Page 46 of The Rogue's Bride
“To the lovely Lady Caitrin,” Fergus MacKay boomed, with a wink to his two competitors. “May she find a man among us worthy of her beauty … and failing that … may the best man win!”
MacNichol threw his head back and laughed at this, while Campbell smirked.
Raising the goblet to her lips, Caitrin took a sip of sloe wine. The liquid warmed her belly, soothing the last of her nerves. The courtship she was about to endure was a game, she might as well try to enjoy it.
“I’m taking MacDonald out boar hunting tomorrow.” Her father’s hearty voice jerked Caitrin’s attention back to the head of the table. “Ye three must join us.” He then picked up the MacLeod drinking horn—taken from a massive ox. “When we return, there will be feasting and dancing … and the mightiest hunter among ye will have to drain this.”
“There will also be wooing,” Una reminded her husband, casting him an exasperated look. “Maybe ye shouldn’t encourage heavy drinking, my love. Caitrin’s suitors must keep their wits about them.”
“Of course, wife.” MacLeod dismissed Una’s comment with a wave of his hand. “Although a real man should be able to hold his drinkandwin my daughter’s heart.”
Chapter Twenty
Competition
ALASDAIR THRUST THE spear deep into the boar’s chest.
Man and beast were so close that he could smell its pungent odor: oily and slightly sweet. Staring into the beast’s eyes, Alisdair watched them glaze over. Then it fell to its knees and collapsed with an agonized wheeze.
A cheer went up in the clearing.
“Well met, MacDonald!” Malcolm MacLeod limped toward him, a grin splitting his face. “I’ve never seen anyone bring down a boar with such style.”
Breathing hard, Alasdair straightened up and pulled his spear free of the boar’s chest. It had been a clean kill. He’d rammed the spear into its heart.
MacLeod slapped him on the back. “Nothing like a good boar hunt, eh?”
Alasdair nodded, still out of breath from the dance the boar had led him on. In the end, he’d closed in on it, flanked by Taran MacKinnon on one side and Gavin MacNichol on the other. All three men wielded boar spears, but it was only Alasdair who’d managed to get close enough to strike.
“Impressive,” MacNichol congratulated him with a wide smile, while MacKinnon merely gave a reluctant nod. Ever since his arrival at Dunvegan, Caitrin’s brother-in-law had viewed Alasdair with a jaundiced eye.
“I thought ye were about to get yerself gored,” Fergus MacKay called out. He still sat astride his courser.
Ross Campbell had pulled his horse up next to MacKay’s, his dark-blue eyes narrowing as he viewed the massive dead boar at Alasdair’s feet. Campbell then cast Alasdair an incredulous look. “Ye are either lucky or extremely skilled.”
Alasdair tossed both men a careless smile. “I knew what I was doing … ye need to get close enough to look yer opponent in the eye before ye end him.”
“Aye,” Clan-chief MacLeod agreed with a snort. “Yer Da always did that … every time we went out hunting I expected him to be speared in the guts by an enraged boar.”
He didn’t add that Eoghan MacDonald had actually died while out hunting, although it had been during a stag hunt. He’d fallen from his horse and snapped his neck.
Nearby, a whimper punctuated the clearing. One of the dogs that accompanied them was bleeding, caught by the boar’s sharp tusk on its shoulder. Turning his attention from MacLeod, Alasdair crossed to the hound, hunkering down before it. The dog whined again and tried to lick his hand. It was a young, rangy beast with a wiry grey coat and soulful dark eyes.
“How deep is it?”
Alasdair glanced up to see Taran MacKinnon looming over him. He’d forgotten that the scar-faced warrior was master of MacLeod’s hounds.
“Deep enough to need some stitching,” Alasdair replied, stroking the dog’s ears.
MacKinnon knelt next to him, and the dog nuzzled his arm, delighted to be the center of attention. “Does it need binding for the trip back?”
Alasdair shook his head. “The tip of the tusk sliced across the bone, but not deep. It should stop bleeding shortly.”
“Good.” MacKinnon gave a tight smile. “Lady Adaira would never forgive me for letting her hound bleed to death out on a hunt.”
Alasdair glanced up at him. “This is her dog?”
“Aye. His name’s Dùnglas. He’s barely a year old. She picked him out of a litter when he was a pup.”
