Page 74 of The Rogue's Bride
Caitrin clasped her hands together as the swimmers drew close. She was sure Alasdair would win, but then, just yards from shore, Boyd put on a spurt of speed and reached the beach just before him.
Cries of disappointment echoed over the shore, Caitrin’s among them.
Boyd staggered up onto the beach, wiping water from his eyes. Oblivious to the fact that everyone had been cheering on the chieftain, he wore a wide, victorious smile.
Alasdair followed him out of the sea. Spying Caitrin among the spectators, he made his way toward her. “I’m slowing down,” he gasped as he reached the women. “Time was, no one could beat me.”
Boyd stepped up beside him. “That’s only because ye had never raced me.” He then grinned at Sorcha. “I’m half-selkie, didn’t ye know?”
Caitrin frowned. She wondered, if that was the case, why Boyd hadn’t dived in to help that woman on the day they’d arrived home from Dunvegan. If her memory served her correctly, Boyd had remained on the shore holding the end of a rope while Alasdair risked his life.
Alasdair snorted before waving to the men who were pouring out cups of ale from barrels on the jetty. “Get Boyd a drink, he’s earned it.” He then turned his attention back to his wife. “I’m glad ye came to watch the race,” he said, before giving a sheepish smile. “Even if I didn’t win.”
“I don’t care about that.” Caitrin stepped close, pushing Dùnglas out of the way. The hound had a habit of wrapping himself around Alasdair’s legs whenever it got the chance. She stretched up and kissed his wet lips. “Ye were still magnificent.”
Sorcha took a bite of pie, savoring the rich flavor of venison. It was a treat she only got to enjoy a few times a year. This mid-summer’s fair was the best she could remember. The good weather had brought in huge crowds.
The pie was hot, and Sorcha ate it gingerly, careful not to spill the filling down the front of her kirtle. Pale blue, the color of a summer’s sky, it was the prettiest one she owned; she didn’t want to ruin it. She stood in the shade between two cottages at the edge of the festivities. As she ate, Sorcha’s gaze skirted the crowd.
The chieftain and his lady were enjoying the fair together. Lady Caitrin still carried Eoghan on her back, although the lad had now fallen asleep. She and Alasdair watched the dancing. Heads bent close, they laughed over something.
It warmed Sorcha’s heart to see them so happy. One day, she too hoped to find such contentment.
Finishing her meal, Sorcha brushed pastry crumbs off her fingers. Her gaze shifted away from the chieftain and his wife, continuing through the crowd. She realized then that she was looking for Darron. Ever since his return from Dunvegan, they’d been spending more time together. He often sought her out when she’d finished her chores, and over the last week they’d shared an ale in the Great Hall before retiring for the night.
Sorcha had found herself starting to think about him—a lot.
Instead of spying Darron in the crowd though, her gaze alighted upon Boyd. He was approaching her.
When he’d first arrived in Duntulm, Boyd MacDonald had drawn her eye, with his arrogant swagger and boyish smile. But these days Sorcha wasn’t so sure of him. His manner, once charming, had developed an aggressive edge to it. Discomfort settled over her when he stopped before her.
“I was wondering where ye had got to,” he greeted her.
“Why?” she asked innocently. “Were ye looking for me?”
He grinned. “Aye … thought ye might like to congratulate me properly for my win.”
“I already have.”
He laughed. “I’d like more than a few words, lass. How about that kiss ye keep promising me?”
Sorcha stiffened. “I have promised ye no such thing.”
Boyd moved closer, and Sorcha instinctively shifted back into the space between the two cottages. That was a mistake, because it took her out of view of the crowd of folk filling the market square.
“Ye don’t need to tell me,” he said, lowering his voice intimately. “I can see ye want it.”
“Nonsense.” Sorcha kept her voice light although inside she felt a frisson of alarm. “Ye are quite mistaken, MacDonald.”
“I don’t think so.”
Sorcha tried to edge around him. She’d had enough of such talk. He was making her uncomfortable, and she wished she hadn’t let him take her out of view of the crowd. “I think I’ll return to the dancing.”
“I’ll still have that kiss though.” He grabbed her arm. His fingers bit into Sorcha’s flesh, and he shoved her back against the white-washed wall. “Ye have been tempting me for months now.”
His mouth came down on hers roughly, cutting off the scream that rose in Sorcha’s throat. Without thinking, she brought her knee up, jabbing him in the cods.
Boyd ripped his mouth from hers and let out a hiss of pain.
