Page 31 of The Rogue's Bride
Darron glanced up from his bowl of stew. “Hasn’t Lady Caitrin spoken to ye, milord?”
“Not since this morning … why?”
Darron frowned. “I thought she would have told ye.”
Alasdair went still. “Told me what?”
“Her son’s ill … she’ll be upstairs with him.”
Silence fell at the table. After a long moment Gavin MacNichol broke it. “Poor lad. Is he—”
“What’s wrong with him?” Alasdair cut in.
“A fever.”
Alasdair tensed. Why hadn’t Caitrin sent word? If his heir was ill, he had the right to know. Pushing down his irritation, he met Darron’s eye once more. “Has the healer been fetched?”
“Aye.”
Alasdair pushed himself back from the table and rose to his feet. “I’d better check on the lad.”
“Can’t it wait till after supper?” Boyd spoke up. He’d just finished setting up a board with stone markers. “I thought we were going to have a game of Ard-ri?”
“Later,” Alasdair snapped.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the Great Hall.
“Lady Caitrin,” Sorcha slipped into the bed-chamber closing the door behind her, “the chieftain is here … he wants to see Master Eoghan.”
Caitrin, who’d been rocking Eoghan in her arms, tensed. “Let him in,” she murmured.
Sorcha nodded before disappearing into the hallway beyond.
A moment later a tall figure stepped into the dimly-lit room. Dressed in plaid braies, a léine, and a leather vest, Alasdair wore an unusually severe expression.
“Good eve, milord,” she greeted him.
“How is my nephew?” he asked. “I hear he has a fever?”
His brusque manner made Caitrin frown. “He does, milord.”
“Where’s the healer?”
“I sent him away. He’s visiting again in the morning.” Caitrin rose to her feet, cradling the hot body against her. Her arms ached from holding him, yet she didn’t want to put him back in his crib, not yet.
Alasdair walked forward so that he loomed over her. However, it wasn’t Caitrin he was focused on at that moment, but the bairn. His brow furrowed further when he reached down and touched the lad’s flushed face. “He’s on fire.”
“Aye … he must have caught a chill yesterday.”
Alasdair glanced up, his gaze spearing hers. “Why didn’t ye call for me?” he asked softly.
Guilt wreathed up within Caitrin. “I didn’t want to bother ye,” she murmured. “I thought it was a trifling thing.”
It was a lie. She’d deliberately kept Eoghan’s fever from Alasdair. A fierce protective instinct had come over her when she’d realized Eoghan was unwell. She’d hoped that it would break during the night, and Alasdair wouldn’t have been any wiser.
His expression hardened. “He’s the MacDonald heir. I have the right to know if he’s ill.”
Annoyance surged within her, pushing aside the guilt. This was why she’d not told him. She didn’t like how Alasdair claimed ownership over Eoghan. He was her son, not his property.
