Page 16 of The Beast's Bride
The close contact with Rhona had been sweet torture. The feel of her body in his arms earlier had made it difficult for him to form a coherent thought. She was oblivious to the effect she had on him, oblivious to the fact he was a man at all. He should hate her for that, but he didn’t. He’d never stop wanting her.
Now all of that would end.
Taran inhaled deeply. A boulder sat on his chest; he couldn’t breathe. He crossed to the window and yanked open the wooden shutters.
Leaning up against the stone window ledge, Taran glared out at the misty morning. He couldn't believe that the chief had been up so early. Of late, as his gout worsened, he’d become less mobile.
Not this morning though.
Life was about to change, and not for the better. Lady Rhona was about to be taken from him.
Taran gritted his teeth and swung away from the window.Dolt … she wasn’t yers in the first place.
He’d been shocked to hear of the games MacLeod was going to hold. The thought of men competing for her hand made Taran feel sick. He’d always known the day of her wedding would come, but he’d imagined Lady Rhona would be allowed to choose her husband, and that it would be a man she loved. That would have made it easier to bear. He’d be miserable all the same, but he’d know that she, at least, was happy.
But the expression on her face the first time he’d seen her after the announcement—Rhona had looked as if she awaited her beheading. Her expression after the confrontation with her father in the training yard had been the same. He’d seen the despair in those storm-grey eyes, the simmering fury she dared not unleash—not in front of her father.
The walls closed in further. If he stayed here, trapped by his own thoughts, he’d go mad. Taran left his chamber, descended the steps, and departed the guard tower, crossing the mist-wreathed bailey. In the Great Hall beyond, there were still a handful of men breaking their fast, Taran’s friend Gordon among them.
“There ye are.” Gordon flashed him a smile as he sat down. “Ye are just in time. Connel has just finished the last of the bannocks and will scoff the rest of the bread too if ye are not quick.”
The warrior in question, a heavy-set young man with a shock of straw-colored hair and a florid face, shot Gordon a dark-look. Yet he couldn’t answer, for his mouth was full.
Taran nodded and reached for the last chunk of bread. Truthfully, he had little appetite this morning, yet he’d only draw attention to himself if he didn’t eat.
“Is something amiss?” Taran glanced up to find Gordon watching him, a shrewd look on his face. “Ye look like ye woke up to find a dog turd in yer boots.”
Beside him Connel Buchanan snorted before reaching for a mug of milk. “Happened to me once,” he admitted with a grimace. “One of my father’s hounds.”
Gordon grinned, his gaze never leaving Taran. “We were just talking about the games,” he informed him. “Connel here, has thrown in his name.”
Taran raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
Connel gave him a disgruntled look. “Why the shock? I’ve as good a chance as any man.”
Gordon smirked. “I’m surprised MacLeod let ye take part. Ye are barely able to grow a beard.”
Connel scowled back. “I’m old enough to take a wife.” His gaze narrowed as it swept from Gordon to Taran. “Why don’t ye two compete for the fair Lady Rhona?”
“My heart is already spoken for, lad,” Gordon replied. “Greer won’t look kindly upon me competing for the hand of another.”
Gordon’s reply didn’t come as a surprise to Taran. Greer was the comely daughter of Dunvegan’s cook. Gordon had pursued the lass tirelessly over the past year and was close to succeeding in winning her over.
Connel’s gaze fixed upon Taran. “What about ye, ‘Scar-face’?”
Taran didn’t appreciate the younger man’s tone or the sneer that went with it. But he didn’t rise to the bait. He’d been belittled so often about his looks over the years that he didn’t take offense. He’d have flattened the nose of nearly every man in this keep if he had. He merely fixed Connel with a cold look. “I think not.”
“Why not?” Connel pressed. His gaze was challenging although the sneer faded.
Taran drew in a deep breath. “These games go against Lady Rhona’s wishes,” he replied. “I’ll not be part of them.”
Rhona stood on the steps to the bailey and watched Baltair MacDonald prepare to leave Dunvegan. A few feet away Caitrin settled herself upon a nest of cushions on a cart, babe in arms. Lady MacDonald’s face pinched as she tried to get comfortable; even so it would be a bumpy journey to the MacDonald stronghold of Duntulm in the north.
Approaching the wagon, Rhona cast Baltair a dark look. Caitrin wasn’t ready to travel—she’d only given birth three days earlier. She’d lost a lot of blood and was still weak. Yet her brother-in-law was impatient to return home.
Baltair wore a sour expression this morning as he tightened his horse’s girth. Observing him, Rhona wondered if her father had spoken to Baltair after all. Perhaps that was the cause of his hasty departure. Whatever the reason, it was selfish and careless of him to take Caitrin away from Dunvegan so soon.
An invisible vise gripped Rhona around her chest as she reached out and took Caitrin’s hand. Her sister’s fingers were thin and cold, but as always, when she looked into Caitrin’s sea-blue eyes, Rhona found it difficult to read her mood. She’d previously been so open, so free with her thoughts and feelings. These days her lovely face was a mask.
