Page 2 of The Rogue's Bride
This message could be from any of them, she told herself as nervousness tightened her throat.It isn’t from him.
Yet her gut told her differently. None of the other MacDonalds had reason to contact her in the dead of winter. There was only one man who had any business here, and she’d thought him dead.
Had prayed that he’d died in that bloody battle against the English.
It was an uncharitable thought—for she’d never wished him ill previously—but she’d hoped for it nonetheless. She wanted the past buried.
With trembling fingers, Caitrin broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. Then she drew in a deep, steadying breath, and began to read. Like her sisters, she’d learned her letters as a girl. A nun from Kilbride Abbey had traveled to Dunvegan, where Caitrin had grown up, and had patiently taught them. It was something her mother had insisted upon, although after her death the lessons ceased.
Caitrin was grateful that she could read and write. The skills had proved useful for her role as chatelaine. Even so, she’d never been quick at it. She took her time over reading now. The letter was written in a bold, masculine script. It was brief and formal, with a chill undertone.
Dear Lady Caitrin MacDonald, widow of Baltair MacDonald,
News has reached me of my brother’s death. I am currently in Inbhir Nis but will travel to the Isle of Skye presently. Upon my return, I will take up my rightful role as chieftain. Please make Duntulm ready for my arrival.
Yer humble servant,
Alasdair MacDonald.
Caitrin stared at the words so hard that her vision blurred.
Alasdair MacDonald was alive; it was there written in ink before her. She knew her father had sent word to the mainland in the hope of tracking down the MacDonald heir—and he’d found him.
Caitrin swallowed, cast the parchment aside, and stood up. Alasdair MacDonald’s return put her life at Duntulm at risk.
After Baltair’s death she’d felt adrift, worried for her future. But then she’d returned to Duntulm and assumed the role of chatelaine. She now ran the fortress—and she’d discovered that she was good at it. She liked dealing with the servants, speaking to the villagers, ordering supplies, and making plans for the year ahead.
Would Alasdair allow her and Eoghan to remain living here?
Heart pounding, Caitrin left the fireside, crossed to the south-facing window, and ripped open the shutters. Snow fluttered in, tickling her face. Caitrin leaned on the stone ledge and looked out at the wintry morning. A blanket of white covered the world, making everything look clean and bright. However, dark clouds rolled in from the sea, bringing with them fresh snow. The flakes swirled as they fell upon Duntulm, frosting the battlements beneath her.
Caitrin’s solar sat high and gave her a commanding view of the rest of the rectangular-shaped keep. In the bailey below she caught sight of a stocky figure crunching through the snow. Alban MacLean, steward of the castle. He would need to be told that Baltair’s brother was alive and returning to take up his role as chieftain.
Over these past months Alban—a gruff but kind-hearted man—had willingly shared rule over Duntulm. Initially, she’d been nervous that he and Darron MacNichol, who captained the Duntulm Guard, might try to overrule her. She was, after all, a woman alone—left in charge of a castle and a great tract of land. But they hadn’t.
Caitrin leaned against the ledge and closed her eyes, letting the icy wind and feathery touch of snowflakes caress her face.
These last seven months had been a blessing. She’d had a reprieve from the life her father had set out for her. As the eldest, she’d been the first of her sisters to wed. Two years of misery later, she’d become a widow. But Baltair hadn’t even been buried when her father—the MacLeod clan-chief—started talking of the need to find Caitrin a new husband once her mourning period passed.
Caitrin’s breathing hitched. She couldn’t bear the thought of being shackled to another man, of having to endure his touch, his demands. Being with Baltair had shattered all her illusions about what it meant to be a wife. Both her younger sisters, Rhona and Adaira, were wedded now, and happily so to men who loved them, but that wasn’t to be her story.
Not all tales had a happy ending.
An ache grew in Caitrin’s chest, and she reached up, rubbing at her breast bone with her knuckles. Opening her eyes, she stepped back from the window. She wished her sisters nothing but happiness, and yet thinking about them made her heart hurt from loneliness.
It was best not to dwell on such things.
“Good morning, Lady Caitrin.” A tall warrior with silver-blond hair stepped forward to greet Caitrin as she made her way down the icy steps from the keep into the bailey. “Watch yer step.”
Caitrin flashed Darron MacNichol, Captain of the Duntulm Guard, a tight smile. Darron could be a little over-protective at times, although she’d grown fond of him since coming to live here. Baltair had assigned Darron to escort her whenever she left the keep, and initially Caitrin had worried the man would be as controlling as her husband. However, he wasn’t. Darron merely shadowed her, letting her go where she willed.
He followed her now. Reaching the bailey, Caitrin’s boots crunched on the fresh crust of snow, and she pulled the hood of her fur mantle up.
“Darron … I’ve just received word that Alasdair MacDonald is alive,” she said, leading the way toward the gates. “He’ll return here soon to take Baltair’s place.”
Darron didn’t reply immediately, and when Caitrin glanced his way, she saw his face was reflective. He was a handsome man, although somber. She rarely saw him smile.
“That is welcome news, milady,” he finally replied, although his tone gave no clue as to how he really felt. Darron MacNichol could be infuriatingly inscrutable, like now.
