Page 68 of The Rogue's Bride
Darron took the rope from Caitrin and handed one end to Boyd, who was looking on, bemused by both men’s actions. “Keep ahold of the end,” Darron ordered. “I’m going to see if I can get the rope out to Alasdair.”
With that, Captain MacNichol waded into the water after his chieftain.
Chapter Thirty
Irreplaceable
CAITRIN STOOD ON the water’s edge, her heart in her throat. The Cleatburn raged like a beast. No one should be swimming in the torrent, least of all her husband.
“Alasdair!” Darron had waded in to waist height. “Catch the rope!”
The chieftain twisted, attempting to tread water as the rope sailed toward him. It hit the churning water with a slap, and Alasdair lunged for it.
Panic surged through Caitrin when he went under, disappearing from view. “Alasdair!”
Dùnglas stood up and started barking, his hackles rising.
For a sickening heartbeat or two there was no sign of Alasdair, and then he appeared, surfacing like a seal just yards from where the woman still floated downstream, the rope clutched in his hand.
He reached the young woman—who was now sobbing in fear, for she clearly couldn’t swim—and wound the rope around the tree trunk.
“Ready!” he called to Darron.
The other men in the party had taken hold of the rope behind Captain MacNichol, and together they all heaved the log, with its two passengers, into shore. A crowd had now gathered at the water’s edge. An elderly woman stepped up beside Caitrin, sobbing. “That’s my Hilda. Ye found her … I thought her lost!”
Alasdair helped the young woman up onto the shore. She was shivering and weeping, but when she spied the old woman, she left Alasdair’s side and ran to her. “Ma!”
Alasdair rejoined the others then, still out of breath from his swim. Water ran in rivulets down his body. His sodden clothing clung to him. His hair was slicked back, accentuating the lean angles of his face.
Dùnglas approached the chieftain, tail wagging, and nuzzled against his leg. Alasdair glanced down at the wolf hound before giving an exasperated snort. “Bloody useless dog.” However, he still reached down and stroked its wiry coat.
Caitrin stepped forward. “I thought I’d lost ye,” she gasped, unable to keep the anxiety out of her voice. “When ye went under … I …”
Alasdair held her gaze, before a smile curved his lips. “I’m a strong swimmer, Caitrin. I’d never have gone out there otherwise.”
Caitrin punched his arm. “I didn’t know that, did I?”
His gaze clouded. “Did I worry ye?”
“Aye.” She was close to tears now. “Don’t scare me like that again.”
Wordlessly, Alasdair pulled her into his arms. It didn’t matter that he was soaking wet; after the morning’s travel so was she. The drum-beat of his heart against her ear calmed her.
After a moment she pulled back, pressing into his side, as Alasdair looped a protective arm around her shoulders. He then turned his attention to his men. “Get the villagers up to the keep. We’ll house them there until the water recedes.”
“Aye, milord,” Darron replied with a nod. He then moved away, marshaling his men to do the chieftain’s bidding.
Together, Alasdair and Caitrin turned to face the swollen Cleatburn.
“It’s stopped raining,” Caitrin noted, raising her gaze to the sky. “For the first time in days.”
“Just as well,” Alasdair murmured. “Or there would soon be nothing left of the village.”
Caitrin’s gaze swept across the churning water, to where the bridge had once stood.
“All that work ye did on the bridge over the winter,” she said with a sigh, “and the river has destroyed it.”
Alasdair huffed a laugh, his grip around her shoulders tightening. “Bridges can be rebuilt, love,” he murmured. “But some things are irreplaceable.”
