Page 32 of The Rogue's Bride
Alasdair straightened up, his dark brows knitting together. “The healer is to stay with him until the fever abates,” he announced, stepping back from her. “I don’t want him leaving Eoghan’s side.”
Caitrin’s lips compressed. “But he has other patients to attend.”
“None more important than Eoghan MacDonald. Send a servant to fetch him back. Tell him I shall pay him for his time.”
With that Alasdair turned and strode from the bed-chamber.
Alasdair stepped into the hallway to find the hand-maid Sorcha waiting there.
His sudden appearance made her start. “Milord?”
He nodded curtly before stepping past her to the stairwell. Behind him he heard the hand-maid re-enter the bed-chamber. Frowning, he climbed the stairs to the next level of the keep, to his solar.
He’d almost reached the door when a voice hailed him. “Milord!”
Alasdair turned to see Alban hurry up the last of the steps behind him, puffing like an old plow horse. The steward grasped something in his right hand, which he thrust at Alasdair when he reached the landing.
“A rider just arrived from Dunvegan,” he announced, red in the face from his climb. “He brought this for ye.”
Alasdair looked down at the rolled parchment, sealed with wax. It bore a stamp he recognized instantly: a bull’s head between two flags.The MacLeod crest.
The steward hovered, his face expectant, but Alasdair turned from him.
“Thank ye, Alban. I’ll read it in my solar.”
Letting himself into his quarters, Alasdair carried the message over to the fire. With an irritated sigh he broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. Then he read it.
Dear Chieftain Alasdair MacDonald,
It is now nearly a year since my daughter was widowed. I understand Caitrin has proved herself useful as chatelaine at Duntulm, but I feel the time has come for her to wed once more.
I have made enquiries and have three suitors who wish to meet with her. Please make arrangements for her to return to Dunvegan at yer earliest convenience.
Yer humble servant,
Clan-chief Malcolm MacLeod.
Alasdair lowered the parchment, a frown creasing his brow. He’d expected such a letter to arrive sooner or later. Gavin MacNichol had warned them that MacLeod was growing restless.
Caitrin had no wish to wed, or to leave Duntulm, but her father had other ideas.
Malcolm MacLeod wasn’t a man to be crossed.
Alasdair’s already sour mood darkened further as he realized he didn’t want Caitrin to leave.
He’d returned home intent on making her suffer for the hurt she’d caused him—but after a while his quest for revenge had felt childish, pointless. Instead, they’d slowly built up a companionship that he’d grown to enjoy.
Certainly, he was annoyed that she’d deliberately tried to hide Eoghan’s fever from him—it really was unacceptable behavior—but such things could be overcome.
Alasdair loosed a breath and placed MacLeod’s letter on the mantelpiece. He wouldn’t think about Caitrin’s fate tonight, not with Eoghan burning with fever. He’d discuss this with her once her son had recovered.
Caitrin gently lay the back of her hand on Eoghan’s brow—and let out a sigh of relief.
His skin was warm, not burning hot as it had been. After two long days and nights, the fever had broken.
The healer had informed her that her son was over the worst, before he departed the keep, face gaunt with fatigue, his purse heavy with silver pennies.
Leaning against the edge of the cot, Caitrin closed her eyes. That was the second fever that Eoghan had suffered since his birth, although it was much worse than the first. Even the healer had started to look worried as the second night wore on.
