Page 54 of The Rogue's Bride
Alasdair shifted his gaze from his cousin, back to the dance floor, to where Caitrin and MacNichol circled each other.
He wasn’t sure what had been going through his mind when he’d left the dais and strode onto the floor to interrupt their dance earlier. All he knew was that he’d been sitting there watching her with each of her suitors, laughing and smiling as they’d spoken to her—and, finally, he’d been unable to bear it. The beast within—a seething jealous animal that had tormented him all day—had driven him to his feet and across the floor toward them.
Alasdair looked away from the dancers and stared down at the dark wine in his goblet.
Idiot.
It was just as well he was leaving at first light tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty-four
Before It’s Too Late
FINALLY, ALASDAIR TOOK his leave of the Great Hall. The dancing had ended, and the only folk still present were men drinking or playing at knucklebones or dice. Caitrin had left with her sister as soon as the last dance finished.
No one said anything as Alasdair rose to his feet.
MacLeod was deep into a game of Ard-ri with Campbell, while MacNichol looked on. The clan-chief’s wife, Una, had retired with the other women. A few feet away from the game, MacKay had slumped face-first onto the table and was starting to snore loudly. Farther down the table, Taran MacKinnon was playing knucklebones with Darron—and Boyd was nowhere to be seen.
Alasdair’s mouth thinned. No prizes for guessing where his cousin was. At least he’d enjoyed his evening.
Alasdair bid none of those upon the dais good-night, although Gavin MacNichol glanced up as he left the table.
Ignoring him, Alasdair walked out of the hall and into the cool entrance-way beyond. Cressets burned on the pitted stone walls, throwing out long shadows. The air there felt light and fresh after the muggy, smoky interior of the hall.
Taking the stairs up to the second level, Alasdair made his way along a narrow corridor toward his chamber. His limbs dragged, and his head hurt; he couldn’t wait to close the door on the world for a few hours. He’d nearly reached his chamber, when a voice at his back hailed him.
“MacDonald.”
Swiveling round, Alasdair’s hand immediately when to his side, where he usually carried his dirk. However, he hadn’t worn it tonight and so his hand clutched at nothing.
Gavin MacNichol stood behind him. The chieftain’s brow furrowed. “Apologies … I didn’t mean to startle ye.”
“Ye didn’t,” Alasdair replied tersely, cursing how edgy he’d become, another lingering effect of that bloody battle. MacNichol was the last man he wished to see right now. “What do ye want?”
“A few moments of yer time.”
Alasdair frowned. “Now?”
“Aye.” MacNichol motioned to the doorway a few yards behind him. “Step into my chamber … we can talk there.”
Alasdair hesitated. He wasn’t in the mood for a chat. However, Gavin MacNichol wore an unusually stubborn look on his face, and Alasdair sensed that the man wasn’t about to walk away.
With a huff of irritation, Alasdair followed him into his chamber.
Rectangular-shaped with a tiny shuttered window on the far wall, the bed-chamber was an almost exact replica of the one Alasdair was staying in. A large bed took up one corner and two high-backed chairs faced a small hearth, where a lump of peat burned. Outside, the rain pattered on the wooden shutters.
MacNichol lowered himself into a chair and stretched out his long legs before him, crossing them at the ankle. “Take a seat.”
Alasdair approached the fireside and stopped before it. “I’d prefer to stand. Say yer piece, and let’s be done with this.”
Gavin MacNichol eyed him before giving a weary shake of his head. “I’m not blind, MacDonald.”
Alasdair’s gaze narrowed, although he didn’t respond.
“I should have seen it earlier,” MacNichol continued. “I don’t know why I didn’t. Ye are in love with Lady Caitrin.”
Alasdair stiffened. To mask his discomfort, he scowled. “No, I’m not.”
