by Jayne Castel
Chapter One
The Missive
Duntulm Castle, Isle of Skye, Scotland
Winter, 1347 AD
“NOT MORE POTTAGE?”
Duntulm’s cook, an elderly woman with white hair pulled back into a bun and a face as wrinkled as walnut, frowned. “Pottage is a good, wholesome meal, milady.”
Caitrin shook her head. “We’ve had pottage and dumplings thrice over the past week. The men are starting to complain. They want some meat.”
Cook’s mouth thinned. “We need to watch our stores, milady. Spring is still some way off.”
Caitrin suppressed a sigh. “We had the best harvest in years … and the men brought back many deer and boar from their hunting trips in the autumn. Ye don’t need to worry about us running out of food.”
Cook wrung her hands, clearly unconvinced. The two women stood in Duntulm’s kitchen, a warm space dominated by a long scrubbed oaken table. The sulfurous odor of over-cooked onion, cabbage, and turnip surrounded them.
A huge cauldron of pottage simmered over the hearth at one end of the kitchen.
Caitrin did sigh then, irritation rising within her. Despite that she and cook planned Duntulm’s meals together every week, the woman often took it upon herself to change things. Today was one such occasion.
Caitrin was just about to speak once more when the door to the kitchen opened and a small dark-haired woman entered. Her hand-maid, Sorcha’s, cheeks were flushed, as if she’d just come in from the cold.
“Lady Caitrin, a message has arrived for ye.” The young woman’s eyes were bright with excitement; they rarely received missives in Duntulm. The fortress sat upon Skye’s isolated northern tip. They had no news of the outside world for weeks on end here. The maid clutched a scroll in her hand, holding it out to Caitrin. “It bears the MacDonald seal,” she said, her voice edged in excitement.
Caitrin’s belly contracted.
Schooling her features into an expressionless mask, she took the scroll. “Thank ye, Sorcha.”
Her hand-maid hovered, her gaze curious. “Do ye need anything, milady.”
“Aye, please check on Eoghan. I’ll be up to feed him later.”
Sorcha nodded before bobbing into a curtsy. “Aye, milady.”
The girl bustled over to the door. Small and curvaceous, Sorcha MacQueen was the bastard daughter of a neighboring chieftain. Unable to keep her under his own roof, the MacQueen chieftain had given her to the MacDonald’s as a hand-maid to the chieftain’s wife. Caitrin had expected the young woman to be bitter over it, for her father had essentially washed his hands of her, yet Sorcha seemed resolutely cheerful.
Maybe it was a front. Perhaps, underneath it all, Sorcha harbored sadness and resentment. Caitrin should know—for she was adept at holding up a shield to keep others at bay.
She did so even now as she stood with cook, the roll of parchment in her hand. She dared not let her true feelings show.
Instead, she turned to cook.
The elderly woman was watching her intently, a shrewd look in her dark eyes.
“No more pottage for the next week,” Caitrin said, using a sharp tone she knew cook would heed. “And put out salted pork with the noon meal today.”
Not giving cook an opportunity to argue, Caitrin left the kitchen, her ring of iron chatelaine keys rattling at her waist.
Outside, she crossed the snow-covered bailey. Her boots sank into the pristine crust. Then, Caitrin navigated the slippery steps and entered the keep. Drawing her fur mantle close, she made her way up to her solar. Even indoors it was freezing today. Her breathing steamed before her. The snow had lain for days now. However, Caitrin’s thoughts were not on the weather, but upon the rolled parchment she carried.
She held it gingerly, as if it were a venomous adder, coiled, ready to sink its fangs into her. And when she entered the solar, she had to quash the instinct to throw the missive directly on the fire without reading it.
Sinking down onto a high-backed chair before the hearth, she turned the parchment over, her gaze alighting upon the MacDonald crest. It showed an armored hand clutching a cross.
“Per Mare Per Terras,” she whispered the MacDonald clan motto. By sea and land. The clan was one of Scotland’s largest, stretching its influence down most of the kingdom’s western coast.
This message could be from any of them, she told herself as nervousness tightened her throat. It isn’t from him.
Yet her gut told her differently. None of the other MacDonalds had reason to contact her in the dead of winter. There was only one man who had any business here, and she’d thought him dead.
Had prayed that he’d died in that bloody battle against the English.
It was an uncharitable thought—for she didn’t wish him ill—but she’d hoped for it nonetheless. She wanted the past buried.
