Page 49 of The Rogue's Bride
Rhona went still, her expression turning thoughtful. “I’m not sure what to think of him. Maybe it’s just because I don’t like Una. He’s difficult to read.” She grinned then. “Although Campbell’s certainly the best-looking of the three. Liosa can’t stop sighing over him.”
Caitrin snorted. “I care not about looks.” It was true. She wasn’t searching for a man who’d make her knees go weak or one to fall in love with. Finding a husband wasn’t her choice, but if she had to wed, it would be to a man who’d treat her well, who valued her happiness—and who realized how important it was for her to be with her child.
Rhona smiled. “Ye had better think on what to ask them later then,” she said, rising to her feet. “Ye want to choose wisely.”
Rhona then reached for a woolen shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders.
“Where are ye going?” Caitrin asked with a frown.
“It’s nearing noon,” her sister replied. “The men will be back at any moment. I’m going down to the stables to wait for Taran.” She cast Caitrin an appraising look. “I’ll find Liosa on my way and send her up … ye had better start getting ready for the feast.”
Caitrin watched Rhona leave the solar, the door thudding shut behind her.
Loosing a sigh, Caitrin leaned back in her chair. She still toyed with the beater, turning it over and over in her hands, but made no move to resume her weaving. In truth, although she knew what she must do, she dreaded the coming feast and the hours of music and dancing that would inevitably follow.
She wasn’t looking forward to making idle chatter and smiling till her face ached. She wasn’t looking forward to pretending that she wanted a husband at all.
Alasdair swung down from the saddle, landing lightly on the cobblestones. Rain beat down on his head, and he blinked water out of his eyes. He’d thought the storm might abate during the journey back to Dunvegan, but if anything, the rain was even heavier than earlier. The roar of it filled his ears as it thundered down into the bailey.
Leading his horse into the stables, his boots squelching with every stride, Alasdair breathed in the odor of wet horse, dog, leather, and wool. Around him men grumbled as they tied their horses up inside the stalls and began unsaddling them.
“Come on lads, finish up here and get inside.” Malcolm MacLeod’s voice boomed through the stables. “Soon ye shall be feasting and making merry.”
Behind Alasdair, Boyd paused while unsaddling his horse and glanced over his shoulder at him. “Does MacLeod ever let anything dampen his spirits?”
Alasdair pulled a face. “Don’t let his ready smile fool ye … Malcolm MacLeod’s not someone ye want to get off-side with.”
“His daughter’s imminent remarriage has clearly put him in a jovial mood.”
“Aye … MacLeod loves an opportunity to break out the ale.”
Boyd pushed his wet hair out of his eyes before grinning at Alasdair. “I’m enjoying Dunvegan.”
“Don’t get too comfortable. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
Boyd’s face fell. “So soon?”
“Aye.” Alasdair turned from him and started rubbing down his horse. “Tell the others we’ll be riding out shortly after dawn.”
The events of the last day had made Alasdair realize that it had been a mistake to agree to stay on in Dunvegan. The sooner he returned to Duntulm and put Caitrin out of his mind, the better.
He’d just removed his stallion’s saddle and bridle when a firm nudge to his left leg drew his attention. A wet, bloodied wolf-hound sat at his feet, gazing up at him with soft eyes.
Dùnglas.
Alasdair let out an amused snort. “What are ye doing here, lad?”
“Shouldn’t that dog be in its kennel?” Boyd muttered. “It risks getting trampled on in the stables.”
“Aye … I’ll take him back when I finish here.” Alasdair would also see to the beast’s shoulder while he was at it. Growing up, he’d helped look after his father’s dogs. As a keen hunter, Eoghan MacDonald had taken much pride in his kennel of wolf hounds.
Alasdair finished seeing to his horse and then made his way out of the stables, Dùnglas limping along at his heel. His wet clothing was starting to itch. After he saw to the dog, he would stop by his quarters and get changed before joining the others in the Great Hall.
As he approached the stable entrance, Alasdair spotted a tall woman with fiery auburn hair. Rhona MacKinnon was standing just inside the doorway, a damp shawl wrapped around her shoulders, awaiting her husband.
Rhona’s gaze seized upon Alasdair as he neared. Her attention shifted from him to the dog following him, before she frowned.
Alasdair favored her with a nod.
