Chapter Nine
She’d turned the whole castle upside down.
Not Flora, who was desperately directing the search for the Culmore Pea, but Cait MacLeod.
And she did it with a smile and simple kindness.
Alex stared as the brides swept into the hall. They were dressed as if this were the royal court of France. They paraded past him in elegant gowns the likes of which Culmore had never seen, dresses cut to reveal each lass’s unique charms while concealing her flaws. The lasses glowed, enjoying the admiration of every man in the room. Folk were beginning to place wagers on which lass Alex was going to choose at midsummer. There were also wagers about the prospects of the lasses he didn’t choose. Eogon Fraser was showing distinct interest in Fiona MacKay, and Ewan Ross had been seen walking and laughing with Nessa MacCulloch.
And Cait MacLeod—there wasn’t a man at Culmore who didn’t blush and turn into a gabbling idiot when she entered a room. All she had to do was smile . . . Alex frowned. “Kissing her would likely kill them,” he muttered as he watched her teaching the brides a new reel. She moved like cool water on a hot day, sweet and seductive. He licked his lips.
“What did ye say?” Flora asked him, and Hector looked at him as well.
“Nothing,” Alex replied. Cait made a misstep and laughed, and the brides laughed with her. Soon, the hall had erupted in carefree, happy joy, and everyone—the bairns, the servants, even old Coll—had joined the dance.
“Everyone adores her,” Flora said, smiling. “Have ye by chance had any word from the MacLeods?”
“No.”
“Ye should send word to the Sutherlands, demand a ransom,” Hector said, frowning at Cait as she helped a wee girl through the steps of the dance. “She should be in the dungeon.”
“Och, she’s not dangerous in the least,” Flora said.
Hector sent Flora a sharp glare. “Is she not? What if she’s a spy? She’s had free run of the whole of Culmore for weeks. She knows everything about us, all our strengths and our weaknesses. One day she’ll leave, and—”
Flora snorted. “Don’t be silly. She’s not a spy, Hector. I for one believe her when she says she’s lost. Have ye seen how easily she gets herself turned around? She takes the wrong staircase or walks into closets thinking the door leads to the library or the solar,” Flora said. “The children have taken to helping her find her way.”
“Then perhaps she’s daft,” Hector said.
“She’s not that,” Flora said. “Look at the brides. They’re lovely thanks to Cait, and that’s given them confidence. They’ll make excellent wives—Well, one of them will.” She turned to Alex. “Have ye decided which lass you’ll choose?”
Alex shook his head. He was still consumed by the memory of a single kiss, and the one lass he couldn’t have. He could have her, he supposed, but Cait MacLeod would bring no tocher—no cows, no men, no coin. Whoever she was—MacLeod or Sutherland or neither—she wasn’t for him. His destiny lay elsewhere.
“What do ye intend to do with her, Alex?” Flora asked softly, following his gaze to Cait.
“It’s been three weeks,” Hector said. “I’ll say again that it’s time to send word to the Sutherlands that she’s here. Demand a ransom or send her back in pieces if they won’t pay. They’ve done worse to our folk.”
“And what if she is the MacLeod’s daughter?” Flora demanded.
Hector frowned and followed Cait with his eyes. “What if she isn’t? There’s no proof.”
“There hasn’t been a single raid since she came,” Flora said. “Folk think she’s brought back the luck of the fairies.”
“Ye know there’s no such thing,” Hector said.
“Och, aye? Look at Aggie, and Janet, Coll, and Airril, and Auld Bryn. They believe it. So do I. Auld Bryn is composing a song about her.” She raised her chin and sent him a narrow look.
Hector scowled at her. “And what will they say at midsummer when Alex stands before them with no ring to renew that magic?”
Alex frowned.
“They’ll tear ye to pieces, Alex,” Hector warned in a low growl. “They won’t wait for Samhain. Send her back where she came from. Why give them false hope? She’s not a blessing. She’s a curse.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the hall.
Alex knew he should go after Hector, speak to him about the defenses, the progress on the new cotts. But Cait’s laugh echoed through the hall, ringing in Alex’s ears like fairy bells. His heart clenched in his chest, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.
He couldn’t send her back to Rosecairn.
He couldn’t imagine Culmore without her.
* * *
Cait bit her lip and knocked on the door of Alex’s chamber.
“Come,” she heard Alex say, and she took a breath and opened the latch. He was seated at his desk, and he stared at her.
