Page 9 of The Rogue's Bride
Alasdair stifled a wince. “Aye, but they did,” he murmured.
Alasdair walked into the chieftain’s solar and paused. Burning sconces threw long shadows across the stone walls, welcoming him, and yet he felt like he didn’t belong here. It didn’t feel right standing in the solar without either his father or brother present.
Shaking his head to rid himself of the sensation, Alasdair pushed the door shut behind him. This solar, and the adjoining bed-chamber, were now his. He’d get used to his new quarters soon enough.
A warm, masculine space surrounded him. Deerskin rugs covered a paved floor, and heavy tapestries depicting scenes of war hung from the walls. A great stag’s head sat mounted above a huge hearth, where a lump of peat glowed, throwing out a considerable amount of heat. The stag had been his father’s prize. Eoghan MacDonald had been a keen hunter, but, in the end, it was a stag hunt that claimed his life.
Crossing to the large oaken table that dominated the solar, Alasdair poured himself a goblet of wine. He took a sip, the flavor of rich spicy plum sliding down his throat and warming the pit of his belly. He still couldn’t stomach the idea of ale, not after the excesses of the night before, but he enjoyed the wine. It took the edge off the tension that had plagued him all day.
This hadn’t been an easy homecoming. Baltair was gone, and the woman Alasdair had once ached for was now chatelaine of Duntulm. Despite that he’d thought long and hard about how to deal with her, Caitrin’s presence unsettled him.
He hadn’t seen her since supper. When he returned from the kirkyard, she’d already retired for the evening. That was good, for even the sight of Caitrin made it difficult to concentrate. Boyd, the shrewd bastard, hadn’t missed his reaction to her—which meant Caitrin had probably noticed it too.
Alasdair muttered a curse and downed the rest of his wine in a long gulp.
He needed to harden his heart, to cool his nerves and remind himself that he couldn’t stand the woman now.
He had her exactly where he wanted her. Her position as chatelaine was vulnerable. One word from him and she’d have to pack her bags and return to Dunvegan, and her overbearing father. Alasdair remembered Malcolm MacLeod well, and he’d also noted the way Caitrin had stiffened when he’d questioned Alban at supper rather than her. She was proud of her role here. She wanted to stay.
He knew exactly where to start his campaign against her.
Setting the goblet down, Alasdair wandered through into his bed-chamber. Another, smaller, hearth burned there too. A huge four-poster bed dominated the room. Alasdair eyed it warily as he started to undress.
Baltair and Caitrin shared that bed.
The thought made him clench his jaw, a surge of vindictive fury rushing through his veins. The sensation galvanized him. He needed to keep reminding himself of what Caitrin had done to him, of what she’d taken from him.
Mist surrounded Alasdair, closing in on him. He stood ankle-deep in mud, his claidheamh mor impossibly heavy in his hand. Nearby, a man was screaming for mercy. Raw sobs followed, and then the dull, wet sounds of death being dealt.
Alasdair tried to rush to his countryman’s side, his sword swinging. And yet he couldn’t move. His legs and arms were paralyzed.
Terror pulsed through him. His heart felt as if it would leap from his chest, it was beating so hard.
Figures emerged from the mist. They were coming for him—but he couldn’t fight back.
Alasdair sucked in a deep, ragged breath, his eyes flying open.
The mist receded, as did the cries of the dying. He was back in his own bed, in his bed-chamber lit by the fading glow of the hearth.
Chest heaving, Alasdair pushed himself up into a sitting position. It wasn’t warm in the chamber, yet he dripped with sweat.
He dragged a shaking hand through his hair and forced himself to take deep, steadying breaths.
Satan’s cods. He was sick of these nightmares. They plagued him. Ever since the battle he’d had trouble sleeping, and whenever he did manage to fall into a deep slumber, his mind transported him back to the battlefield and that cool, misty October morning.
When the whole world had gone to hell.
Caitrin observed Alasdair over the rim of her mug of goat’s milk.
He was pale, his eyes hollowed with fatigue.
“Milord,” she spoke up, drawing his attention. “Are ye unwell?”
He cast her a look of thinly-veiled irritation. “No.”
“It’s just …” Caitrin broke off here, aware that Boyd had glanced up from smearing honey over a wedge of bannock. Likewise, Alban and Darron both looked her way. “… ye look a bit peaky this morning.”
“Maybe last night’s supper didn’t agree with him,” Boyd quipped with a wink at Caitrin.
