Page 28 of The Rogue's Bride
“Aye … he tells me that ye are in search of a new husband?”
Caitrin’s fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet. She’d known her father would start meddling sooner or later. He’d gone suspiciously quiet of late, which could only mean he was planning something.
“Heis in search of a husband for me, milord,” she said after a pause. “However, I am content to remain as chatelaine here.”
“So ye don’t wish to remarry?”
Caitrin swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. She was aware that all the men at the table—Alasdair, Darron, Boyd, and Alban—were watching her.
“No,” she murmured. “I don’t.”
The chieftain held her eye for a long moment, before his mouth curved. He shifted his attention to Alasdair then, his expression curious. “I take it that Lady Caitrin has proved herself invaluable to Duntulm?”
“Aye,” Alasdair replied. His expression had turned serious, his gaze shuttered. “She ran things well after Baltair’s death … and continues to do so.”
“So ye will let her remain here? A good chatelaine is hard to find.”
Alasdair nodded, although his face had tensed, warning Gavin MacNichol to cease his line of questioning.
Heeding him, his guest took a sip from his goblet and glanced back at Caitrin. “It’s a pity ye aren’t interested in wedding again, milady,” MacNichol said, favoring her with a warm smile. “For I am looking for a wife.”
Chapter Thirteen
A Waste of a Good Woman
EOGHAN’S WAILS ECHOED down the hallway.
Caitrin picked up her skirts and hurried toward his bed-chamber. She’d just left her solar, and was about to descend the stairs, when she heard his cries. Eoghan usually had a nap mid-morning, but it appeared he’d awoken early.
Inside the warm, dimly-lit chamber, she found Eoghan red-faced and gripping the sides of his cot.
“What is it, my wee laddie?” She scooped him into her arms. “Worry not … Ma’s here.”
Caitrin carried Eoghan across to a chair and sat down. Her son was growing heavy to hold now. She’d recently weaned him, and he’d taken to solid food with relish. As she settled Eoghan on her knee, her hand brushed his face.
Caitrin frowned. It was warm in the chamber, as Sorcha made sure the hearth was well stoked, but Eoghan’s brow was hot to touch. His cheeks were flushed, not from crying, but fever. He hadn’t been outdoors long in the rain the afternoon before—but he appeared to have caught a chill.
The bairn wriggled on her knee, his flushed face scrunched up as he cried. Murmuring to him, Caitrin cradled him against her breast. After a few moments, Eoghan quieted. Caitrin closed her eyes, enjoying the peace. Gavin MacNichol’s visit had thrown the keep into chaos. They hadn’t been expecting him, so there had been chambers to ready for him and his men, and extra food to be prepared.
Caitrin had just come up from the kitchens, where cook had been in a temper about having no time to plan for the visitors. Caitrin had left her with instructions to put out an extra haunch of mutton with the noon meal. Briana had muttered under her breath about this, but had acquiesced in the end.
She’d been much more compliant of late, since Alasdair had spoken with her.
Once Eoghan had calmed, Caitrin lay him back into his cot. She needed to find Sorcha. Slipping out of the bed-chamber, she had almost reached the stairs when she met her hand-maid.
“I was coming up to fetch ye, milady,” Sorcha greeted her with a smile. “The supplies have just arrived.”
This was good news, for Caitrin had been waiting for a delivery of goods from the mainland for days now: cloth, spices, and other items that were difficult to buy on the isle. She wanted to make an inventory of the items, before they were put away.
“Thank ye, Sorcha,” Caitrin replied. “I’ve just seen Eoghan. He has the beginnings of a fever. Can ye please stay with him while I see to the supplies? I hate to leave him when he’s upset.”
Sorcha’s brow furrowed, worry lighting in her blue eyes. “Of course.”
Leaving her hand-maid to look after Eoghan, Caitrin fetched her wooden board and a stub of charcoal from her solar. She then continued down to the bailey. Picking her way across the muddy ground, doing her best to avoid the puddles left by yesterday’s storm, she approached a large wagon. A young man had just pulled back the hide tarpaulin, revealing tightly stacked wooden barrels and crates.
“Good day, Tory,” she greeted the servant.
“Good morning, milady,” Tory returned the greeting with a grin. “Shall we take these into the stores?”
