Page 79 of The Rogue's Bride
Caitrin didn’t reply, instead merely favoring him with an enigmatic smile. She wondered then if she should ask him about the trip he’d promised they’d take to Argyle. He hadn’t said anything since the day of the fair, and as summer crept on, she wondered if he’d forgotten.
Her gaze shifted down the table then, taking in the faces of the servants, retainers, farmers, and artisans who made up their community. A sense of belonging settled over her. She wasn’t born here, on Skye’s isolated northern tip, and yet this place was her home much more than Dunvegan ever had been.
Under the table, something nudged her knee. Caitrin glanced down to see that Dùnglas sat at her feet. She glimpsed his dark eyes and whiskery muzzle, and smiled. The dog was hoping someone would drop a tasty morsel down to him. With a sigh, Caitrin picked up a piece of pork from the platter before her and dropped it under the table.
“Ye will encourage the hound to beg,” Alasdair warned.
Caitrin glanced up guiltily. “I can’t stand it,” she replied with a contrite smile. “When he looks at me with those soulful eyes, I can deny him nothing.”
Alasdair huffed. “I shall have to try that with ye in future … and see how far it gets me.”
Caitrin shook her head in mock chagrin, before her gaze returned to farther down the table, where Darron MacNichol and Sorcha MacQueen sat together. The pair were deep in conversation, oblivious to the feasting and drinking going on around them. It was a heart-warming sight. For days after Boyd’s attack, Sorcha had been out of sorts: pale and tense. But from the looks of things, she’d now put the ordeal behind her.
Caitrin nudged Alasdair with her elbow. “It looks like we might have a handfasting in Duntulm before long.”
His gaze followed Caitrin’s down the table, before he glanced back at her. “Are ye match-making, wife?”
“No,” Caitrin said innocently, spearing a piece of pork with a knife. “Just making an observation. Look at them, Alasdair … and tell me they won’t be wed by the spring.”
The cèilidh started mid-afternoon. Once the long tables and scraps of food had been cleared away, a man pulled out a fiddle and began to play, while his wife sang a bawdy song about a farmer’s wife, her foolish husband, and her two lovers. The song had folk laughing and clapping along by the second verse.
Caitrin watched Darron and Sorcha run into the midst of the dancers. Their faces were flushed from wine and the sun. Darron twirled Sorcha around, while she laughed.
Caitrin observed them wistfully, tapping her foot to the music.
“We never finished that dance,” Alasdair’s voice intruded. “Ye slapped my face and sent me on my way instead.”
Caitrin turned to him, her mouth curving. “What a shrew ye have wed.”
He smiled, holding out his hand to her. “May I havethisdance, milady?”
Caitrin inclined her head. “Of course, milord.”
He led her out into the dancing, and a moment later they were caught up in it, whirling, stepping, and turning in time to the music. Caitrin danced until her feet ached and she felt light-headed. After that, she returned to the table and took a restorative sip of wine.
Galiene arrived then with Eoghan. Caitrin took the lad from the woman and bid her to go and find some food and drink, and enjoy herself. Eoghan looked around, his chubby face eager, his blue eyes bright with curiosity. Caitrin gave him a chunk of bread, and he began to chew at it. Eoghan then looked up at Alasdair before grinning.
“Dair.”
Alasdair smiled at the lad’s attempt at his name. He couldn’t yet manage long words, but he’d become quite talkative of late. “Dair!”
Caitrin’s throat constricted when Alasdair reached out and ruffled Eoghan’s thick black hair. There was genuine affection in his peat-brown eyes when he looked upon his nephew. “Ye are a good-natured lad, aren’t ye?”
Eoghan dropped the chunk of bread he’d been mauling and held out his hands to Alasdair. “Dair!”
Alasdair laughed and took him from Caitrin. The lad clutched at Alasdair’s léine and sash, squealing with delight when his uncle rose to his feet and bounced him in his arms. Alasdair then glanced down at Caitrin with a grin. “I think someone else wants a dance. We’ll be back soon.”
Caitrin watched Alasdair and Eoghan make their way into the dancing, her gaze misting with love as she watched them.
Alasdair was a good father to the lad. She hadn’t expected him to treat Eoghan like a son, yet he had. Eoghan would grow up loved at Duntulm.
The celebrations stretched out and would continue long into the night. However, Alasdair, Caitrin, and Eoghan left when the bairn started to get tired. Leaving the laughter and music ringing out across the hillside behind them, they climbed the hill back to the castle. Eoghan was asleep, slumped against Alasdair’s chest. Dùnglas trotted along, trailing the couple like a shadow.
A cool wind skirted across the hill and mist had crept in from the sea. Although this day had been a fine one, Caitrin imagined that they’d awaken to a foggy morning the following day. That was how it was upon Skye. No two days of weather were alike.
They’d nearly reached the brow of the hill, and the drawbridge that spanned the deep ditch encircling Duntulm’s curtain wall, when the bellow of a hunting horn reached them.
Caitrin stifled a gasp. She knew that horn. It was one she’d grown up with, had heard every time her father took his men and dogs out on a hunt.