For an instant her breath caught in her throat. He was so tall, so handsome. The rays of the setting sun poured through the window to limn his hair with gold, and his gray eyes held hers. She forced herself to smile.
“Flora has mended your shirts, and she asked me to bring them to you.”
He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “Just set them on the—”
Bed. He didn’t say it, but she heard it nonetheless, felt it, imagined . . .
“Let me . . .” He got up from the desk quickly, and the paper he was working on—a set of plans for three new cotts—was swept off the surface by the breeze. It landed at Cait’s feet. She set the shirts down on the edge of a large chest and bent to pick up the parchment.
“Is one of these for Aggie?” she asked, looking at the drawings.
He nodded. “Aye. We decided to build them closer to the castle. But they were only half built when all three collapsed. I suspect the mortar isn’t setting properly. And Auld Bryn . . .”
She smiled gently. “He blames the fairies.”
“Aye. You’ve heard the tales, then.”
“Of course.” She carried the drawing across to the desk and peered at it in the light. “Is this the river?” she asked, pointing. He came to look over her shoulder, standing so close their shoulders touched.
“Aye, there’s a burn here. Aggie had a long walk to collect water at her old cott, and I thought being closer to a spring would help her.” He sighed. “The old site was good—flat and dry—but she worries that the Sutherlands will come back, and fears for her safety if they do, so the cotts need to be moved closer in.”
Cait pointed to a spot on the map, a different meadow. “What’s this?” she asked.
“The training field. My men practice there.”
She bit her lip. “But the land there is also smooth and flat and reasonably close to the burn, but not so close to the river there’s a risk of flooding or sinking,” she said. “My father had the same problem. With the clan growing, he had to build four new cotts last year.” She turned to look up at him. He was leaning over her, and she could smell the fresh, male scent of his skin, and the wind and heather in his hair from being outdoors. She noted the callouses on his hands from working, wanted to run her fingers over them.
“The training field is close to the castle,” she said slowly, breathing him in. “Perhaps it would be a better spot to build the cotts. The men . . .” She swallowed as she met his eyes, read desire there. “The men could practice on the other field, couldn’t they?”
He was scanning her face, and she felt his breath on her cheek. She felt desire rise, tighten her nipples, make her mouth water. She sighed and leaned toward him, wanting another kiss, just to see . . .
But he stepped back. He looked—well, horrified. He turned away, ran his hand through his hair.
“It—” she swallowed hard. “It was just an idea.” She meant the kiss as much as the cotts.
He turned to look at her. “And a good one. I should have thought of it myself.” He picked up a sheaf of papers from the opposite side of the desk. “I have to wed. I must choose Sorcha or Nessa, or Fiona or, or . . .”
“Coira,” she supplied.
He nodded and began to pace. “Sorcha Fraser has a fine tocher. Enough to buy food and cows and all the goods we need to see us through the winter. Fiona MacKay comes with land—good land. I could build all the cotts I wanted.”
“Aye,” she said. “The MacKays are wealthy folk. I’ve heard my father say so.”
“Your father,” he muttered. He paused to look at her. “Ye ken I’ve not heard anything from Glen Iolair.”
“He won’t send word. He’ll simply come for me.”
His frown deepened. “But what if he doesn’t?” he asked. His eyes slid over her, and she felt the lust in his eyes like a touch. She shivered. “I have to wed,” he said again. “I’d not dishonor Sorcha or Fiona or Coira or . . .”
“Nessa,” she whispered. She raised her chin and folded her arms over her chest. “Nor would I.”
“Then ye should go.”
“Leave Culmore?” she asked, stunned.
He shut his eyes. “I meant the room, but aye, maybe. Ye must know I desire ye. One kiss, and—” He shook his head. “I’m the laird. I wouldn’t dishonor any lass under my roof. I have responsibilities, and—”
“And I am a laird’s daughter,” she said, pride making her angry. “If you think I’d ever . . . with a man who belongs to someone else . . .” She finished with a strangled sound of indignation and spun on her heel and walked toward the door, and he watched her go. She would have made it, but she knocked over the pile of shirts, sent them to the floor. With a cry of frustration, she dropped to her knees and began to pick them up, refold them.
Alex caught her wrists, pulled her to her feet. “Leave them, lass.”
She looked up at him, met his eyes. His grip on her softened, though he didn’t let go. His calloused thumb slid over her pulse, and her breath caught in her throat.
He groaned softly and released her. “Go,” he said. “Go before I change my mind and beg ye to stay.”