Page 66 of The Rogue's Bride
Boyd’s lip curled. As a member of the Duntulm Guard, he now took orders from Captain MacNichol and had no choice but to do as bid.
Watching the brief interaction between the men, Caitrin noted that there was little in the way of friendship between them. She remembered the scene back at Beltane and wondered if their rivalry over Sorcha MacQueen’s affections had anything to do with it.
At the thought of Sorcha, warmth filtered over Caitrin. This time tomorrow she’d be warm and dry and back in Duntulm—with Eoghan in her arms. They’d been apart for only a few days, but it felt like months to her. She was impatient to see him again.
Once the awning had been erected, Caitrin helped the others roll out dry sheets of hide around a small hearth area. Grateful to be out of the rain, Caitrin removed her sodden cloak and hung it up on a branch. It was sheltered here, although with the air so damp, she doubted her cloak would dry much overnight.
Boyd and a couple of other men returned presently with armloads of firewood, although some of it was damp. While the others settled themselves on the hide, Darron crouched down next to the hearth and got a fire going. He used a flint and steel to light a pile of tinder that he’d carried with him wrapped in an oiled cloth. It took a few tries, and a bit of ribbing from the likes of Boyd, but he eventually managed to light a fire.
Caitrin watched the bright gold tongues of flame licking at the damp wood and released a sigh. It wasn’t a cold evening, but the air was heavy with moisture. The fire was a beacon of color and warmth, a ward against the encircling grey.
They ate a simple meal of oaten bread, butter, and boiled eggs washed down with ale. Caitrin sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Alasdair, listening to the rumble of conversation around the fireside. Despite that her clothing felt damp and itchy against her skin, and that an uncomfortable night awaited her, a warm sensation of well-being settled over her.
With a jolt, she realized that the feeling was happiness.
She’d not felt like this in a long while. After Baltair’s death, once she’d taken up the role of chatelaine, Caitrin had thought she’d been content in her new life. In reality though, she’d been living in dread, for she’d known that at some point a man—be it her father or Baltair’s brother—would shatter her peace.
Now, there was no dread. She was the Lady of Duntulm once more, but this time she’d not cower before her husband. The bond between her and Alasdair was still new, yet she had a knowing deep in her bones that he’d be good to her.
Once the supper had ended, the men started passing around skins of ale. Caitrin took a delicate sip from one before casting a look at her husband. The hound he’d brought with him had somehow sidled up to the fire and now sat pressed up against Alasdair’s right side. The dog appeared so content it almost looked as if it were smiling.
“Should I be jealous?” she asked, stifling a laugh.
Alasdair met her eye, his mouth curving. “Don’t mind Dùnglas … he seems to think I’m some long lost relative.”
“Just as long as he doesn’t want to share yer bed when we get home.”
Alasdair snorted. “No chance of that.”
“Curse this rain.” Boyd’s voice interrupted them from across the fire. “We need some cheer to chase away the gloom.” He turned his attention to the young warrior who’d sung the bawdy songs on their journey to Dunvegan. “Come, Finlay, give us another one of yer tunes.”
“Those aren’t songs fit for a lady’s ears, Boyd,” Alasdair pointed out.
His cousin snorted. “Lady Caitrin won’t mind.”
Darron cleared his throat. “I remember ye having a good voice, Alasdair. Why don’t ye sing for us?”
Boyd’s eyes widened, and he cut Alasdair a reproachful look. “All those months together and ye never let on ye could sing.”
Alasdair shrugged. “There wasn’t much cause for it, was there?”
Caitrin inclined her head, focusing on Alasdair. He actually looked a little embarrassed. “Go on,” she murmured with a smile. “I’d like ye to sing for us.”
He met her eye and gave her a pained look. “Ye would?”
“Aye … if it means I don’t have to hear of swiving lusty tavern wenches.”
Her comment brought bursts of surprised laughter from the surrounding men. Alasdair raised an eyebrow, and Finlay’s cheeks glowed red.
Caitrin said nothing more though, and finally Alasdair loosed a defeated breath. “Very well, wife … here is a song more suitable for yer ears.”
A pause followed, and then Alasdair began to sing. He had a low, slightly husky voice, and sang a slow ballad, one that Caitrin had never heard before.
“Oh the summer time has come
And the trees are sweetly blooming
And wild mountain thyme
