks. The riders out front carried a standard bearing a plaid of red, threaded with green and blue: MacNichol clan colors.
Caitrin’s brow furrowed. Such an arrival was unexpected. They weren’t due a visit from their neighbors.
The company of riders filled the bailey, and a big man with dark-blond hair swung down from his horse. He strode over to Alasdair, a grin stretching his face. “Good day, MacDonald!”
“MacNichol!” Alasdair greeted him with an equally wide smile. “What are ye doing here?”
The two men embraced before the MacNichol chieftain slapped Alasdair hard on the back. “I thought it time I paid the new MacDonald chieftain a long overdue visit.” He pushed wet hair out his face, his gaze sweeping over the bailey courtyard.
“Uncle!” Darron MacNichol strode out of the stables, grinning.
Oblivious to the rain that now hammered down, the two men hugged.
Chieftain MacNichol’s eyes were gleaming when he pulled back. “It’s been too long.” He saw Caitrin then, and he inclined his head, smiling. “Lady Caitrin.”
“Good day, milord,” she greeted him. The rain had drenched her and Eoghan now. The bairn still squawked loud enough to bring down the heavens. She then favored Gavin with an apologetic smile. “Excuse me, but I must get my son inside.”
“Aye,” Alasdair replied with a grimace, just as more thunder boomed overhead. An instant later, lightning lit up the sky. “None of us should linger out here.”
“How long has it been since we saw each other last?” Gavin MacNichol regarded Alasdair over the rim of his goblet.
“A while,” Alasdair replied with a wry smile. “At least four years, I’d wager.”
The MacNichol chieftain snorted. “I remember now.” He cut a glance to where Darron sat a few yards away. “It was when I accompanied my nephew here. The pair of ye could barely grow half a beard between ye … and now look at ye both. One’s a guard captain and the other is a chieftain.” He shook his head. “Makes me feel old.”
Darron laughed. “That’s because yeare, uncle.”
“Not too old to whip yer arse,” the chieftain rumbled.
Observing the MacNichol chieftain, Caitrin noted that his face bore lines that hadn’t been there last time she’d seen him. During her marriage to Baltair, he’d visited Duntulm twice—the first time with his wife, the second alone, for his wife had been ill. Gavin MacNichol now neared his fortieth winter, but he was still an attractive man: blond and broad-shouldered with warm blue eyes. Yet recent events had left their mark upon his face. He looked tired.
“Milord,” Caitrin spoke up, meeting his eye. “I was so sorry to hear about Lady Innis.”
The MacNichol chieftain’s gaze shadowed, and the light went out of his usually affable face. “Aye … thank ye, Lady Caitrin. I can’t believe it has been nearly a year since she died.” He raised his goblet to his lips and drank deeply. “With her gone, and losing many of my men to the war, my broch feels empty these days.”
“I’m sorry, Gavin,” Alasdair spoke up, frowning. “I didn’t know about yer wife.”
MacNichol waved him away. “No offense taken. Ye were off fighting for Scottish freedom. Ye weren’t to know.”
An awkward silence fell across the table then. They were seated in the Great Hall. Outside, the storm still raged, battering the thick stone walls, while indoors the air was humid and heavy with the odor of wet wool and leather.
Gavin MacNichol reached for more wine. “In the meantime, life goes on … as it must,” he said quietly. His attention returned to Caitrin. “I received word from yer father two days ago, milady.”
“Ye did?” Something in the man’s tone made Caitrin tense, as did his change of expression.