With trembling fingers, Caitrin broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. Then, she drew in a deep, steadying breath, and began to read. Like her sisters, she’d learned her letters as a girl. A nun from Kilbride Abbey had traveled to Dunvegan, where Caitrin had grown up, and had patiently taught them. It was something her mother had insisted upon, although after her death the lessons ceased.
Caitrin was grateful that she could read and write. It had proved useful for her role as chatelaine. Even so, she’d never been quick at it. She took her time over it now. The letter was written in a bold, masculine script. It was brief and formal, with a chill undertone.
Dear Lady Caitrin MacDonald, widow of Baltair MacDonald,
News has reached me of my brother’s death. I am currently in Inbhir Nis but will travel to the Isle of Skye presently. Upon my return, I will take up my rightful role as chieftain. Please make Duntulm ready for my arrival.
Your humble servant,
Alasdair MacDonald.
Caitrin stared at the words so hard that her vision blurred.
Alasdair MacDonald was alive; it was there written in ink before her. Her hopes for the future faded. After Baltair’s death she’d felt adrift, worried for her future. But then she’d returned to Duntulm and assumed the role of chatelaine. She now ran the fortress—and she’d discovered that she was good at it. She liked dealing with the servants, speaking to the villagers, ordering supplies, and making plans for the year ahead.
Alasdair MacDonald’s return might put all of that at risk.
Caitrin swallowed, cast the parchment aside, and stood up. Would he allow her to remain living here? What would happen to Eoghan?
Heart pounding, she left the fireside, crossed to the south-facing window, and ripped open the shutters. Snow fluttered in, tickling her face. Caitrin leaned on the stone ledge and looked out at the wintry morning. A blanket of white covered the world, making everything look clean and bright. However, dark clouds rolled in from the sea, bringing with them fresh snow. The flakes swirled as they fell upon Duntulm, frosting the battlements beneath her.
Caitrin’s solar sat high and gave her a commanding view of the rest of the rectangular-shaped keep. In the bailey below she caught sight of a stocky figure crunching through the snow. Alban MacLean, steward of the castle. He would need to be told that Baltair’s brother was alive and returning to take up his role as chieftain.
Over these past months Alban—a gruff but kind-hearted man—had willingly shared rule over Duntulm. Initially she’d been nervous that he and Darron MacNichol, who headed the Duntulm Guard, might try to overrule her. She was, after all, a woman alone—left in charge of a castle and a great tract of land. But they hadn’t.
Caitrin leaned against the ledge and closed her eyes, letting the icy wind and feathery touch of snowflakes caress her face.
These last seven months had been a blessing. She’d enjoyed being chatelaine of Duntulm. She’d had a reprieve from the life her father had set out for her. As the eldest, she’d been the first of her sisters to wed. Two years of misery later, and she’d become a widow. But Baltair hadn’t even been buried when her father—the MacLeod clan-ch
ief—started talking of the need to find Caitrin a new husband once her mourning period passed.
Caitrin’s breathing hitched. She couldn’t bear the thought of being shackled to another man, of having to endure his touch, his demands. Being with Baltair had shattered all her illusions about what it meant to be a wife. Both her younger sisters, Rhona and Adaira, were wedded now, and happily so to men who loved them, but that wasn’t to be her story.
Not all tales had a happy ending.
An ache grew in Caitrin’s chest, and she reached up, rubbing at her breast bone with her knuckles. Opening her eyes, she stepped back from the window. She wished her sisters nothing but happiness, and yet thinking about them made her heart hurt from loneliness.
It was best not to dwell on such things.
“Good morning, Lady Caitrin.” A tall warrior with silver-blond hair stepped forward to greet Caitrin as she made her way down the icy steps from the keep into the bailey. “Watch yer step.”
Caitrin flashed Darron MacNichol, Captain of the Duntulm Guard, a tight smile. Darron could be a little over-protective at times, although she’d grown fond of him since coming to live here. Baltair had assigned Darron to escort her whenever she left the keep, and initially Caitrin had worried the man would be as controlling as her husband. However, he wasn’t. Darron merely shadowed her, letting her go where she willed.
He followed her now. Reaching the bailey, Caitrin’s boots crunched on the fresh crust of snow, and she pulled the hood of her fur mantle up.
“Darron … I received word earlier that Alasdair MacDonald is alive,” she said, leading the way toward the gates. “He’ll return here soon to take Baltair’s place.”
Darron didn’t reply immediately, and when Caitrin glanced his way, she saw his face was reflective. He was a handsome man, although somber. She rarely saw him smile.
