Page 47 of The Rogue's Bride
Alasdair smiled. Grey Fort: a noble name for a wolf hound.
The dog gave another whine before nudging Alasdair’s arm once more.
“Go on,” Alasdair murmured, giving his ears another rub. “Ye will live, lad.”
He rose to his feet, leaving MacKinnon with Dùnglas, and turned back to where the other men had dismounted from their horses and gone to inspect the boar he’d taken down.
It really was a prize. The beast had been in its prime. It had a coarse ebony coat, long deadly tusks, and a mane of spiky bristles that stretched from the crown of its head to the end of its spine.
Alasdair was still gazing at it when raindrops, cool and wet, splashed onto his face. He glanced up to see that the sky had gone a deep, ominous grey.
Nearby, MacLeod also looked up, his heavy brow furrowing. “That’s us done for the morning,” he announced. “Let’s get this beast over the back of one of the horses and make for home.”
The rain swept over the woodland north-east of Dunvegan in blinding sheets. The hunting party had turned back, but the decision had come too late—the rain had arrived, soaking them all within moments.
Initially, Alasdair resisted, bowing his head and pulling up the hood of his woolen cloak. But after a while there didn’t seem any point. The rain kept coming, even heavier than before.
Finally, he just surrendered to it, pushing down his hood and letting the rain run down his neck in a river. The rain was cool, but not cold. This storm brought the smell of warm earth and lush vegetation: the scents of summer.
At some point on the journey back to Dunvegan, Alasdair found himself riding next to Gavin MacNichol. The chieftain had been traveling alongside his nephew, but then Darron moved ahead to join Taran MacKinnon, leaving Alasdair and Gavin alone.
Like Alasdair, Gavin hadn’t bothered resisting the rain. He hadn’t even pulled his hood up, and his dark blond hair was slicked back from his wet face. He cast Alasdair a wry smile. “Looks like I won’t need to bathe before this afternoon’s feast.”
Alasdair huffed in response. He’d intended to avoid the feast, but since he’d brought that boar down, the clan-chief intended to make a fuss of him. MacNichol, Campbell, and MacKay would compete for Caitrin’s attention like stags during rutting season. He didn’t want to see Caitrin smile at them and flirt with them.
His belly twisted. One of them would become her husband.One of them will bed her.
Alasdair hadn’t considered this outcome when he’d decided to heed MacLeod’s letter. He’d thought only about distancing himself from Caitrin, about making her suffer. Maybe this was his punishment for keeping Caitrin’s son from her?
Perhaps he deserved it.
Silence stretched between them, before Gavin spoke once more. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the thrumming of the rain.
“How are things in Duntulm these days?”
Alasdair glanced over at him. “Well enough … I’m kept busy.”
“The life of a chieftain isn’t as exciting as some think, is it?” MacNichol replied. “There are walls to be built, crops to be planted, and an estate to be managed … not to mention all the petty disputes ye have to deal with.”
Alasdair’s mouth curved. “Aye … I had two farmers visit me last week. They were bickering over a goat.”
MacNichol laughed. “Have ye missed the warrior’s life … fighting for king and country?”
Alasdair’s expression sobered. “No, I haven’t.”
Gavin MacNichol studied him for a long moment, before he spoke once more. “Three of my men returned home from the mainland a few days ago. They tell me the battle near Durham is to be named after the English commander.”
Alasdair raised an eyebrow. “Lord Neville?”
“Aye, they’re calling it the Battle of Neville’s Cross.”
Alasdair snorted. “The victor always gets to write history.”
Gavin’s brow furrowed then. “Ye would have seen a lot of yer countrymen die. That never leaves ye.”
Alasdair drew in a deep breath. He wasn’t about to admit to MacNichol that it hadn’t. “We should have won that day,” he growled. “Our force was much bigger than theirs.”
“So, what happened?”
