Page 5 of The Rogue's Bride
Swallowing down bile, Alasdair turned from her and grabbed hold of the clay wash bowl. “Best ye leave me now, lass,” he muttered. “I don’t feel well.”
Caitriona gave a soft huff of annoyance. A moment later he heard the slap of her bare feet on the flagstones. Then the door thudded as she departed the chamber.
The instant he was alone, Alasdair lurched forward and threw up into the bowl.
Chapter Three
Ye Are Looking Well
BOYD LET OUT a low whistle. “What a sight.”
Alasdair followed his cousin’s gaze west to where a mighty keep rose high against the pale sky. A smile stretched his face—for the first time all day. Last night’s excesses had left him feeling wretched for the first half of the journey. Now, with his home in view, his head had finally stopped aching.
“Aye, welcome to Duntulm, cousin.”
Boyd cut him a grin. “I used to think ye were exaggerating when ye told me the castle perched like an eagle’s eyrie upon the edge of a cliff, but now I see ye weren’t.”
Alasdair’s smile widened. “Aye … no fortress in Skye is as well-defended as Duntulm. All sides of the keep save one are bounded by the cliff-face.”
Urging his horse into a brisk canter, Alasdair led the way across a hump-backed stone bridge. He ran a critical eye over the structure as he went, noting the crumbling sides on the western edge. He frowned. Things had been let go in Baltair’s absence.
A stretch of tilled fields greeted him on the opposite side of the bridge, followed by a sprawl of cottages. A crowd of eager-faced men, women, and children gathered at the roadside to greet him.
“Alasdair!” An elderly man called out. “The MacDonald heir returns!”
Alasdair slowed his horse to a trot, his gaze sweeping across the villagers’ faces. He saw tears on their cheeks and joy in their eyes. His throat constricted. He hadn’t expected such a warm welcome. It was humbling to see the folk of Dunvegan had missed him. There had been times over the past months when he’d told himself no one would mourn him if he failed to return. He was glad to see he’d been wrong.
His mood dimmed then, like a shadow passing across the face of the sun.
Caitrin awaited in Duntulm Castle.
He didn’t wish to have any contact with his sister-in-law—and yet a part of him, a glimmer of that lovestruck lad he’d once been, longed to see her.
Alasdair frowned, crushing the longing that curled, unbidden, up within him. Such instincts were weakness—they had to be quashed.
Crossing the village, he led the way up the hill toward the castle. Duntulm’s high basalt curtain wall loomed before him, the MacDonald pennant fluttering in the sea-breeze. Unslinging his hunting horn, Alasdair raised it to his lips. The sound echoed over the hillside, reverberating off the stone fortress.
Alasdair MacDonald had just announced his arrival home.
Caitrin watched the horses’ approach, and a sensation of sick, cold dread seeped over her.
Finally … he’s here.
She supposed that she should be relieved in a way—for the waiting was over at last—but the stone in the pit of her belly weighed her down.
The moment she’d been dreading, ever since the arrival of the letter, had come.
Caitrin picked up her skirts and left the solar. Half-way down the stairs to the bottom level of the keep, she met Sorcha.
“Milady,” her hand-maid gasped, out of breath from her hurried climb. “They’re here.”
“I know,” Caitrin replied curtly. “I’m on my way.”
Sorcha stepped aside to let her pass, her blue eyes clouded with worry. She was the only one Caitrin had confided in about how she dreaded this moment. Alasdair MacDonald loomed like a specter, about to destroy her peace.
Caitrin continued down the stairwell and hurried out into the bailey to find the newly arrived party there.
A tall, dark-haired man dressed in chain-mail, fur, and leather, stood talking to Darron and Alban.