“That is welcome news, milady,” he finally replied, although his tone gave no clue as to how he really felt. Like Caitrin, Darron MacNichol was adept at hiding his thoughts. He could be infuriatingly inscrutable, like now.
“Aye.” Caitrin looked away. “I shall go to the village now and let them know. The folk of Duntulm will be delighted.”
She was aware how flat her voice sounded, but she couldn’t force joy into it.
They passed under the portcullis and crossed the drawbridge, taking the narrow road down to Duntulm village. The hamlet was a welcoming sight in the snow, a huddle of stacked stone cottages with thatched roofs. The village kirk sat behind them, its peaked roof frosted with snow. To the north, the grey waters of The Minch, the stretch of sea that separated Duntulm from the isles beyond, appeared like a sheet of beaten iron against the leaden sky. It had stopped snowing at present, but one look at those ominous clouds warned Caitrin that the break in the weather wouldn’t last long.
Caitrin swallowed a lump in her throat. She loved the folk here. She couldn’t bear the thought of being sent away.
They were halfway down the hill when Darron spoke, his tone guarded. “Alasdair MacDonald isn’t a harsh man, milady. He’ll not turf ye out.”
Caitrin huffed, although she didn’t glance at the captain. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed upon the village below them. Could the man read minds?
Darron was only trying to assure her, but he’d just unwittingly made her feel worse. He didn’t know of the history between her and the MacDonald heir.
Few besides her sisters did—and even they didn’t know everything.
“I’m sure ye are right, Darron,” she murmured. “Surely, Alasdair will treat Eoghan and me kindly.”
Liar. She wasn’t sure of that at all.
She wouldn’t be surprised if Alasdair MacDonald now hated her.
Preorder your copy of THE ROGUE’S BRIDE (Book #3: The Brides of Skye) now—release date, June 20, 2019!
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From the author
I hope you enjoyed the second installment of THE BRIDES OF SKYE.
THE OUTLAW’S BRIDE combines a few of my favorite things. It’s an ‘on the road story’ (I love road trips!) with a bit of adventure thrown in. The story is a twist on the ‘savior/protector’ theme. Lachlann Fraser was a great character to unravel. Initially I was going to have him as the ‘baby of the family’ (like Adaira) but then I decided I’d make him a bit more alpha. At the start of the story he’s driven and ruthless, but I enjoyed the influence that Adaira wielded over him. I liked watching him wrestle with himself and choose love over ambition—and I wanted them both to have a profound influence on each other.
Adaira was quite a change from Rhona. She starts off an innocent but grows up pretty fast when she realizes that the man she’d trusted has betrayed her. Her peppery temper surprised me (yes, characters do sometimes surprise authors!). Lachlann soon learns that although she’s a gentle soul, she’s not to be messed with!
I know you all LOVED Taran from Book #1. He was always going to be a hard act to follow for my next two heroes. Lachlann and Taran are nothing alike, but both men had difficult decisions to make. I hope you enjoyed Taran’s role in this book—and he’ll be appearing in Book #3 too.
Now you’ll be wondering what happens to Caitrin. This story is going to be very angsty! There’s ‘history’ between Caitrin and Alasdair so prepare yourself for quite a bit of conflict. Sit tight—Book #3, THE ROGUE’S BRIDE is coming soon!
Follow me on Facebook and/or my blog to keep updated on my upcoming books. Or you can join my mailing list (not only do you get updates, exclusive stories, but you also receive a free origin story to THE WARRIOR BROTHERS OF SKYE series!).
Jayne x
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More works by Jayne Castel
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Book #3: Warrior’s Wrath (to be released early 2020)
HISTORICAL ROMANCE SET IN MEDIEVAL SCOTLAND
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Book #3: The Rogue’s Bride (to be released June 2019)
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About the Author
Award-winning author Jayne Castel writes Historical Romance set in Dark Ages Britain and Scotland, and Epic Fantasy Romance. Her vibrant characters, richly researched historical settings and action-packed adventure romance transport readers to forgotten times and imaginary worlds.
Jayne lives in New Zealand's South Island, although you can frequently find her in Europe and the UK researching her books! When she’s not writing, Jayne is reading (and re-reading) her favorite authors, learning French, cooking Italian, and taking her dog, Juno, for walks.
Jayne won the 2017 RWNZ Koru Award (Short, Sexy Category) for her novel, ITALIAN UNDERCOVER AFFAIR.
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