“Aye.” Between hiccups, Nan told her. “He set me to spy on ye, milady. But ye have been so kind, I couldna tell him anything that would harm ye. I wouldna. The laird is easily angered, as ye ken fine. When I couldna tell him anything, he hit me. I’ve hidden bruises from ye nearly the whole time ye have been here.”
“Nay.” Caitrin held her away so she could study her face. “Nan, tell me ye did no’ suffer beatings for me.”
“Nay, lady. For myself. For my honor. I wouldna betray ye.”
“Ach, Nan. I dinna ken what to say. How can I thank ye?”
“Take me with ye when ye go. Or…ach, I canna say it.”
“What?”
“The next in line, unless ye give him an heir, is no’ like the MacGregor. He’s kind, and he has a kind wife. Things would be so different…”
Nan broke down into sobs, unable to continue, much to Caitrin’s relief. What she proposed was treason. Nay, an act of desperation. No less than that. “Ach, Nan, I didna ken how truly awful he is until yesterday.”
“If ye still live, ye have yet to see his worst,” Nan choked out. “My brother…” The sobs returned and Caitrin could do no more than hold her and let her cry it out.
“Ye must remain here with me. I’ll have the guards fetch us meals. I’ll say ye have caught the same ague that has kept me confined to my chamber. We willna be disturbed. Least of all by Laird MacGregor.”
When Caitrin finally emerged two days later, well before the evening meal, she easily covered the remaining discoloration on the side of her face with her hair.
But what she saw in the great hall distressed her—Jamie and the MacGregor in their cups, laughing together. What had happened to Jamie’s enmity for Alasdair while she retreated to avoid more trouble? Jamie had seen what he’d done to her. How could he laugh with him now?
Had the betrothal been signed? Her stomach churned. Or was Jamie still working to prevent it? He looked so cozy with the MacGregor, she had her doubts, and that sent a spurt of panic through her chest, making her heart pound.
To avoid being seen, she ducked down the hallway to the kitchen. Perhaps she could catch up on the news there, since the maids and serving wenches gathered in its warmth when they weren’t busy elsewhere.
She listened to the staff gossip while she nibbled on some bread and cheese after telling the cook she could not wait for the evening meal. According to them, Jamie had been spending a great deal of time with the MacGregor lately and earlier tension between them seemed to have dissipated. Fletcher and Lady MacGregor were frequent companions at meals and in between as well. Caitrin allowed herself a moment’s amusement, imagining her father offering for the lady. Would MacGregor agree? And if he did, would that match satisfy her father’s ambition for a stronger tie to MacGregor?
Nay, she was dreaming. That might please her father, but it did not settle the question of control of Fletcher upon his passing. He needed an heir, a male child of hers. Which meant he needed a husband for her as well. Caitrin’s appetite deserted her with that thought. She thanked the cook and took the back stairs to her chamber with a meal for Nan, hoping to avoid any further encounters.
But she quickly came upon Lady MacGregor in a hallway.
“Caitrin, my dear! ’Tis good to see ye. Ye must be feeling better, aye?”
“Aye, milady, thank ye. I am.” Caitrin bowed her head, determined to keep the marks on her face covered rather than have to explain to this woman what her son had done.
“But ye are returning to yer chamber with food? Will ye no’ join us for the evening meal?”
“Thank ye, nay.” Caitrin shook her head then froze as she felt her hair move away from her face. “I visited Cook and just ate in the kitchen. This is for my maid. She is still ill.” Madeleine’s frown told Caitrin her bruises had been noticed.
“Who did that to ye?” Madeleine voiced her demand politely, but Caitrin had no doubt she expected an answer.
“I would prefer no’ to say, milady.”
“That does no’ please me. Ye must tell me. Who hit ye?”
Caitrin bowed her head and studied the floor.
“Was it my son?”
Shocked, Caitrin’s gaze flew up to meet the older woman’s. “Ye ken how he is?”
Madeleine pursed her lips. “Alasdair has always had a temper. Since becoming laird, he feels he is entitled to exercise it regularly.” She reached out and placed a hand over Caitrin’s cold fingers. “As his wife, ye will have to find a way to soften his moods. Ye willna wish to live in fear of his fists.”
“As ye did of his father’s?” The question was a stab in the dark. Or perhaps not such a wild guess. When they visited the portrait gallery, Madeleine had hinted at mistreatment by her husband—even by his brother.
Madeleine’s eyes popped wide open before she looked away.
